Devilishly good by name, devilishly good by nature. Cooties, frankly, rawks.
Meg and Tom, both 28, have been talking about how their expectations of growing older have changed, and how life now is in many ways vastly different from where they thought they'd be by now:
I don't have any kids, I'm not even married, and I always thought I'd be married and have kids by the time I was 29. And my books, the books I'd always thought I'd write, not even one is done yet! {Meg}
The run-up to my birthday was very much one of those times when you look around you and think to yourself - "what have I achieved?", "why do I bother?". This is pretty much run of the mill stuff, except that this year I started thinking about questions like - "why am I alone?" {Tom}
Being on the hen weekend was a bizarre experience, not only because I was the youngest by far, and one of the few singletons, but because here were girls who, though a few years older, weren't miles away from my own situation, yet they were getting married (or at least in serious coupledom). Though come October, I'll be back to being a student, this year I've been living in my own flat, working a 9-5 job at a large media company, and doing all the usual 'grown-up' type things - so in many respects, there was little discernible difference between myself and the girls I was out with. Yet I can't imagine being 25 and engaged. As in a house, a ring, a husband, a dress and all that jazz. They're all blissfully happy, and I wish them all the luck in the world, but it's so not how I can imagine myself at that age. When talking to my friends on the 'where will we be in 10 years time' topic, I've always envisaged that if I do ever do the marriage and kids thing, it sure as hell isn't going to be before I'm at least thirty. Frankly, the very idea of being in that kind of situation in just seven years time - the age the bride is now - terrifies me. My friends joke that for all my protestations to the contrary, they reckon I'll be Mrs Somebody before my thirtieth birthday, if only as a pure twist of fate and an I-told-you-so. Ask me in a few years time who was right...
Wildly Embarassing Moments experienced on hen weekend: 1 (excruciating)
As per the standard hen night procedure, it's customary to get lots of goodies for the soon-to-be bride. Usually of a naughty nature. So I tootle off to get the said goods so that my cousin and I have some amusing presents for our soon-to-be Mrs Lindemann. These include a Bondage Starter Kit, some bridal L-Plates, Adam playsoap and a squishable Mr Softee keyring. The very act of choosing these items, and the buying thereof, is an experience in itself, and soon I'm leaving the shop with my wares in my bag. Before meeting a friend, to kill some time, I decide to have a mooch round Borders, which is, as always, a joy, as I could happily spend hours upon hours in book heaven. As I'm exiting the store the security barriers beep, and the guard on duty starts asking me of I've bought anything in the shop, and subsequently wants to check my bag. I know that I've not pocketed anything, so I'm happy to prove my innocence. However, it suddenly occurs to me that there are some questionable items in said bag - but it's too late. The guard is whipping out various phallic-shaped objects, the bondage kit, and lots of other dodgy items all purchased for the hen night out of my bag, right on Charing Cross Road (one of the busiest roads in Central London) in the height of shopping fever on a Saturday afternoon, for all to see. The guy collapses in hysterics, ascertaining that it's one of these items which set off the alarm (not before swiping them all through to check, in front of everyone) - and I show myself to be apparently be the most sexually frustrated woman in all of Southern England.
friday, july 28
Yes, Matthew, we Brits have to pay for every single damn call we make, with the only exception being toll-free (0800) numbers - hence every minute we're online costs. More and more ISPs are starting to offer limited 0800 dialup, so it's free for me to go online after 6pm, though the popularity of these schemes means service can be unreliable, as thousands overwhelm the ISPs offering deals like this. If/when we finally get ADSL, the service might be worth paying for, but as this article shows, we're way behind schedule, and for the moment, it looks pretty much as though we're going to have to like it or lump it.
thursday, july 27
Things definitely going to happen in my near future: going back to London for a couple of days
Things highly unlikely to happen in my near future: attending an audition for Blockbusters quiz show (of, I'll have a P please, Bob, fame), after being invited to attend a session tomorrow
Things which should happen if I have the courage: buying something kinky for the bride for a hen night. Ann Summers, methinks.
Things blatantly not going to happen in my near future: doing anything about the redesign I'm working on. Poo.
This BBC article on mp3 raises many similar points to those made by Tom, proposing the idea of encryption to protect copyright, and highlights the stumbling blocks of this solution:
Worst of all for the majors, the whole encryption process may prove futile. There's a simple reason for that.
To get into our ears, the music, however encrypted, has to be decoded first. Once decoded, it can be re-recorded - from your hi-fi loudspeaker, for example. In practice, anyone who's minded to can make almost perfect unencrypted copies and post them up onto the net as MP3s.
The industry hopes it has an answer to that: a new way of electronically tagging their downloads so that, if one of their songs appears on the internet, the person who originally downloaded it can be identified and interrogated.
But for a business which relies so much on making its fans feel good, such big brother tactics may put off even the most loyal, paying fan.
Aside from the fact that recordings taken from the soundcard will be of incomparable quality, I think they're valid points. It's a tricky issue, because whilst bully-boy tactics of the likes of Lars Ulrich do little to ingratiate the artists with the fans, at the same time, it's unfair to presume that there should be no financial incentive for the music makers themselves (many of whom are ripped off by the record companies who are the ones principally objecting to Napster et al).
Napster has rekindled my love of music, and coincidentally, my buying of many new CDs of artists I would have never known existed if it wasn't for mp3 trading
I'd love to get excited about it, but there's one stumbling block. The thing about mp3 in the UK for mass usage is that we really need better access. My Dad was trying to understand what the fuss about Napster was, because he says (rightly so) it takes him 30 minutes to download one file on a standard 56k modem. In the US, where DSL/cable modems/T1/free local calls are infinitely more prevalent than over here, it's a piece of cake to get the latest file, whereas it's a chore to download for the average home user in the UK. Just something to ponder on...
wednesday, july 26
FTP keeps failing. I am SO not amused with this. ARGH!
I'm walking down the street and suddenly an alarmingly eager woman leaps out in front of me and bawls "Do you wanna take the Pepsi Challenge!". "Why yes kind madam, I would be delighted to take the Pepsi Challenge. Whether it be courageously abseiling down cliff faces, single-handly combatting a series of rough'n'ready grizzly bears, dealing with the persistant door-to-door god squad, or generally laughing in the face of danger, I'm the gal who takes challenges in her stride!" I reply. "Ah, well, actually, you just need to taste two leading brand colas and tell us which is Pepsi, and which you prefer". This is obviously a highly original developed by a cutting-edge market research company, designed to fox even the most cunning consumer, into believing they're risking life and limb in the pursuit of fame and fortune, in the name of the Pepsi Challenge, when in fact, those clever buggers are actually finding out if the general public can tell the difference between Pepsi and Coke and which is more popular! I mean, they nearly had me for a second. When sipping those plastics cups of 'generic' cola, I was expecting to have to wrestle a tiger or something to get to the next stage, and the cola was just to give me the pep I needed. But those dastardly market researchers didn't have their wicked way! I rumbled their clever ruse, suspecting that something sinister was afoot! "Fools!", I exclaimed. "You think you can just use and abuse the innocent passer-by for your own devices do you? You think you can lure the average moron on the street to drink this shitwater that you call Pepsi purely to get data to sell more of the vile bilge do you? Well, you're not fooling me! Corporate multi-nationalism doesn't use me and get away with it, no-siree! Katy don't do something for nothing - she wants payback, baby!" Apparently the prize for guessing Pepsi right is a Mars Bar. Well, I'll do anything for chocolate, right?
It's amazing how slang assimilates itself into your vocabulary. I mean, certain phrases, which you never used to use, slip into your general vernacular as and when they become fashionable or part of common culture. Rhyming slang such as 'use your loaf' (loaf of bread, head, use your head), 'have a butcher's' (butcher's hook, look, have a look) has been in usage so as to be recognisable throughout the UK for years, but the phrase 'it's all gone a bit Pete Tong' (Pete Tong = famous club DJ, wrong, it's all gone a bit wrong) is recently becoming commonly accepted, primarily amongst the younger, club-going crowd. Hence my Dad's bemusement at it, yet the free usage in my office of twenty and early thirty-somethings. Or 'I don't have a scooby' (Scooby Doo, clue, I don't have a clue). Language aquisition fascinates me, and it's great for confusing the hell out of those not familiar with the dialect, hehe.
tuesday, july 25
Never confuse Raid with deodorant. As well as killing the buggers, it also stinks to holy heaven.
Knowing that my parents read kitschbitch, and knowing that they're out of the country, this could be my cue to write about my wild, crazed, secret double life. First I need to get a wild, crazed, secret double life...
Nuggets: Storage just got sexy(ish). Could people stop making sexy computer gear, because I'm getting increasingly geeky lustworthy cravings, yet have sadly static finances. Let's here it for more crap being produced until I win the lottery, heh?
I stand corrected. I have been informed that it's bees who die post-sting, whereas wasps keep on going. And apparently they keep away pests. As well as being aggressive little bastards. Thanks to Tom and Adam for their insights - and for telling me about the american species that lays its eggs in live tarantulas that it has previously paralysed with its venom. Eek.
monday, july 24
Wasps. What is the bloody point?! I'm not trying to start a bug theme on kitschbitch here, but there is a logical reason behind the prolification of insect (yes I know spiders aren't insects, but work with me here) related posts. It's summer(ish). There are more bugs in the summer. Katy is out more in the summer. Hence more Katy-bug contact, and more frequency of bug-related annoyances. Now, bees I get. Bees, and honey, and pollination and all that jazz. I'm not overly fond of giant fuzzy buzzy bumble bees, nor for that matter the littler, less fuzzy, equally buzzy bees, but I can tolerate them. They have a Point in the grand scheme of nature. But could someone please explain to me the whole point of wasps? I mean, as I understand it - and correct me if I'm wrong - but don't they die if they sting you? And what do they actually do? I'd love to be enlightened, as I think Mother Nature made some kind of cock-up in the works when she came out with wasps. Hmph.
Confirmation that there are indeed an inordinate number of whackos out there #1
One of the first sites I built all on my ownsome, oh so many moons ago, was one of those really bad celebrity fan sites. It's out there, still in the public domain, and for the first time in about 6 months, I decided to check the guestbook. Please tell me I'm not totally insane in thinking that the person writing these two entries is more than a little deranged...
Like, I was all mad at first because the page wouldn't load and it was all slow. And then the non-frames page didn't work and I was all like yelling. And then it finally worked, so I was like "okay, lets see some pics" and then I found the gallery and I was all like okay, this guy isn't very appealing to look at but that's okay, because, like, I think he's a really great guy on the show, you know? I know that that's just fiction written by some yuppie scripters in hollywood, but I think that's really great that they made him into such a good character, and he's not even a jerk all the time. I was looking all over the net for sites about {embarassing celebrity}, and I was like so happy to find this page and I think it's great that you put so much time and effort into something that you don't even get paid for. 'Cause, like, I put 15 minutes into making my Mom's christmas present, because no one gave ME anything that nice. I gave her a paper-mache head of {embarassing celebrity}. It got punch spilled on it the next week, so we had to throw it out because it started to smell, but it's the thought that counts, right?
If you thought that was bad, then came the follow-up:
okay, like I tried to contact you on icq and you didn't authorize me. That's like so stupid, Like, I thought you were cool since you liked "okay, like I tried to contact you on icq and you didn't authorize me. That's like so stupid, Like, I thought you were cool since you liked {embarassing celebrity} and all. I saw a great friendship in the making, but you like had to SCREW IT UP!!!!!
Can we say psycho, kids?
sunday, july 23
Here's the beef with spiders and spider-like crawly things. I don't like 'em. For years at home we had this one daddy-longlegs that we recycled: every few days he would crawl out of the plug hole and lurk in the bath, waiting to scare the crap out of unsuspecting bathers such as myself. My Dad would then rescue Ferdinand (as he became known), by scooping him up in hands, and settling him outside in the shrubbery. Ferdy would then climb right back up the drainpipe, and rarely did it seem that the rain would wash this not-so incy-wincey-spider out, as he would reappear in the bath, waiting to be recycled once again. Now my Mum always said that 'he's more afraid of you than you are of him', which would seem very sensible, given as if I wasn't such a scaredy-cat, I could've squished him quite easily (we didn't go in for squishing spiders, to which our recycling policy was testament). But I never totally bought this theory - did the spider think 'oh bugger it's those people coming to rip my legs off'? And if he was so scared, why did he keep returning to our bath - for all he knew our patience might have worn out, and in an uncharacteristic moment of violence, we might have hurled him out of the first floor window (that's British first floor guys, as in US second floor) to let him plummet at great speed to inevitable mass injury. I do try and love all animals, but anything wriggly, scuttly or crawly tends not to be high on my lovability scale. So if Ferdinand turns up while I am in residence at my parents' house, in their absence, I will be on daddy-longlegs recycle duty. Wish me luck...
Whoa, look at Meg's sexy new look. Work it baby! (now that I've said that, I might as well just go 'keep it real' or some other horror)
When I was about twelve, my classmates and I had a morbid curiosity for the bizarre. Our form tutor was convinced that we were all chain-smokers (some were) because our classroom permenently reeked of stale smoke, and and a continual smoky haze - and she delighted in lecturing us about the evils of cigarettes. What she didn't know was that whilst many people had/were experimenting with ciggies, the real joy for the whole class was indulging our pyramaniac streak. This involved taking a lighter, and spraying a can of deodorant nearby, thereby inducing a huge shooting burst of flame, and the feeling of being really dangerous and living on the edge. An unfortunate effect of this pyramania was actually setting fire to things. To anyone at Withington Girls' School, the big black scorch mark by the cupboard in room 12 was us, and if the white paint on the windows chips off, leaving more black marks, that was also where we set fire to it, and had to paint over it with the entire year's supply of tipp-ex. Now don't try this at home kids, it's not big, and it's not clever, hee hee....
saturday, july 22
Mmm it's a sunny, hot day, so it's an appley kind of day, a day for eating apples and having cold drinks and enjoying the greenery and the shine and the breeze. I'm doing all that, on the grass, with my book, with my music, with my diet coke (too hot for fat coke) and I'm about to bite into my juicy green apple. Then I see a little hole in my juicy green apple. So I go inside and get a knife (having to leave my sunny green-grass, juicy green-apple spot is already a bummer) because I'm covering all the bases and I don't want to bite into anything icky. You know the old joke, what's worse than biting into an apple to find a worm? Biting into an apple to find half a worm..ba dum psssh! I cut into the juicy green apple a little bit. More hole. I cut into the juicy green apple a little bit more. This hole is turning into a tunnel. I cut and cut away, leaving less and less of my nice apple for my munching pleasure and then all of a sudden this little maggot leaps out of the hole and starts hot-footing across the floor. My juicy green apple moment turned quite sucky. Though I did learn that maggots are:
a) good at excavation b) surprisingly fast at exploding out of apples and wriggling away from the scene of the crime.
friday, july 21
Trying to dance when you're driving is kind of hard. And dangerous. But when your CD of pumping Ibiza trance and house tunes is blasting away, it's hard not to get into the vibe and boogie on down. The driving part sort of gets in the way.
I just got shown this and I think it's just hilarious. It's 800-odd kb, but well worth it, especially if you were one of the ones who heard Mambo #5 played incessantly. Louis Bagel sings Matzah #5!
I have not yet accumulated a grand repertoire of advice snippets to hand out, but here is something to help you along your merry way. Re-piercing your own ears HURTS.
Oh poo. Yet again I see another cool Paypal-related thingie I'd like to contribute to,(Halcyon's porn fund - Katy, purveyor of high quality porn) and can I? Nope. Yes kids, you guessed it, it's yet another US-only thang. Like voicemail. I have a HotVoice account, who are wonderful and have toll-free/local gateways in practically every country round the world. But most website owners go with uReach, who only seem to have US numbers to call and leave messages (I love you but not enough to call transatlantic - for that cost, I'll call you direct. The inter-bloggy love is there kids, I want to give you my offerings and messages, if only they'd let me! A call to arms anyone?
Strange synchronicities again: I was all ready to post a rambling about how American money is all the same shape and colour, following on from a conversation we had when out to dinner with Mark and Vance, only to see that Heather has had the same idea, albeit she's said it in a much funkier context (so read hers basically dahlings!). Point being, oh citizens of the land brave, just and true - why is your money all the same shape and colour, huh? I mean, I can just about forgive the fact that you can't make John McEnroe out of dollars like you can out of a fiver and a tenner (mix and match Charles Dickens and the Queen, OK?), but it seems daft to have your notes looking all the same. You see, if you have the funny colours and sizes, as we explained to our young American proteges, it enables the poorly-sighted (and the lazy ones amongst us) to see at a glance what note you're handing over, so you don't get shafted if you accidentally hand over the wrong denomination. See, not so stupid!
I'm in total, utter awe of what I'm discovering on Evil Pupil. The Evil That Kids Do is just blowing my mind. I really have no words. T-evil-ision, Blind { chapter 1, and Curved Noise are just...wow.
It's definitely sites like Evil Pupil which make me wish I was:
a) a graphic whiz b) proficient in Flash
Digital art at its finest. Lust. Go with your browsers fully souped up...
Could you be a rock chick? I'm well disappointed - apparently I like to have the odd wild weekend but keep my head screwed on - meaning I won't ever claim a place in the rock chick pantheon. We'll have to see about that one!
wednesday, july 19
There's nothing like hopping on a bandwagon, but when it's a wicked cool one, I think I can be forgiven. So here goes:
Twenty-four useless facts:
I am eighteen years old.
I am of German, and Russian descent.
I have chemically enhanced brown hair, green eyes and tan easily when I get the opportunity which is never in this sun-less godforsaken country of mine.
I live in limbo between London and Manchester: in London with my two flatmates, and in Manchester with my Mum, Dad, brother and 2 pigs.
I drink vodka. Scarily easily.
I am an ex-ad planner, currently unemployed, soon-to-be University student. And groovemistress deluxe.
I drive a Citroen Saxo. Called Bob. Vroom!
I choose html as my programming language of choice. Though I don't think of myself as a programmer ('cause I'm not)
I own no O'Reilly books.
I have an "innie.". My parents were very insistent that the doctor made it an innie. They made the right decision.
I wear Acupuncture trainers and wicked stompy knee high boots. I have a girlie penchant for shoes. It's a sickness.
I don't have a tattoo. I love them on other people, but not on me.
I think you are dee-licious.
I wear a Miss Piggy T-shirt to sleep in. Not tres sexy, but there you go.
I own a Toshiba portege laptop. I am gadget-impaired.
I just registered with Deapleap.
I eat very little popcorn. If I'm going for sweetness, I want the full-on sugary chocolate hit baby!
I think George Clooney is mmmmmm.
I am not afraid of the dark but I live for sunshiney days.
I am embarassed to admit that I don't know who the Violent Femmes are.
I wish I drank coffee so that I could say 'yes please' when someone offers me a cup.
I believe that there is no shame in asking a "stupid question" but don't be surprised if you get a stupid answer.
I have been cutting Barbies' hair since I was 5 years old. The results put pay to me ever contemplating cutting my own hair.
It's a whole lotta love bay-bee...
PS: Big Up to Sir Cowpants, on his special day. Mwah!
I went for the chop. My hair, which has been short, long, in-between, and the rest, is now a honey-brown, shoulder-skimming colour and length. I think I like it, but time will tell. The last time I was really bored with my mop, after faffing about with the hairdresser, he said, "Shall we take it all off?" (I had a fairly long barnet at the time). I said yes. And he did. Take it all off. As I heard the scissors going 'whack whack', rather than 'snip snip', and I had long strands at the front, but short, layered fuzziness at the back, I almost wanted to cry and say 'STOP!'. But I didn't. And I came out with a funky new cropped do, which I didn't get bored with for about a year (I'm mercurial - so sue me!) When I really want long flowing locks, I have a fake ponytail, which for the princely sum of about $3, looks freakily almost exactly like my own hair, and when attached gives the impression of having waist-length tresses. It's also good for scaring the shit out of anyone who comes into my room, as when it's hung up, it looks not dissimilar to Cousin It. Bwahahaha.
tuesday, july 18
So it's a lovely sunny evening, which means it's pig-oiling weather! There's nothing quite like chasing two pot-bellied porkers round the garden with a bottle of baby oil to make your evening. Before you run off screaming, no it's not part of some bizarre cultish bestial sexual ritual (that comes later). No, it's because pot-bellies' skin gets very dry in the summer, so like all nice young ladies, they need to moisturise regularly, stoopid! Which involves distracting the two aforementioned piggies with some apple or other treat, and liberally splashing baby oil onto their backs. Then rub. Note: porklings will not take to kindly to having coconut-smelling grease poured all over them so they will charge off at a rate of knots. So you will have to chase after them, rubbing the oil in whilst chasing after them wherever they run to. And who says I'm not original?
One great, wonderful thing about being home (home being my parents' house, and where I lived my first 17 years) is driving the car. I pined for my little motor when i was living in the US, because its sleek curves and kitschy little banana-yellow gear stick were just so darned lovely. I adore the feeling of putting the foot on the gas, rolling the windows down, and zooming off. I couldn't wait to get back to driving a stick-shift when I came back form the US - I'm sorry guys, but automatics are just boring. I want to get in and have control over the car - to get in and feel those revs. Vroom!!!
Right kids, the webcam is finally working - it'll be on, well, whenever I'm online and either not in my pyjamas or looking like night of the living dead. Well, that's debatable, but you never know your luck. Be afraid, be very afraid...
monday, july 17
I love the randomness of the things that pop out of people's mouths. I love it when someone says something that seems really witty to me. I hate it that they are so witty and spontaneously funny because there's that little bit of seething jealously. But for the most part it tickles me. Like this:
Person A: So you wouldn't hold him as a paragon of virtue then? PersonB: No! I'd hold him up as a dartboard though.
I adore quips. My friends at school and I had this thing we'd call the quickness award. Basically every day, we'd 'award' this notional prize to whoever managed the quickest and most spontaneous retort to something said. Except that these things only happened every so often, when we'd all fall about laughing and you just knew that that person had been incredibly witty and no-one could beat that retort that same day. I managed it a few times, when something apparently amusing seemed to pop out my mouth. It's a lovely feeling when something wonderfully funny just makes you giggle. Giggle lots.
I don't know what it is That makes me feel alive I don't know how to wake The things that sleep inside I only wanna see the light That shines behind your eyes
I hope that I can say The things I wish I'd said To sing my soul to sleep And take me back to bed You want to be alone When we could be alive instead
(Acquiesce, Oasis, live in concert, July 00)
I know that six years ago, it wasn't trendy to like this band that no-one had ever heard of called Oasis, then a few years later it was en vogue, and now it's back to being untrendy to like a bunch of hairy twats from Manchester, but I can't help it. And fuck 'em if they don't like my taste, as last night's concert was fan-bloody-tastic. Maybe it isn't as deep and meaningful a group as many would like, but damn they put on a good show. If it had been a couple of days of upheaval - leaving my job, coming back to Manchester for a little while - it was two hours of feeling the same vibe as fifty thousand other people, and just going along for the ride. Feeling totally there and right.
friday, july 14
Oof. Ouch. Pain. Legs hurt. Fun run was not so fun. I kept waiting for the endorphins to kick in, but I came to the conclusion that I just don't have any, as I didn't feel invigorated, I just felt knackered. Plus the fact that we won best Media Mixed team, and Best Media Women's team, got loads of free champagne, press passes to the press tent with mucho free alcohol a-flowing, meant that I'm feeling a little delicate today. And it's my leaving do at work tonight (last day today), plus Tom's birthday bash on Saturday night, so I suspect my liver has got a lot of hardship still to go....
thursday, july 13
Me: Oh, can't I just pretend I'm not here Jo (colleague): We'll tell her you went mad and we had to shoot you.
Yeah, that oughta do it!
OK, why is it that suddenly my FTP settings seem to have mysteriously changed without my being aware of it? My hosts have it so that I publish to a /web folder, which is how I've had my blog settings since kitschbitch first went live. Now for the last 2 days I've been unable to publish - which is why it seems as though it keeps appearing as though I've updated, but there hasn't been any content. So I try removing the /web path (just for the hell of it, because I have no idea why the ftp keeps failing) and presto! Push button publishing for the people. Strange, strange times...
Oh POO
Right, today Katy The Unfit does the unthinkable. She does the Chase Corporate Challenge, which for the uninitiated, means Three and a Half Miles of Torturous Running. Oh bugger....
wednesday, july 12
OK, could someone explain to me what the fuss is about Harry Potter? Going into work, I see no fewer than 10 very professional-looking, pinstripe-suit-wearing, attache-case-holding, thirty-something businessmen reading the latest offering. Not having read any of them, I'd like to know why I should make it a must read...
So I'm walking out the tube station on my way home, and I'm behind a couple who've obviously been doing some serious shopping on Bond Street: the guy has bags from Armani, Escada and Vuitton, the gal has Miu Miu and Versace (the contents of which would no doubt keep me in funds for the next year). And the Miu Miu bag is incredibly funky: it's made of purple laminated bubble wrap, with a dinky little logo on it. I'm thinking 'wow that's so cool - what a wicked label'. And then I think: hang on, that's just bubble wrap! It's just some bubble wrap strung together to make a bag - even I could do that. Somehow I don't think a bubble-wrap bag with 'Lindemann' or 'Kitschbitch' would have as much streed cred as 'Miu Miu' though. That said, one of the coolest T-Shirts I ever saw was a DKNY spoof which said 'Donner Kebab New Fork' on it. Somehow, I began this post with a point, I think. Though it seems to have got lost along the way...
tuesday, july 11
I'm going to be the first to congratulate Tom on managing to get a mention of k10k* into the acceptance speech he made earlier this evening. No, I'm not going to tell you what for, I don't want to totally steal his thunder: no doubt young Thomas himself will tell all on barbelith. Well done babe!
* whilst this is indeed cool, it doesn't quite beat the time when I was 15 and took up a bet from my friend Julia, which said she'd give me a fiver if I managed to get the obscure word of her choice into my GCSE french oral exam, during the conversation led by the examiner. The word was 'flying saucer' (yes, it's two, but I wasn't being picky) and I won the bet. I rule! She sucked! Mini wave in celebration of me!!
A quarter of the UK population don't intend to go online...ever - but then again, a lot of people thought that cars, planes and the like would never catch on. I find it hard to conceive of the idea that people would reject the idea entirely, because I reap so much enjoyment from the net and the things I do online - but even if you find it's not for you, writing something off before you've even tried it seems like a surefire way to miss out on a whole lotta good stuff in life...
Dear lord will the farting never end? Well, thanks to jen, there's a little more farty goodness to share, with pullmyfinger.com...
monday, july 10
Note to all: read, understand, and inwardly digest every delicious morsel of thinkdink, because Jessica is one smart, sassy, sorted lady, and she manages to state every point she makes in a clear, eloquent, to-the-point and stylish way. Plus she's got one of those designs that makes me ache, they look so damn good. Whatta woman.
More on the fart theme (bang goes any attempt at projecting a cosmopolitan, sophisticated, alluring image): createafart.com. Also amusing at work is using a lustworthy PowerMac G4 with fuck-off speakers to project enormous DIY fart noises around the office.
#164 of Katy's Sites To Visit Purely Because Their URL Is Groovy: startupfailures.com
The best thing ever just arrived in our office today; a remote control fart machine. There is nothing more hilarious when you're down in the dumps on a dreary, rainy Monday afternoon than seeing people get really worried about the fart noises emanating from under their desk, and wondering where they're coming from. Not as powerful as the whoopee cushion, but pretty damn cool nonetheless!
sunday, july 9
So whilst Real Life seems really, truly, wonderfully sorted (famous last words), weblife is all a bit floopy. The whole girl/bike/blog thing is truly surreal, but it's been a fairly enlightening - experiment is the wrong word because that would imply forethought and it wasn't planned on my part but I'll use it for want of a better term - experiment. Perhaps observation. Maybe not. To the best of my knowledge, the whole writing-for-the-web journalling/blogging/zining meme is writing for yourself and for others (if it was solely, entirely, exactly for yourself, I can't see why anyone would put it on a public website) and there's an interesting push and pull with the idea of hits and linkage. The 'big-name' blogs/journals/insert term of choice seem to have have become 'big names' because they have something about them which appeal to a lot of people, and people enjoy their writing, their design - what they have to give. And everyone has their own personal favourites too, the little sites which don't get as much attention as the big names, but who all have their own 'fans'.
I'm kidding myself when I say that hits and linkage don't matter to me. They do. It's not that I feel validated by having a blog I like link to me, but it's nice to know that someone, somewhere, is reading my little bit of verbal effluence, and maybe even liking it. I get such enjoyment from reading about people's thoughts, feelings, links, comments et al - so the idea that someone else might have enjoyed what I've written is what makes me want to keep doing it. Linkage isn't exactly validation, but it seems to me a way of someone pointing out to others something that touched/excited/aggravated/angered/interested them, and sharing it. If no-one was ever visiting, and no-one ever thought of sharing that link, that idea, that phrase with their visitors, I might wonder why I was putting myself out there on the web. Why not write these thoughts in a book kept in my bedside table, and just leave that link I thought was cool in my history file?
It's not a criticism, it's just a case of chocolate and vanilla I think. So it was weird to see my little page linked by sites far and wide because of the bike/girl bandwagon. I don't want to sound like I'm saying "no-one reads/visits/links my page when I'm writing my stuff but as soon as I post a blog-community thing I'm getting some kind of attention" because that really isn't the case at all. If I get maybe one e-mail a week sharing something back after I've shared something, I'm happy for the rest of that week, it seems worth it. It's just really odd. It's like the whole beebo thing. I'm sure it's really nice to see how well your site is doing, and I don't reckon there's an iota of wrongness in getting excited over being high up the rankings. I so don't want this to come off as a "I'm not one of the popular kids on the block so I'm going to slag off those who are". If it seems like that, it's really not how I intend it to be. I might have got a few more links, a few more hits because of the girl/bike meme, but I ultimately don't feel satisfied with it. I felt far more satisfied when I got some really personal, touching replies to a question I posted about what people thought was the magical age. I know I'm rambling, so if you're still reading, I'm very impressed. Take this very post: if one person says 'Yeah, I agree!', or 'I think you're really wrong, but it was interesting to see your point of view', it'll feel worthwhile.
Moral of the story? What I think I've 'learned'? If your heart ain't in it, or your doing stuff because you think you should, there just isn't any point.
It's funny how certain aspects of your head can be totally clear, and yet at the same time be all fuzzy and unsure. After a couple of days of mind-haziness, a good friend and I went out last night for a quiet, chilled evening. We talked, and ate, and drank, and talked, and talked, and talked. And it's sometimes surprisingly hard to remember how good this is. We lead our lives, rushing to and fro, grabbing 5 minute conversations on our mobile phones as we try and catch up with each others lives as we're hurrying down the street trying to get from one place to another, getting fragments of chat, then hanging up and rushing off again. So last night, we went to a cafe-bar where we knew we could have a relaxing evening nattering away: and it was really nice. It was one of those girlie chats with your friend where you realise that you're totally on the same wavelength about the topic of conversation in hand, and you have that comforting feeling of not being the only one who feels that way, or giggling at the stupidity of it, or sympathising because you know what it's like to feel that way, or feeling that warm glow because you're happy that you're both having Good Things happen. You can bask in the sense that even though you get hacked off with each other about this and about that, and even though you get together properly far too infrequently, you're really lucky to have good friends. And when you start talking ten to the dozen, and the pace of your words speeds up because you're so eager to tell the other about when x happened, or how cool it is that you've got y, and you collapse in hysterical laughter at z, it's hard to think about the Bad Things, because you know that in the madness of it all, it's a real gem.
friday, july 7
As I was running home, escaping the FBI agents who were in hot pursuit this evening, a miniature lop-eared rabbit was riding her unicycle in the middle of the street. She still had the training wheels on as she wobbled and struggled to pedal. It reminded me of when I was a lop-eared rabbit and how badly I wanted a unicycle but couldn't get one. My parents wouldn't let me have a unicycle until I evolved into a teenage girl; my mum realised that lop-eared rabbits tended to have trouble riding ordinary bikes, let alone unicycles . I'd watch the unicycle show at the circus and just look, having given up asking my parents about it long ago. I eventually did get one after much pleading and begging. Amazingly, getting my pilot's license at 16 and the subsequent borrowing of Air Force One passed without incident.
(NB: no drugs were taken before or during the writing of this post)
thursday, july 6
Can you imagine being the guy who nicked Tony Blair's son for being drunk and incapable? And having to call the guy's parents to tell them you'd arrested their kid - then finding out who the parents were? Glad I didn't have to make that phone call...
Why aren't there more hours in the day? I have so much stuff I want and need to do, and I always feel it's a waste to go to bed and have an early night: as though hitting the hay is a cop-out, when I could be doing all the other, much more productive stuff. That said, I'm bloody knackered right now!!
wednesday, july 5
Serious lack of blogging - there's so much I want to say, and I have so little time at the moment - all these ideas buzzing around, wanting to jump out of my fingers, and onto the keyboard....
So Tom and I trek across London, hopping on and off buses (maps are for wimps don't you know?) to head for the hotel where young Mark and Vance are staying. And it's far to say that we're a little nervous. Is Mark going to spontaneously shed his clothing? Are they going to think "Wow, we really are cooler than those Brit bloggers, what a bunch of wackos"? Needless to say, our fears are unfounded: Mark did keep his kit on, Vance and Mark were both friendly, chatty and there was none of that oh-shit-someone-say-something-ness. Our promise to take them to a Soho lap dancing club is postponed till a later date...
tuesday, july 4
Just got back from meeting Tom, Mark and Vance. A lovely evening, wonderful company, will blog tomorrow when I have had sleep. Also newsworthy today: got myself a mini-internship at Tequila later this summer, which is nice news...
monday, july 3
Campaign is the biggest and most well-known national trade publication for the advertising industry in Britain. Funny then, that their website Campaign Live should resemble a bastardised version of the (superior) Kvetch! Is it just me that thinks they've ripped off a certain site? I find it a tad ironic that they should have chosen to rip off a site which skilfully makes a mockery of online advertising for a site solely about the ad industry....
This Is War. At work, we just got a super-duper new colour printer to replace our prehistoric old one, meaning that we can now churn out presentations at warp speed, and fulfil all our colour-printing needs. Which inevitably means that we can now print out pictures from the net onto whopping great big pieces of paper to hang on the spare shelving at the other end of the office. This morning, I come into work to see a huge shrine to Anna Kournikova next to the boys' desks: swift action needs to be taken. In the interim, due to a surplus of Observers delivered to our department, we've slapped up a delightful picture of Mr George Clooney which was on the cover of the 'Screen' section, but we need to match the blokes, print for print. For every full-colour, larger-than-life, high-res picture of a nubile young teen tennis player that is printed off, we want to get a just-as-full-colour, just-as-large-as-life, also very high-res picture of a sex god which will keep our spirits high as we plod through a tedious Monday, conscious of the fact that our American counterparts are enjoying a holiday weekend. So who should we have? It's a tough decision, but who should we plaster across the walls of the Guardian offices? This one is for a bunch of heterosexual girls, so suggestions on a postcard please...
sunday, july 2
Alors, la France gagne encore! Je crois que j'ai parlé un peu trop tôt. Les champions du monde, les champions de l'Europe. J'imagine que les Français sont un peu fier ce soir - je serais fiere aussi, si je n'étais pas aussi jalouse! C'est heureux que je ne parient pas, parce que j'aurais perdu tout mon argent: auparavant, je croyais que les Pays Bas gagneraient. La Coupe du Monde de 2002 s'approche...
Matt has been talking about the various gadgets/devices he has in his apartment, and now I read that approximately one in two Britons have a mobile phone. We all know how fast the pace of technology is moving, but it's interesting to see how quickly it filters into mainstream society: mobile phones are no longer seen as being reserved for business men, they're now de rigeur - felt by many to be essential items in their day-to-day lives. I recall a conversation just a few days ago, where a number of friends and I remarked how we didn't know how we survived before we had our mobiles - how the hell did we ever organise to meet or do anything without being permanently contactable? Yet at the same time, a colleague was unable to fathom how it was that we saw them as so vital: as far as he was concerned, he could manage quite happily without one, and saw it more as a hindrance than helpful. When you stop to think about it, we really do take being able to contact each other at pretty much anytime, pretty much anywhere, for granted: we've essentially arrived at those scenes in comic books, where people buzzed each other via those groovy wrist-watches (albeit without the video screens, but how long will it be before they become commonplace?). Yet by the same token, at the tender age of 6, I was convinced I would never have to learn to drive a car, because by the time I was the grand old age of 17, we'd all be driving flying space hoppers. Makes me wonder what technology will be a part of our everyday lives in 15 years time...
Goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllll!!!!!!! Oh dear, Fabien Barthez is our new goalie, this doesn't bode well. I knew I shouldn't have put my money on France to win (there's time yet)...
Um Bongo, Um Bongo, they drink it in the Congo...(yet another ad song from my childhood)
saturday, july 1
Wired writes about skim.com: I''d never heard of this, and I have to say it's a really cool idea: it's incredibly simple, and I can't believe it's taken this long for someone to think of it. Skim produce urban sportswear and this is their USP:
Each article of clothing sold has a visible identifying number, which also doubles as a person's email address (a person wearing a sweatshirt with, for example, 012345 on the front can be contacted at 012345@skim.com), making it possible to contact (or "skim") someone who catches your interest
I love the idea of further bridging the gap between off and online culture, and it seems like a fresh and fun way to do it.
