Can anyone remember that one she did that was written by the Manic Street Preachers, 'Some Kind of Bliss'? Some kind of wank, more like. The Manics have never been the same since - it had a much bigger effect on them than Richey leaving. :: super 8:21:00 PM [+] ::
Those of you privileged enough to enjoy the miracle that is digital TV - on your fucking widescreen Sony televisions with fucking dolby surround sound probably - may have enjoyed perhaps the best ever piece of televisual programming that was the "Kylie Videodrome" on ITV2. For those that missed it, it was practically every video she ever made, interspersed with snippets of interview with the lady herself. A real treat, it contained even the shite ones like 'Give me just a little more time' and 'Word is out' from when she was unpopular and couldn't even get arrested. I could have got arrested though - for stalking! :: super 8:19:00 PM [+] ::
I promised myself on Saturday that I would lie in bed on Sunday morning and read my book about the black death and listen to Radio 4. I kept that promise. :: super 9:38:00 PM [+] ::
Here's a non story for you. My cat disappeared on Wednesday night. On Saturday, she came back again. :: super 9:35:00 PM [+] ::
'Fuck yourself you tv dinner corpse fucking, shemale jobby-jabbing, auntie god-botherer! '. So sayeth the Insultweb random sweary insult generator. Beware, there's lots of words that are naughty there. (via b3ta) :: Boney 7:26:00 AM [+] ::
:: Sunday, February 17, 2002 ::
Just got back from a lovely Parisian weekend. I say lovely, but it was sure as hell frustrating too..but I guess such is the nature of organised coach trip stylee cheapo bollocks holiday weekends, innit... The Louvre? Been driven past that loadsa times... Eiffel Tower? Walked under that, wandered round it, been driven around it, didn't have time to go up it. We did get turned loose in Montmartre for a few hours on Saturday, which was the best segment of the trip for me. A lovely hour or so watching the artists in the Place du Tertre and wandering around the Sacre Coeur (which brought back wonderful memories of 'Amelie') and nipping down the many, many stairs to wander around via some cheeky little shops towards the dodgy (Moulin Rouge) part of town. Cream crackered at the end of it though, mind. Saturday night's boat trip down the Seine was nice, if a touch parky, but the place is soooo damn big, I need a fortnight back there sometime. Going down to Notre Dame this morning, via where the Bastille used to be and seeing all the amazing buildings all round the town was gobsmacking...and I was gutted we didn't get time to wander round the Latin Quarter. Still, I spent fuck all and got some cheap booze whilst I was over there too, as well as a taste for the place. No more gay accordian music though, please.. :: Boney 11:03:00 PM [+] ::
:: Wednesday, February 13, 2002 ::
Oooh I like this! - The White Stripes present 'Stripe Out', a cheeky little tennis/space invadery sort of game thingy. Go play. With yourself. :: Boney 7:47:00 PM [+] ::
:: Sunday, February 10, 2002 ::
So, I was getting the bus back from my parents, as I do frequently. I get to the bus stop and this guy, who looks rather like Martin Keown, he says to me that I'll have a while to wait; the buses, he says, don't run until 10 past the hour. It's now a quarter to. I'm surprised by this, as I've been catching this bus at 12 minutes to the hour for over a decade, but I believe him, and tell him it doesn't matter, I don't mind waiting.
The bus turns up at 12 minutes to on the dot. Both of us board the bus. Lo and behold, on the bus is another guy who also looks like Martin Keown, enough for me to think the two fellows are in some way related. Keown Guy 1 sits directly behind Keown Guy 2. KG1 talks to the man behind him about thinking the bus was due at 10 past, totally ignoring KG2. I sit at the back, mildly bemused by KG2. It seems he is 'not of these parts' (either physically, or more likely, mentally). I read my book, an entertaining tale of a guy who discovers he might be Jesus's son due to his mother having been implanted with semen from Jesus's foreskin. Next I know, we're arrived in town. I get off the bus. KG1 stays on, whilst KG2 gets off.
I scamper off to make sure I catch the other bus home, and sit down again, to read a bit more of my book, in which 'Jesus's son' is trying to save his dying mother by feeding her puddings because they're full of 'preservatives'. I feel weird, and for the first time have the suspicion that I have a guardian angel spirit looking after me, in the shape of ghostly figures who resemble Martin Keown. I feel safe.
Andrew WK and the NME Carling Awards Tour posse was a very enjoyable night thank you. It ended with the scruffy longhair diving into the audience after a rousing 'Don't Stop Living In The Red', which had ended an energetic set of songs which are, essentially, minor variations of each other. *sighs*
However, the highlight of the week came on Thursday, when me and Rob went to see Mulholland Drive. I must confess, I'm not overly familiar with much of David Lynch's previous output, apart from 'The Straight Story', one of my favourite films, and of course 'Blue Velvet', so I only had a slight inkling of what was in store.
The main part of the movie is concerned with 'Rita' (played by former Sunset Beach actress Laura Elena Harring), a mystery woman who loses her memory after a car accident, which had itself thwarted an attempt on her life. She wanders dazed into an apartment just vacated by the Aunt of Betty (Naomi Watts), an aspiring actress just down in LA from Canada, who is wide eyed and awed by the newly discovered glamorous surroundings. Other characters lives are delved into, such as young movie director Adam Kesher (Justin Theroux), whose movie casting gets hijacked by shady mob-style figures, while his wife gets hijacked from him by a pool cleaner (surreally played by Billy Ray Cyrus!?!). Also in the mix are explanatory scenes which appear to refer to the attempted murder of 'Rita' at the start, including a fantastic comedy multiple murder. Rita, in the meantime, is anguished by her amnesia and is encouraged by Betty to find clues to her identity. She finds that she remembers a name, Diane Selwyn, but doesn't know why, so the pair attempt to track Diane down, with Betty clearly enjoying her new 'role' in life. The pair develop and affection for each other, which results in the lezzing up for which most people appear to be aware of this movie from. The action is interspersed with some terrific vignettes, such as Betty's audition, and the 'Silencio Club' sequence, which features an appearance from Angelo Badalamenti, whose score to the movie is key to building the often highly intense atmosphere. One of the most breathtaking parts of the movie, this scene includes singer Rebekah Del Rio belting out 'Llorando', an amazing Spanish version of Roy Orbison's 'Crying'. The final half hour or so of the movie competely beguiled me. The previous section, whilst apparently unconnected in essence, had several overlaps with the characters. In the final section, it appears that 'Rita' is now called 'Camilla' and that 'Betty' is now a more ragged 'Diane', in contrast to the unbelievably lively and jolly Betty. I won't ruin the ending, which left me absolutely clueless, but with a sense both of awe, and that I'd just had a very strange dream, which I was only able to interpret parts of.
I was still confused the next day, when I came across this analysis of the movie (via Parallax View). *Please don't read that last link before you see the film*. I found myself running through the whole thing again over and over whilst I was at work, struck by the sad desperation of the story and with 'Llorando' in my head all day to multiply the poignancy. It sort-of made sense after that, although I'll definitely have to see it again when it's on locally in March. In the meantime, I'm still pretty gobsmacked.