Eurovision. Semifinal 2

The Eurovision song contest is on at the moment.

I watched the first semi-final on Friday. I was underwhelmed. Nowhere was there something ridiculously tacky and thus brilliant. There were far too many power ballads.

No, I lie. Greece, with their almost shirtless male acrobatics was so tacky I loved it. And whichever country did the song ‘Butterfly’ was marvellously sequinned.

But seriously, people, this is Eurovision, not Australian bloody Idol. Ballads = bad. Wind machines, sequins and shirtless men = good.

I watched semi-final two last night.

The first song, Lithuania, summed up what Eurovision should be: a catchy song, coupled with male stripping and sequins. Watch it on youtube. It was brilliant.

Armenia was ridiculous, if you were to listen to the lyrics themselves. But that having been said, it was an alright song, and by god they costumed in the spirit of Eurovision. The chest of the lead singer was residing somewhere in the vicinity of her sinus cavity or Sphenoid bone.

Israel’s guy had nice hair, but wasn’t the world’s greatest singer.

Song number four, Denmark, was unremarkable but for the fact that it not only sounded markedly similar to the kind of music put out by The Police, the costuming looked like something off a Police music video.

Switzerland, with song number five, made good use of the prerequisite wind machine. Their song was also rather pop-like, but there wasn’t enough male stripping.

After an ad break, there was another one of those bits where the Aussie commentators talk to the competitors. As it turns out, the guys from Lithuania are all straight. Go figure. Also, as it turns out, Julia Zemiro owns a pair of those shorts. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you clearly haven’t watched Lithuania’s song.

Sweden did well when it came to distributing glowsticks. Unfortunately, that’s where the good work ended. Eurovision it was not. It was another power ballad. The glowsticks were (I’m sorry to say) unwarranted. Cold Chisel it wasn’t. Their singer couldn’t even work the wind machine. Her hair barely moved throughout the song. This is Eurovision! I want to see hair blowing as if there are gale force winds blowing. I don’t care about how well your dress billows in the wind. I want hair in a wind tunnel.

Azerbaijan. What can I say? She was dressed appropriately (i.e. like a drag queen). Her backup singers weren’t. They just looked like high class hookers. The male dancer was wearing too much clothing, and wasn’t very good anyway. And it was another power ballad. That having been said, I was a fan of the LED lights in the dress.

Last year’s entry by the Ukraine involved a woman from a band called Viagra and a bunch of men wearing skimpy skirts and little else. This year’s entry was tasteful. And thus boring as all hell. Where’s the woman dancing suggestively with scantily clad Spartacus look-alikes? You may ask. I’ll tell you. They’re gone. Although I congratulate her on her brilliant use of a wind machine. She knows how to work that breeze, and she works it hard.

The Netherlands’ entry. Costuming was in the spirit of Eurovision. The fact that the song was written by the guy who was the voice of Papa Smurf was in the spirit of Eurovision. The set design was very much in the spirit of Eurovision. The song, in my opinion, was far too reminiscent of ABBA. It’s actually creepy. You could superimpose any ABBA lyrics on top of that song, and it would work. Thus, something which could have been brilliant in my opinion lost its brilliance because the premise has been done before.

Romania had a pair of conjoined electric pianos. It had lead singers who exemplified everything wrong with capitalist music. The woman really looked like Michael Jackson once he was white. The guy had a vein pulsating in his forehead as he sang. It was a crap song, but by Jove did they get into the spirit of it all. And as it turns out, the woman has a wonderful opera voice. She can’t sing pop for shit, but her opera voice is fantastic.

Popular folk rock. It’s a fusion between folk music and rock. It involves traditional costumes, ham acting and a piano accordion. I like. I like a lot. And the girl from Slovenia really looked like Rachel Bilson. The fusioning didn’t really work. The rock was alright, and the folk was alright, but they didn’t gel well. It was weird. The rock guys looked like a washed up Brit-punk band from the nineties would if it had been abducted by the Al-Qasam brigades.

Then came the Irish. Their singer won Eurovision in 1993. She didn’t age well. She can sing (she was a touch flat at times, but apparently she was a bit sick on the day, so I’ll forgive her), but it was a power ballad. The flute player was good. Fun fact: the television channel which broadcasts Eurovision isn’t allowed to charge for the broadcast. Ireland won three years in a row, and it almost bankrupted their national television channel.

Bulgaria. Scantily clad men and women, all covered in body glitter. The song was good – not amazing but good, but let’s focus on what’s important: they were wearing silver and were covered in glitter. the male backup dancers were also very good. At dancing. And being covered in glitter. The women…well they couldn’t dance for shit, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what they were chosen for. Sarah phoned me and expressed her love of Bulgaria’s song. She thinks they should win with that.

Cyprus’ song is sung by a Welshman, the musicians are from Scotland, Norway and Cyprus, but who’s judging. Me. That’s who. I’m judging. Not to be a bitch, but apart from the lead singer, who isn’t even a Cypriot, they lack the sheer cuteness necessary to win the song contest. And I’m so sick and tired of the bloody power ballads.

Another spate of talkies with the hosts. The Welsh lead singer was a babe. And he had the most adorable accent. A 22 year old Welsh babe with an adorable accent.

Sam Pak consistently refers to the male host as ‘Norwegian Josh Thomas’.

Croatia’s song is performed by a band called Feminem. There is however an acute lack of rap. It’s another mother expletiving power ballad. The women aren’t even using the wind machine. They’re all reasonably adept dancers, especially when their ridiculous costuming is taken into account, but their hair and dresses are screaming out for a wing machine. Absolutely begging for it. BUT THEY’RE NOT MAKING USE OF IT.

Georgia’s entry is a touch postmodern for my liking. But they at least subscribe to the Eurovision mores of men in white pants and open jackets without a shirt, dancing barefoot. But the song ended with massive pillars of fire, so I approve.

Now that I’ve mentioned lack of footwear, a hell of a lot of the performers have been barefoot for their performances. I don’t really see why. Maybe they’re trying to make a point.

From the first moment of Turkey’s performance, I loved it. There’s metal undertones, combined with exemplary wind machine usage. Strobe lights. Someone dressed up as a Samurai soldier. Quasi-rap in a manner akin to Linkin Park. Someone else, dressed as the love child which would be produced if a female PowerRanger and The Stig were to breed. Quite possibly my favourite song of the night. Definitely top three.

And as it turns out, Norwegian Josh Thomas also has a pair of those sequinned hot pants. Seriously. Watch the video. It’s brilliant to the max.

Also, all Julia can say in Hebrew is Habonim. Failq on her part.

And the host talked to the two Australian people in the audience. Who’d have thunk there would be Aussies, and who’d have thunk the hosts would have sought them out.

They also once again pulled out the tiny lookalikes of the hosts, dressed in the same clothing, to be adorable while explaining the minimum age clause.

We also got a peek of the songs which auto-qualified for the finals (the bankroller nations and the host nation). I quite like the look of France and Germany’s entries. But more of that once I’ve watched the finals.

My favourite ten of the night were (in order of performance):
Lithuania
Armenia
Denmark
Switzerland
Romania
Slovenia
Bulgaria
Cyprus (but only because of their hot singer)
Georgia
Turkey

The ten who qualified were (in the order in which they were revealed):
Georgia
Ukraine
Turkey
Israel
Ireland
Cyprus
Azerbaijan
Romania
Armenia
Denmark

The percentage of my top ten who were in Europe’s top ten:
40%

DEAR GOD, EUROPE. HOW COULD YOU HAVE FUCKED UP SO GREATLY????????? WHERE WERE THE LITHUANIAN STRIPPERS? THE SPARKLY BULGARIANS?

I am unimpressed. Of my three favourite acts, two didn’t make it. I am unimpressed, Europe. I am unimpressed.

I will however get the videos of the songs I liked, so that I can preserve the brilliance for posterity, even if the rest of Europe disagrees.

TopGear.

On Tuesday night, Boris was on TopGear. I was rather impressed.

Boris is quote easily my favourite British politician. He had an argument with Clarkson about the merits of bike riding (Boris cycles, Clarkson thinks that bike riding is for sissies), during which he lost he lorry vote by saying that truck drivers never look in their mirrors.

Later, whilst doing his lap in a reasonably priced car, it became evident that when driving, he makes zooming noises.

On a slightly unrelated note, I was disappointed to discover that the obscenities of the hosts are now censored. Clarkson no longer says ‘shit’. He says *bleep*. May no longer says ‘cock’. I am horrified by this turn of events.

But fun facts I learned from watching TopGear: if you’re in a Ford Fiesta being chased around the inside of a shopping centre by bad guys in a Corvette, you will get away.
Also, if you’re asked to take part in a beach assault with the Royal Marines whilst the end of the 1812 overture plays in the background, you will be marvellously successful.

I rather like TopGear. Especially the challenges. Vietnam in particular.

There’s some marvellous British humour. For example: To make things more interesting, the presenters were banned from getting professional repairs on their motorbikes, and they were shown the support bike: a motorbike completely covered with American flag decals, with a stereo permanently blasting Bruce Springstein’s ‘Born in the USA’.
Clarkson, after beholding the monstrosity, turned to the camera and said, completely deadpan “Kids, if you’re watching at home and don’t understand just how inappropriate this is, ask your parents.”

Nothing like bringing up memories of capitalist imperialism.

On a slightly unrelated note, I’m aware that my recent posts have been a touch off my regular standard. This is because I blog about whatever happens to have interested me during the day. Of course when I’m stuck in a hospital, very little interests me.

But bear with me.

The small portion of the week I enjoyed before admission

This is my notes of The Week from prior to my admission: basically there’s somewhere around two and a half days of funny.

To begin with, period one on Monday is English, where I sit next to Yvette.
On Monday (praise unto the heavens) Yvette pulled out her Frankenstein before Mr Turner even managed to finish articulating his request for us to do so.
Yvette: Frankenwin.

For the past few weeks, whenever anyone mentions or references the monster’s desire for Frankenstein to create him a mate, I always turn to Yvette and make some kind of joke about ‘crazy monster sex’.
This information will become pertinent below:
Mr Turner: …desire for connection.
Yvette: If you mention that one more time, I will murder you.
Me: What?
Yvette: Crazy monster sex.
Me: Oh. Yeah. That.

Later, during triple Latin, which includes a lunch class, Monica was eating a banana. It was bruised.
Sophia (to Monica): Your banana has herpes.
Me: I’m thinking syphilis. You have a syphilitic banana.
Monica: And how.

Durign period 8, by which time it’s our third period of latin and our brains are slightly fried, Mr Morrison stretched out his arms.
Monica and Myself: You’re an albatross!!!
(Air high-five because we’re too far away to reach each other.)
Mr Morrison: Go home and measure your arm span and compare it to your height. They’ll be about the same.
Me (deducing logic): You’re an albatross in height!!!
Mr Morrison: There are so many places to start with that.

On Tuesday, during double English periods seven and eight, I was being my usual mature (sic) self.
Me: I’m so mature.
Yvette: Like old cheese.
Both: *high five*

Then, during Latin in periods 10 and 11 (I didn’t even know they existed until I started having class during them), Mr Morrison was making a point. What it was exactly escapes me, but whatever.
Mr Morrison (to Monica): I gave your mother a kiss.
Monica: No! I refuse to listen until you find another example.

And then on Friday, I received this text message. It was from Yvette:
Double English faggot. How dare you be so selfish and bail on me for hospital!

What a darling. I passed my phone around the class for everyone to read. We lolled muchly.

Another reason I hate Beyonce

I hate Beyonce for numerous reasons. For example - I hate her because she doesn't wear enough clothing.
Seriously, there are things we don't need or want to see. Ever. Save it for Jay-Z.

My latest reason is the fact that she molested one of my favourite songs.

No, I lie. She Catullus 16-ed one of my favourite songs.

Vois Sur Ton Chemin, initially sung marvellously by Jean-Baptiste Maunier and the cast of Les Choristes, was killed by Beyonce.

I was alerted to this travesty by my friend Julianne, who is a fan of all things French. And like me, not a fan of Beyonce ruining the French stuff we are fans of.

I am unimpressed.

Alcoholism

I love Monty Python. Only they could take the greatest philosophers ever... and then write a beer drinking song about it.

Immanuel Kant was a real pissant
who was very rarely stable.
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar
who could drink you under the table.
David Hume could out consume
Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel,
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
who was just as sloshed as Schlegel.

There's nothing Nietzsche couldn't teach ya
'bout the raisin' of the wrist.
Socrates himself was permanently pissed.

John Stuart Mill, of his own free will,
after half a pint of shandy was particularly ill.
Plato, they say, could stick it away,
'alf a crate of whiskey every day!
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle,
and Hobbes was fond of his Dram.
And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart:
"I drink, therefore I am."

Yes, Socrates himself is particularly missed;
A lovely little thinker, but a bugger when he's pissed.

Freedom

Today I obtained leave from the hospital for a day. It was markedly enjoyable in comparison to incarceration.

I played Lacrosse, and then was able to access block-less internet.
Which is why I'm blogging.

The problem is, hospital is so ridiculously boring that there's nothing to blog about.

And thus a little experiment I've dreamed up:

METALLICA OR JOHN DONNE

I will write a line of either a Metallica song or a John Donne poem, and you all get to guess which it is. No typing it into google. That's boring. And unethical.

1. For whom the bell tolls.
2. Trust I seek and I find in you.
3. Dispute, and conquer.
4. Corrupt worms.
5. Justice is done.
6. Let my heart be still.
7. Fall on that man.
8. So what now, where go I?
9. Take my hand.
10. He swallows us.

Have at it!!!

Politicking

Britain has a hung parliament. This is because Gordon Brown did what John Howard did prior to losing an election: he hung onto power long after he should have handed it over to someone younger and more charismatic. Or less deformed. Or Nick Clegg.

As a result of Gordon's monumental cock up, Nick Glegg, whose party did rather well in the election, is being called upon to broker some kind of coalition between someone and someone else. No-one's too fussed as to the specifics, as long as he gets it done. But Nick, because his party came third, will not get the top job himself no matter what happens.

Admittedly, Gordon did well. Having stabbed Tony Blair in the back from his comfortable spot in the treasury (in a manner somewhat akin to John Howard stabbing Andrew Peacock in the back from his comfortable spot in the treasury), Gordon knew what to do in order to ensure that Britain came out of the recession well. Britain whupped some global ass when it came to financial regulation.

But he then hung onto power for so long that his party became a dried out husk of yes men adn downtrodden backbenchers. Rather like the Liberal party after the 2007 election. But I digress.

What Britain needs is for Nick Clegg to do what no-one expects. Stage a military coup and set up a junta that won't allow elections, thus allowing the Supreme Clegg to rule all Britannia with an iron fist forever and ay.

That would be a welcome change. All hail Clegg.

Psychological Torment

I answered a question in English. I wasn't concentrating. Damn, blast and buggery.
Oh well. I'm going to be hospitalised soon, and then I REALLY won't be answering questions in class.

The Week

For a while now, Mr Morrison has been slightly glittery. This is because he has been marking year 7 assignments, and such assignments are outstanding in nothing other than sheer sparkliness.
We’d been making jokes about his glitteriness for a while when he eventually said “Every day I fly to school and I just need a little sprinkling of fairy dust. Are you happy?”
We were. Astoundingly so.

Later in the lesson, we were discussing History Extension major work essays.
Mr Morrison: I once had to write a 4000 word essay in German in one night.
Monica: Go on…
Mr Morrison: That was the climax of the story.
Me: Why did you leave it to the last minute? Were you out partying with Alex?
Mr Morrison: Yes.
Much lols following that. Alex was Mr Morrison’s hard-partying roommate when he was at uni in Vienna. Any story involving Alex generally turns out to be an interesting one.

Whilst translating us some Cicero
Mersini: I can’t spell today.
Mr Morrison: T. O. D. A. Y
Me: But… oooooh. Right. I didn’t think there was a T in ‘defence’

Mr Morrison: opportere
Mersini: That just makes me hungry.
Me: Why would indirect statements make you hungry?
(you can tell I was really concentrating that lesson)
Sophia: indirect STEAKments.

As I stated back in the holidays, our class spent a day trying to translate the Cicero. We got a bit unmotivated towards the end, as can be seen by our marvellous translation of a certain sentence as read out by Monica.
“Which you do not make to/against the strong military, but the way which you keep the hands off the other money.”
The actual translation goes something like this:
‘That it is necessary to be proved by you not that you did well in military affairs but how you kept your hands from other people’s money.’

Now onto history extension, where we are learning about the historicity of Jesus. We’re watching a documentary from the PBS during which Dominic Crossan expresses numerous opinions regarding Jesus and the like. One of the better ones was:
“That’s the terrible price of an apocalypse. There’s going to be an awful lot of dead people.”

And now to modern history where we had just begun the study of Nazi foreign policy. First, my definition of war: war is foreign policy carried out on foreign soil.

Mr Sheldrick drew a marvellous diagram explaining Nazi foreign policy. Here it is, along with his accompanying commentary.
To start with, he drew this.

The small thingy in the middle is Britain, sans Ireland and a large proportion of Wales.
The big thingy towards the right is Europe, lacking all of Spain and Portugal, The Netherlands, Scandinavia, the Mediterranean…

Then he added this

The shaded bit is central/eastern Europe. Germany, Poland, Austria, Hungary, the assorted other nations which are now predominantly post-communist something-stan, or alternately have a civil war or coup every ten or so years. But anyway.
Because when you control central Europe, you can

Branch out and ultimately control all of Europe. And when you control Europe…

…you control the world.
Yes. The smiley face was on the board.

Then there was English.
Mr Turner: Have you heard of Immanuel Kant?
Me (under my breath because I was boycotting class participation): Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmanuel Kant was a real pissant who was very rarely stable, Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar who could drink you under the table. Nietzsche, Nietzsche was (etc. the philosopher’s drinking song c/o Monty Python)

Later that lesson I was bored. So I put my copy of Frankenstein open on my head.
Yvette: Frankenhat.

FRANKENHAT The one function of a copy of Frankenstein. Sun protection.

The next day in Latin Extension:
Mr Morrison: How did you go in the Easter Show? I forgot to ask you that.
Me: I was disqualified for inappropriate mounting.
Mr Morrison then laughed until he was incredibly red. It took us all a while to cotton on to what he was laughing about, because generally we’re the ones who pick up on it, not him. So that was some unexpected of our normal roles.

A few minutes later, Mr Morrison wrote something on the whiteboard.
Sophia: Is that a new marker?
Mr Morrison: It may be.
Oh the banality…or is it banalité…I never know…is it like naiveté…is it anglicised…oh well.

We were translating Horace I.5 in which Horace is bitching about the guy Pyrrha dumped him for.
Mr Morrison: He’s someone a bit effeminate. Maybe someone who’s into a bit of manscaping.
If there’s one thing guaranteed to make things weird, it’s your teacher talking about manscaping.

And later, whilst making style notes:
Mr Morrison: Black is a word with evil connotations.
Me: Sir, are you being a white supremacist?
Mr Morrison: Yes
Me: picks up pen
Mr Morrison: Don’t write that down.
Disclaimer: Mr Morrison is not a white supremacist.

And today in English:
We’re learning about Frankenstein and there’s a lot of crap regarding the supremacy of nature and such tree-hugging pseudo-bohemianism.
Alagu: When Victor and the monster die in the frozen north, it’s as if nature wins.
Mr Turner: And what gender is nature portrayed as?
Alagu: Female.
Mr Turner: So the women win in the end.
(He was making a point).
Me (to Yvette): well if nature is a woman, then the arctic would be a frigid bitch. Thus in the end, it’s the frigid bitches who win.

Later:
Mr Turner: Are women passive or active in the book?
All: Passive.
Me (to Yvette): Passive like a gerund.
Yvette: Don’t make grammar jokes at me.

We were also given a handout compiled my Mr Morris (an English teaching deputy principal) which dealt with Frankenstein and Bladerunner.
Mr Morris’ handout: [Tyrell] builds [the replicants] well…but in an act of mean spiritedness, they are given a lifespan of 4 years.
Yvette (to me): That’s wrong. He did it because after the 4 years they’d grow emotions.
Me (to Yvette): Especially because most of them were created to be sex slaves. The last thing you want is a sex slave with emotions.
Yvette: Damn right.

And back to class discussion of Frankenstein:
Mr Turner (about the De Lacey family): Boring bunch of Bourgeois vegetarians.
Yvette (to me): Better than being a bunch of cheese eating surrender monkeys.
I lolled at that (internally). I found that lovely term for the French in a book the title of which I have since forgotten. But it’s a good description.

And then after school, I went to Hurstville with Monica, Sophia, Elsa and Hilary. We were drinking EasyWay (which is a curious product…)
Monica’s had pearls in it.
Monica: Oh My God! I can’t get this fucking ball!

And later, Sophia choked on her easy way.
Me: What happened?
Sophia: I sucked too hard.

The UK Election

I did a quiz on Boris Johnson's blog.

Apparently, if I lived in Scotland, the party I'm most likely to vote for would be the Scottish National Party.

Cool.

Shopping and Belonging

This afternoon, I got some jeans.

They are incredibly run of the mill, but anything would be an improvement upon my current pair which are so faded they're almost white, and so shredded at the cuffs that I either have to fold them up or wear them with boots. And the only boots I own are gumboots.

Whilst I was at Target getting the aforemantioned jeans (I know. I'm classy.), I saw one of those floofy peasant shirt thingies. I thought to myself 'Hmmm. I wonder what I'd look like in one of those.'

Here's the answer: a mushroom. As it turns out, quasi-Sinti Eastern European gypsy is not a look I can rock. I can however totally rock the look of Eastern European downtrodden farmer or tailor. I guess it's genetic.

And although I've been bagging out my old jeans, I'm still going to wear them to every winter mufti day...along with my Target gumboots.

And the belonging.

I have a bit of a quandary when it comes to finding self selected texts for belonging.

Initially, I was going to use The Shipping News (Annie Proulx), but that turns out to be an Ext Eng proscribed text, which means I can't use it.

I could use the movie, but it's just so bloody depressing.

Even so, I have too many self seleceted texts to choose from. There's The Shipping News (movie), Kolya (Czech movie about the Velvet Revolt), Forrest Gump (Winston Groom), or The Savage Altar (Asa Larson).

I should have two. I hate having to choose. They're all really good.

Oh well.

Tuesday arvo

Written during double english. Thus explaining the later use of present tense.

At lunch I discovered that my rpevious title of Latin class whore has been upgraded to a generalised kinky whore. Thanks Monica.

In English, instead of puttimg my hand up whenever Mr Turner (the vampirate teaching us Frankenstein) asks a question, like the complete nerd that I am, I'm sitting completely still, with a bored look on my face.

First I got back a piece of creative writing which I threw together during a double period of Modern History on the last day of term (when it was due). Apparently I have the foundations right (i.e. my spelling is correct and I'm anal about grammar) but my plot, whilst "imaginative" (read: mildly ludicrous) really didn't deal with Belonging.

Of course it didn't. I'm rubbish at Creative Writing, and I think that Belonging as a stupid concept. But anyway.

Back to me seeing if I can mess with the head of my teacher by lacking opinion. Because I'm the only one who consistently answers questions.

Class started at 1.15.

Mr Turner is working hard to get input from the class. He asks a question ...pauses ...elaborates ...pauses ...waits a bit more ...eventually someone mutters something with an interrogative upwards inflection and he jumps on it in a desperate attempt to prompt class discussion.

1.50

He still hasn't cracked. But he's definitely working harder that usual.

2.15

A good minute of silence waiting for an answer. A decent start. I'm going to need to continue this not working on class participation shindig. It's rather enjoyable.

Chivalry

This morning I had to catch the bus with my Tuba. It's unwieldly, heavy, the wheels don't function properly, and it has a turnign circle larger than that of the Titanic.

Usually, the bus, after I get on at Blakehurst High wends its way through Carss Park, Kogarah Bay and Carlton before arriving at Kogarah where it divests itself of passengers in order to reverst the journey back to Hurstville.

Today however, as I was wresting the evil plastic monstrosity fo a case (overpackaging much?), the bus driver said that he would continue on to my school after reachign Kogarah (according to Cityrail, it's another 700m. It's not that difficult with the tuba - the wheels may not function properly, but at least they function - it's just irriatating when the Kogarah High kids ask me whether I have a body in tere. As if I'd tell them if I did.)

Thanks bus driver.

Chivalry isn't dead.

Labels and other blog formating nightmares

I wanted to get the thingy which one sticks on the side of one's blog which shows the different labels one has used with relative size showing the frequency with which that label has been used.

The closest I could get was that weird swirly label sphere thingummywhatsit located below the blog archive.

I am underwhelmed.

Metallica

A few posts ago, I was rather put ut by the fact that scuttlebutt is that Metallica would be coming to Australia in august.

As it turns out, they're playing at Acer Arena on November 18, which is after the HSC.

I am excited beyond description. I'm doing a happy dance.

OH MY GOD, I'M GOING TO A METALLICA CONCERT.

Lacrosse

Today was the first game of the new Lacrosse season. This made me happy.

I sustained numerous arm and shin bruises, which means I spent a very productive hour playing.

I have the post-violent-sport happies :)

See: I'm so happy I did a smiley face.

Incoherent Indies

I was watching Rage on ABC on Saturday morning, and I was reminded of one of my pet hates: incoherent apathetic indie bands with stupid names.

They mumble, they ‘sing’ in irritating breathy voices that demonstrate quite obviously that they have absolutely no diaphragm support whatsoever, and they have stupid band names.

What kind of an idiotic name is ‘Fire! Santa Rosa. Fire!’? seriously.

And what about ‘Fauns’.

It’s only a matter of time before they just start taking names out of science textbooks: I will in no way be surprised when there’s a band called ‘the Electrolytic Cells’ or perhaps ‘Xloem vessels’. And let’s not rule out ‘the Tickertapes’; ‘the Hubble Telescopes’; ‘the Stephen Hawkings’… I could go on.

And it’s as if they can’t even get enthusiastic about their own music. They just stand there, playing their instruments in an expressionless manner. They seem to think they’re too cool for their music, but they’ll deign to play it anyway, and we just have to deal with their boredom.

On a slightly unrelated note, scuttlebutt is that Metallica is coming to Australia in August. Tiff (the one who introduced me to the joys of Metallica) and I are really cut that it’s in the middle of trials.

Damn and blast.