And this bit:
It's easy to sleep when you're a toddler. Your mind and body skitter around all day until they burn themselves out, leaving you blissfully knackered when the sun goes down. You've only got two modes: on and off, like a blender. But once you reach adulthood, things are altogether less binary. You've got responsibilities and concerns, not to mention an alarm clock with a sarcastically oversized face sitting beside the bed mocking any attempt at shuteye. Chances are you've spent your day mumbling to co-workers, bumping into furniture and performing pedestrian chores. Your brain spends the daylight hours in a state of drowsy semi-consciousness, and only decides to spring into life when the lights go out.
The insomniac brain comes in various flavours; different personality types you're forced to share your skull with for several hours. It's like being trapped in a lift with someone who won't shut up. Sometimes your companion is a peppy irritant who passes the time by humming half- remembered TV theme tunes until 7am. Other times it's a morose critic who has recently compiled a 1,500-page report on your innumerable failings and wants to run over it with you a few times before going to print. Worst of all is the hyper-aware sportscaster who offers an uninterrupted commentary describing which bits of your body are currently the least comfortable. No matter where you put that leg, he won't be satisfied. And he's convinced you've got one arm too many.
And here's a bit of what I got up to last night:
A dear friend of mine will be getting married to his boyfriend next year and I sincerely hope that he never has to deal with such ridiculous ignorance.
I admit it: I'm a bigot. A hopeless bigot at that: I know my particular prejudice is absurd, but I just can't control it. It's Apple. I don't like Apple products. And the better-designed and more ubiquitous they become, the more I dislike them. I blame the customers. Awful people. Awful. Stop showing me your iPhone. Stop stroking your Macbook. Stop telling me to get one.
Seriously, stop it. I don't care if Mac stuff is better. I don't care if Mac stuff is cool. I don't care if every Mac product comes equipped a magic button on the side that causes it to piddle gold coins and resurrect the dead and make holographic unicorns dance inside your head. I'm not buying one, so shut up and go home. Go back to your house. I know, you've got an iHouse. The walls are brushed aluminum. There's a glowing Apple logo on the roof. And you love it there. You absolute MONSTER."
I gun for the Brotherhood of the Mac, mainly because I'm a convert, but also because some of the guys at the Genius Bar in Ginza are little hotties.
Take a look at the link to the "shitasmic" party video on Youtube too. I had to turn it off.
Oh, it must be Monday. There was a good one last week, which made me laugh out loud in the school lobby, but I don't quite remember it now...
It's revoltingly hot in my apartment, and blissfully gusty outside, so i don't know what to do with myself. Today is almost perfect beach weather.
Yesterday Kate and I hit Shibuya, took a walk through Yoyogi and then headed to Fonda De La Madrugada, where we sampled the delights of the appetizer menu (Quesadillas, Nachos and Jalepenos Rellanos) and sipped Sangria. I'm organizing my colleague's leaving party, so it seemed only right to sample the menu before booking a massive party there. Great atmosphere, decor and hot waiters too. Yum
As it's Monday, I read Charlie Brooker with my tea:
"Whenever I hear the phrase, "And now a special news report", I automatically start scanning the room for blunt objects
to club myself to death with in case they're about to announce nuclear war."
He puts very well what I have been thinking myself. On Friday morning, when I woke up to the news, I clicked on the BBC link and was taken to a live streaming video feed, a first for the BBC website, which doesn't normally allow me to do anything except listen to Late Junction. I left it running, and 45 minutes later they were still going over and over the same thing, trying to goad the head of the MJ fanclub into tears by asking him repeatedly how he felt about seeing images of Jackson's body being taken from the helicopter to a van. "Surely there must be something else going on in the world," I thought. It was all rather obscene; like a car crash, no one could look away from it.
And in tradition of not knowing what you've got til it's gone, and I myself am slightly guilty of this, Jackson's record sales have rocketed, making him number 1 in the UK album chart for the first time in 6 years.
Right, I need to stop sweating. Somehow.
It's Monday morning, which means...
"Recently, on holiday, I visited some ancient ruins, to shuffle around alongside some other random tourists. Everyone was being quiet and reverential, because that's what's expected of you by the International Thought Police. It's quite stressful and eerie. Say you find yourself staring at an old pot. Your brain, being an incredibly sophisticated computer, immediately assesses that it's an old pot, and that old pots are boring. It's not going to dance, or sing heartbreaking songs of yesteryear. It won't even rock gently in the breeze. It's just going to sit there being a pot. Probably a broken one at that. If it was on television, they'd at least have the decency to back it with some upbeat techno while zooming in and out, and even then you'd immediately switch over. But instead, because you've got the misfortune of actually being there in front of it, surrounded by other people, you have to stand and look at the poxy thing for a minimum of 30 seconds before moving on to gawp at the next bit of old shit, or everyone's going to think you're a philistine. The same principle applies in art galleries and museums. They're full of secretly bored people pulling falsely knowing faces. It's a weird mass public mime.
Obviously I'm not saying all history and culture is rubbish, or indeed that everyone's as shallow as me. But I strongly suspect that unless you're a hobbyist or expert - and most of the visitors won't be - then the average museum or gallery probably contains four or five fascinating items sprinkled among a whole lot of filler. In other words, you'll spend 10 minutes being interested for every 50 minutes of boredom. Yet if you dare shrug or yawn, everyone'll call you a bastard. To your face. Or at least that's how it feels."
A million things to do today.
Do washing up.
Make shopping list.
Go to bellydance.
Meet Kate for coffee.
Attempt to watch "The Godfather" like I've been promising for the last three months.
Write a poem about "The Night", which went off last night on a prolonged Castanedian musing on the magic of small lizards and dreams.
Maybe email all those people who I should have emailed, particularly Tim and Lil in York, who sent me an email about 5 months ago, to which I still haven't replied. Sorry everyone. I royally suck.
Maybe if I didn't mess about on the internet so much I'd get some of this stuff done...