No need to settle for less. No need to wail about those who were scared or stupid or plain shitty. No need to withhold judgment, because I too am entitled to judge. In sum it was reaffirming and even revelationary. But more importantly it was everything it should have been: easy, fun happy and hot.
Can I get an encore do you want more more more more more
Pusha T “SWEET” Freestyle
(Source : youtube.com)
ETA. To be read in context of further revelations: see above.
They are where we were two years ago. We’re a hundred years old. We’re gonna have to look for jobs next year. yay! Soon we will be productive economic units in society. We will bleed you for our time and our lives and our eyes. On the other hand I still feel like I have reams and realms of stuff I have to painfully learn about before I can assume this mantle of Grown Upness.
David Bowie (born David Robert Jones on 8 January 1947)
Happy Birthday David!
(Source : theplanetofsound)
Johnny Cash covering NIN’s Hurt. The starkness of his voice, the instrumentals and the visuals are a truly powerful combined. I’m not even a Johnny Cash fan, and I state: this is amazing and will make you bawl. Unless you don’t have a soul.
What have I become
my sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away in the end
And you could have it all
My empire
of dirt
(Source : youtube.com)
It’s the end of the year. For others, Christmas is ritual, food and family.
(The folks spend theirs in front of the telly watching leggy Korean clones prance and coo in perfect unison.)
I haven’t decided whether it should mean anything. And if so, what.
I spent it with my grandma this year, and had the terrifying revelation that her mind and body are both beginning to splinter. Inevitable, yes. But with the beginning of that grand betrayal, I also begin to lose the only lucid and compassionate person I have blood relations to.
DAMN YOU UNIVERSE
Never go to Zouk on a Wednesday. It doesn’t matter who you’re with: Mambo is DISGUSTING. A platoon of strange boys will mysteriously appear immediately behind you. They will encircle you with military precision. Your friends and the strange boys will proceed to ignore each other steadfastly for several hours. YOU WILL FIND THIS REPRESSED TENSION TOECURLINGLY WEIRD. Your friends will find this totally normal. Then, you tentatively try to plumb the motivations of these strange boys (“do you know each other?”). They say they are in a platoon. They immediately follow their reply up with unsolicited yes-ma’am vow of undying stickiness “WE WILL FOLLOW YOU WHERE[VER] YOU WANT TO GO”. You are horrified. You will want to run away and talk to somebody about how weird Mambo-clubbers are. But because of a misplaced loyalty to the people you’re there with, you stay. (They probably don’t want to hear it anyway.)
The music will be REALLY BAD. The hand motions will be RELENTLESSLY UNINSPIRED AND CHEESY. There will be no actual dancing. Or, you know, FUN. As a compromise, you run to the bar. You suck dry yet another G&T hoping the alcohol will unlock some heretofore undiscovered capacity for enjoying bad music, or at the very least the ignoring or company of bobbing boys (mutually exclusive you would think, but interchangeable here in these badlands). Your friends have discovered you at the bar. After a smug schoolmate shouts a few rounds, everyone troops back to the dance floor. (Where, of course, the “dancing” consists exclusively of stiffly parroted hand movements.) Everyone troops back to the dance floor. You realize, belatedly, that alcohol is not magic. It is, at least for you, but a multiplier of whatever you’re feeling at the moment. Mambo is fucking horrible. Slowly you become aware that yet another ring of strange boys is inexorably in the course of formation. The realization of entrapment sets in and you feel vaguely hysterical. You want to either start a fight or randomly snog one of these assholes just for gratuitous shock value. You overcome the impulse (good old Singaporean frigidity! though maybe one more drink would have sufficed). PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, WOMAN. You take yourself outside, and miraculously come upon a fellow Person Who Lives In The East and together you blessedly ride a cab home. NEVER AGAIN.
NB. events may have been compressed and reordered. blame semi-automatism and artistic licence
Alms for the discerning modern monk: “I’ll just have a caffe latte, please.”
