You are currently browsing the monthly archive for January, 2009.
I wouldn’t marry Billy Joel, mind you – married as he is to some 1980s supermodel – I’d sing this at my wedding. With a full male choir, a capella. Or, were I the marrying kind, my hypothetical groom could do it. I promise to be surprised. . .
* I will, at a later date, expand on what “kind” I am, given that I am not the “marrying kind”.
In 1973, that is, the definition of rape in an American court of law was:
the perpetration of an act of sexual intercourse with a female, not one’s wife, against her will and consent, whether her will is overcome by force or fear resulting from the threat of force, or by drugs or intoxicants; or when, because of mental deficiency, she is incapable of exercising rational judgment; or when she is below an arbitrary “age of consent”.
- from Susan Brownmiller’s Against Our Will: Men, Women and Rape, from which more to come as thesis research advances
If I were to choose some random ones, I might go with: love, perfection, love, concert please, David Bowie, love, Labyrinth, love, obsession, Willow, love love LOVE.
I am going on a hiatus from my blog, due to circumstances beyond my control – namely, that my thesis is due to for submission in less than a month and I am attempting to move my writing from personal to academic in that short time. Plus, obviously, I will be concentrating on it and will have less free time.
This comes at a particularly bad time, as I have been named in three categories on the long-longlist for the Irish Blog Awards. I had hoped that, by blogging furiously, I could up my chances of being shortlisted…! But there’s always next year and I will, of course, be attending said awards, which will be award enough for me.
I leave you with Lykke Li, my personal artist of 2008. I have yet to find my artist of 2009, but it’s early days. I will occasionally post videos or photographs as my way of reaching out without words (it may prove a hideous failure). For now, enjoy Lykke and enjoy February.
In the immortal words of my favourite fictional character, I’ll be back.
“What a thrill for four boys from the north side of Dublin to honour you, sir,” chirped Mr Hewson at the now 44th president of the US, Barack Obama. Thank God Bono et al found music when they did, or they would have ended up stealing cars and doing cocaine down the back of the community centre… oh, hang on, what’s that? Mount Temple? No, he didn’t – Bono? Mount Temple? HOWTH?! Well, that explains a lot. Let’s imagine, shall we, the conversation that Paul and David [Howell Evans, or The Edge] had before that performance.
Bono/Paul: Edgeeeeee! I can’t believe we’re going to perform for Obama! Dude! Man!
David/Edge (rolling eyes): Try.
BP: Dude, you are way too jaded. Check us out! Check out my shades, my shoes, that slight sheen off my facial stubble. . . we’re still young! And we can still get away with being shocked and awed by our own fame!
DE: Are those. . . are those heels you’re wearing?
BP: Come on, enough already. I’ve been wearing these for years – these jokes aren’t funny any more.
DE (sighs): You’re right. Remind me again why we’re here?
BP: David, come on, do you want a hug? No? Okay, calm down, no hugs! We’re here because there’ s a black man being made president of the US! That’s a big deal!
DE (sighs)
BP: You know what, Dave, I said the other day that I was sick of being Bono, that I was sick of hearing about Bono – well here’s another platform! No more “feed the world” shit, this is about race – or, I’m having a brainwave, it’s not about race! Let’s play that song, One, you know, about how. . . we’re all the same!
DE: We’d already decided to sing that.
BP: Wow. We’re so in synch! And look at it – we’re going to be performing up there in front of the whole of America! Everyone! And who are we? Four boys from the north side of Dublin – four boys!
DE: Listen, Peter Pan, I think you’re lost in the past. You’re no more a boy than -
BP: Stop nitpicking, this is a glorious day! We’ve come so far, and we’ve reached so high, and we’ve -
DE: That’s not our song.
BP: Oh yes, of course. . . well, it looks like a cigar, strung out like a guitar. . . No I’m out of ideas. But ANYWAY! It’s going to be AMAZING! And I’m going to spend the whole time talking in that odd Dublin/London/television hybrid accent that I’ve so carefully cultivated to prove just how inner-city I really am!
DE (rolls eyes)
About six months ago, I went to give blood to the clinic on d’Olier Street, upstairs above, I think – and this is showing my age and, quite possibly, my class – Redz nightclub (or should that be “niteclub”? But I digress). I filled out a few forms, I sat in the waiting room, I read my book. I ate a Mars bar; I somehow feel like Mars bars are the battered sausage of the sweets world. We all know they’re a bit disgusting but at the same time a bit delicious – and for me, tattoos or blood donation are the perfect excuses to eat a Mars. Sugary goodness.
I waited for maybe 20 minutes; I saw people come and go, I took a pen, I took a sticker. I read my book some more. I looked around, probably more than was polite, to see who exactly was there – and to try and figure out their blood donation characters. Who was a veteran, an old hand? Who was a newby? (I was.) They called my name and I went through to the next area, where they tested my iron, asked if I’d eaten recently. I pointed to the chocolate stain on my jumper, and we smiled together.
Giving blood was not an ordeal. It’s a bit odd, I’ll admit, sitting back in a large lazyboy watching other people give blood. A girl fainted while I was there; mostly, people were fine. I lay down afterwards for a while and thought of England. Then I had a cup of tea, a packet of crisps, another cup of tea. My mother came to get me and we went home. In all, it might have taken an hour; these days, I would imagine the queues are smaller, the wait is shorter, the tea is hotter.
I can’t go again for six months because I recently got another tattoo (my third, a small piece of Ogham on my foot), so I’d really like if somebody would go in my place. If one person read this and went along, that might make me feel slightly better about how a selfish piece of adornment means that I can’t give blood again – and when I do, it will be too late for somebody, if that’s not being too dramatic. I am debating whether to just go, to lie about the tattoo – I did, after all, see him unwrap the needle from its sterile packaging, so I’m pretty sure I’m safe enough. But… I’ll consider it. But do, give blood – it’s quick and it’s easy, and it makes a difference.
If I were to choose someone else to be – not that I’m not 75% satsified with being myself on this fabulous Friday – I would choose to be this person:
There are myriad reasons why, but first and foremost – and, I think, most importantly – doesn’t she look like she’d be a really fun person to be around? If that sounds vacuous I make no apologies for it; she looks, in her music videos, when she’s performing, like she’s the type of person you’d love to party with, to “rock out” with, to dance with and to wake up the next morning and watch Anchorman with.
Lady GaGa, I heart you.
The news today is that a genetically-selected baby has been born in the UK – without the hereditary gene that causes breast cancer. While this is obviously advantageous for this particular baby and her parents, what are the wider implications of this development?
The ability to pick and choose people – human beings – is the crux of a lot of arguments, most of which urge us to consider the moral aspects to these issues. Morality aside, I can’t help but wondering what happens to nature, human nature and otherwise, when science begins to interfere with it in so major a way.
At the beginning of 2008, as we saw the round-up of the year to come in film and music, things looked promising. Angelina Jolie was tipped for Oscar heaven; the Coen brothers were producing an amazing film that was going to blow all of our minds; Daniel Day Lewis had spent three years living only on nuts and seashells in order to portray an oil tyrant in the soon-to-be-released There Will Be Blood.
But, as is wont to happen in life, things look different from the future than they did from the past, and the year doesn’t seem to have been the film-fest that we had all been anticipating.
I mean, how good can they all have been, if Mamma Mia! is now the highest-selling DVD in the UK – in the history of DVD sales? I watched 10 minutes of it, on a plane to New York, before my beloved Meryl burst into peals of “I work all night, I work all day” and I had to turn off my screen, steal my neighbour’s pillow and attempt to erase the memories in sleep.
Trying to do a summary of 2008 in film is more difficult, still, than seeing sense in that last factoid; there are films that were undoubtedly good, some that were marginally brilliant, but only one or two that really stood out as being truly amazing. So here’s my countdown of the best.
La Vie en Rose – Truly, I think this was the one film of the year that stands out to me, that had an impact on me, and that I will remember, I think, forever (not to put too fine a point on it). Having watched it a few times now, it only gets better with each subsequent viewing and, once the dust has settled on the beauty and tragedy of Piaf’s story, Marion Cotillard’s acting becomes more and more amazing.
Wall E – For a film with minimal dialogue, Pixar managed to get a lot of messages across in this animated feature. But, moral proselytising aside, Wall E himself is quite possibly the most adorable character to grace our screens in years. And by “adorable”, I mean embodying the innocence and the positivity that all children possess, but without any of the faults that us adults imbue them with on a daily basis. And who can forget the vision of America’s citizens in the future, unable to see beyond their television screens? Priceless.
The Wackness – Jonathon Levine’s capture of 1990s America will speak to anyone who listened to Nirvana on the radio, who watched My So-Called Life and who dreamed of a life less ordinary. And 2008, for me, was truly Ben Kingsley’s year: he was on-form in this piece of comedic realism, never more so when graffitiing public property in the most innocent of ways. Josh Peck and Olivia Thirlby are also perfect as two teens caught between peer pressure and individualism. And the soundtrack – shorty, it is bangin’.
Elegy - Another Ben Kingsley film, this dealt with the relationship between an ageing professor and his young, charismatic student, played by Penelope Cruz. It all sounds very run-of-the-mill but an unexpected twist leaves roles reversed and emotions fraught. Elegy was exactly the kind of film I enjoy: atmospheric, evocative and compelling. Kingsley was superb in the role, and, side by side with The Wackness, it really showed his versatility as an actor.
The also-rans, or, those that didn’t quite make the cut, are, in no particular order: The Dark Knight, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (Amy Adams truly shining in a supporting role), Twilight (an excellent interpretation of Stephenie Meyers’ novel, and a must-see for anyone who every watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer and laments the demise of Angel), Changeling, Australia and Iron Man.
