The coolest thing about this Christmas was the set of knives that Bibliogirl bought me from Firebox:
They now do a version in black, but blood red somehow seems more appropriate :-)
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
deck the halls...
Christmas came and went. My tree was decorated (an annual tack-fest I always look forward to), and the parents were visited at their rural retirement retreat.
The coolest thing about this Christmas was the set of knives that Bibliogirl bought me from Firebox:
They now do a version in black, but blood red somehow seems more appropriate :-)
The coolest thing about this Christmas was the set of knives that Bibliogirl bought me from Firebox:
They now do a version in black, but blood red somehow seems more appropriate :-)
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
foo fighters @ earl's court, 18/12/05
The Foo Fighters were a band that I’d never really got into. When their debut album came out in 1995, my musical tastes were rather heavier than the poppy-sounding singles they released. I also got really sick, really fast of not hearing, “hey, this is a great new band,” but a chorus of:
“Dave used to be in Nirvana,”
“Nirvana that,”
That Dave has largely managed to escape this is to his credit.
It wasn't until about six months ago that the band belatedly caught my interest. Much to my pertetual disdain, Radio 1 is usually the aural wallpaper of choice in my lab. I struggle to tune it out, and it's one of the main reasons I bought an iPod. But a particular song grabbed my attention... I kept listening, and the DJ said it was All My Life by the Foo Fighters. Then I heard and instantly rated DOA, and bought In Your Honour. Finally, I realised there might be something to love behind the hype.
Those who know me, know my usual gig-going MO is to arrive early at the venue, and queue to get as close to the front as I can. There are those who think I should be old enough to know better; but as far as I’m concerned, the pros (great view, a barrier to hold on to, and being within reach of the water usually handed out by security) greatly outweigh the cons (potential sunburn/hypothermia, depending on the season, and looking like a tit). Having never seen the band before, I had no idea if they would be worth enduring the near-freezing temperatures and perpetual drizzle. I wimped out.
By the time I got onto the arena floor, the second support band (Supergrass) were finishing up, and I let out a heavy sigh at the very depressing sight of thousands of people in front of me. I started snaking my way through the crowd… the closest I could reasonably get was around 20 rows of people from the front. My heart sank, as I wondered what a Foo crowd would be like, and whether I’d be able to get through them.
AC/DC was blasting over the sound system, and the mood was expectant. An excitable, disgustingly good-looking guy was chatting to me about the band. Anyone with any self-esteem may have thought he was flirting. I should have been happy, but couldn’t help wondering what drugs he was on that he’d waste time talking to me. I saw a small opening in the crowd, smiled goodbye and got a few feet closer to the front.
The lights dimmed, the stage lights went up, and the surge forward started. They opened with In Your Honour, then launched into All My Life, which was the cue for the crowd to go completely apeshit.
By the end of the song, I’d slammed my way to the second row of bouncing bodies, much to the irritation of the guy immediately behind me. He seemed to think jumping up and down while deliberately and repeatedly hitting me over the head with his elbow was going to make me move. Before I could do anything about him, one of the huge security guys saw what he was doing, got up on the barrier step, lent over and menacingly growled, “oi! Stop it…” I managed to look like a grateful, wronged party, and didn’t laugh until he’d looked away. It was the last I felt of him.
Dave worked the crowd well, and I smiled as he said, "ahhh... and this is the part where I'm supposed to say you're the best crowd on the tour..." His wording was not lost on me, old and jaded as I am... but about two-thirds of the audience were screaming, like "oohhhhh... Dave just said we're the best!" Involuntarily, my eyeballs rolled.
The gig was fantastic, and the crowd around me were amazing. Though I was left with a nagging suspicion that I would have enjoyed the show even more if I knew the band's older material. But I left feeling high, sweaty and physically drained… all the tell-tale signs of a great night out.
“Nirvana’s drummer,”
“Dave used to be in Nirvana,”
“Nirvana this,”
“Nirvana that,”
“Nirvana.”
“Nirvana.”
That Dave has largely managed to escape this is to his credit.
It wasn't until about six months ago that the band belatedly caught my interest. Much to my pertetual disdain, Radio 1 is usually the aural wallpaper of choice in my lab. I struggle to tune it out, and it's one of the main reasons I bought an iPod. But a particular song grabbed my attention... I kept listening, and the DJ said it was All My Life by the Foo Fighters. Then I heard and instantly rated DOA, and bought In Your Honour. Finally, I realised there might be something to love behind the hype.
Those who know me, know my usual gig-going MO is to arrive early at the venue, and queue to get as close to the front as I can. There are those who think I should be old enough to know better; but as far as I’m concerned, the pros (great view, a barrier to hold on to, and being within reach of the water usually handed out by security) greatly outweigh the cons (potential sunburn/hypothermia, depending on the season, and looking like a tit). Having never seen the band before, I had no idea if they would be worth enduring the near-freezing temperatures and perpetual drizzle. I wimped out.
By the time I got onto the arena floor, the second support band (Supergrass) were finishing up, and I let out a heavy sigh at the very depressing sight of thousands of people in front of me. I started snaking my way through the crowd… the closest I could reasonably get was around 20 rows of people from the front. My heart sank, as I wondered what a Foo crowd would be like, and whether I’d be able to get through them.
AC/DC was blasting over the sound system, and the mood was expectant. An excitable, disgustingly good-looking guy was chatting to me about the band. Anyone with any self-esteem may have thought he was flirting. I should have been happy, but couldn’t help wondering what drugs he was on that he’d waste time talking to me. I saw a small opening in the crowd, smiled goodbye and got a few feet closer to the front.
The lights dimmed, the stage lights went up, and the surge forward started. They opened with In Your Honour, then launched into All My Life, which was the cue for the crowd to go completely apeshit.
By the end of the song, I’d slammed my way to the second row of bouncing bodies, much to the irritation of the guy immediately behind me. He seemed to think jumping up and down while deliberately and repeatedly hitting me over the head with his elbow was going to make me move. Before I could do anything about him, one of the huge security guys saw what he was doing, got up on the barrier step, lent over and menacingly growled, “oi! Stop it…” I managed to look like a grateful, wronged party, and didn’t laugh until he’d looked away. It was the last I felt of him.
Dave worked the crowd well, and I smiled as he said, "ahhh... and this is the part where I'm supposed to say you're the best crowd on the tour..." His wording was not lost on me, old and jaded as I am... but about two-thirds of the audience were screaming, like "oohhhhh... Dave just said we're the best!" Involuntarily, my eyeballs rolled.
The gig was fantastic, and the crowd around me were amazing. Though I was left with a nagging suspicion that I would have enjoyed the show even more if I knew the band's older material. But I left feeling high, sweaty and physically drained… all the tell-tale signs of a great night out.
Monday, December 12, 2005
my new arrival
I love computers, and although I’ve always had a PC at home, we’re largely Mac-based at work. Some time back, I got an email from Apple announcing the arrival of the new iMac G5, and it was lust at first sight. In November, much to the disdain of the PC-loving Bibliogirl, I finally ordered one. The only decision had been whether to order the 17” or 20” model. A quick visit to the Apple Store on Regent Street made me realise the stunning 20” was the only option.
I excitedly prepared for its arrival like normal people might prepare for a new baby. But instead of preparing a nursery, I redecorated the living room, and bought it a new desk and printer. Online tracking even made the delivery relatively painless. It was beautiful, quiet, and easy to care for. Garageband and Logic Pro are fantastic (even if the latter is a rather steep learning curve cliff), iTunes is easily navigated with the compact remote control, and I have some other wonderful pieces of Mac-only software.
I’m writing this some time (several months) later, I still love my Mac. It’s easy, elegant and well designed. It’s also been sent in twice for repair. The Mac is a more effective muse, but I can’t work with Photoshop, and my beloved Paint Shop Pro is PC only. The PC was rescued from the dump zone spare bedroom, and improved with a 17” TFT monitor, new hard drive and a questionable copy of XP.
Each has their own workstation, but I occasionally wonder how many dork-points I score for having them networked across the same room.
I excitedly prepared for its arrival like normal people might prepare for a new baby. But instead of preparing a nursery, I redecorated the living room, and bought it a new desk and printer. Online tracking even made the delivery relatively painless. It was beautiful, quiet, and easy to care for. Garageband and Logic Pro are fantastic (even if the latter is a rather steep learning curve cliff), iTunes is easily navigated with the compact remote control, and I have some other wonderful pieces of Mac-only software.
I’m writing this some time (several months) later, I still love my Mac. It’s easy, elegant and well designed. It’s also been sent in twice for repair. The Mac is a more effective muse, but I can’t work with Photoshop, and my beloved Paint Shop Pro is PC only. The PC was rescued from the dump zone spare bedroom, and improved with a 17” TFT monitor, new hard drive and a questionable copy of XP.
Each has their own workstation, but I occasionally wonder how many dork-points I score for having them networked across the same room.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
frustration relief...
For some time now, one of my bosses has been threatening to teach me to play squash. For some reason, he always felt I'd be a natural. I've been putting him off for a couple of weeks, largely due to car-crash-induced whiplash, but he'd booked a court for 4.40 pm on Friday.
Unfortunately, this was straight after the lab's Christmas lunch, which was held at a local tapas restaurant. I'd promised myself I wouldn't drink, but when we got there, the table was adorned with bottles of wine and jugs of sangria; it was too much to resist.
After some shopping, I stopped at Starbucks for a sober-me-up latte, and wandered back to the lab, before heading off to the sports hall.
Things didn't start well. Rob lent me his spare racket, which may have been older than me. Hideously old-fashioned, it was wooden, and had an inordinately long neck and a tiny head. I couldn't hit the ball to save my life. In frustration, I asked if I could borrow his racket for a few minutes... that's when things took off.
It took a while to adjust to the speed of the ball, but by the end (and with me still in possession of Rob's decent racket), we actually got some decent rallies going.
This was fun that I intend to repeat. Preferably with men... they are less inclined to whine, and say things like, "did you have to hit the ball that hard?"
Unfortunately, this was straight after the lab's Christmas lunch, which was held at a local tapas restaurant. I'd promised myself I wouldn't drink, but when we got there, the table was adorned with bottles of wine and jugs of sangria; it was too much to resist.
After some shopping, I stopped at Starbucks for a sober-me-up latte, and wandered back to the lab, before heading off to the sports hall.
Things didn't start well. Rob lent me his spare racket, which may have been older than me. Hideously old-fashioned, it was wooden, and had an inordinately long neck and a tiny head. I couldn't hit the ball to save my life. In frustration, I asked if I could borrow his racket for a few minutes... that's when things took off.
It took a while to adjust to the speed of the ball, but by the end (and with me still in possession of Rob's decent racket), we actually got some decent rallies going.
This was fun that I intend to repeat. Preferably with men... they are less inclined to whine, and say things like, "did you have to hit the ball that hard?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)