Knotty Knickers

45 R.P.M.

Because I know cool people, I will assume that those reading this have an idea what the image above is of.

It belongs to Alex.  He and a mate got three or so jukeboxes to fix up for a friend's 18th and each kept one.

But it's not just any ol' jukebox.  No.  Looksy here -

Not long ago Sophie's husband told me that I might be mistaken about being the cradle robber of the relationship since Alex's penchant for Jimmy Barnes showed him out as a 40-something old man.  That he has a jukebox that plays 45 rpm records might be another reason to ponder if our age difference isn't reversed.  (We can take into consideration my level of immaturity and that all one requires to reduce me to crying fits of laughter is the single word 'dookie', but let's not just now.)

But Alex having a jukebox is not even the story I want to share today.

The story is that we've had two small boxes packed to capacity with extra records and a heap of things on the jukebox that neither of us cared overly for.

A couple weeks back on a particulary homey weekend I said we should organize the records and replace the ones we never listened to with ones we actually would.  The jukebox is old and often pulls the wrong number after you punch one in, but I'm okay with that.  Long as it pulls randomly from stuff I like.

In an act of organizational chaos our lounge soon looked like this:

With little piles cropping up like so.

Not everything was singles.  Or anything we recognized.  There were many duplicats of Bros, for instance.  I don't know who they are, and we didn't play a record by them.  Their blond visages sorta wigged me out.  Now that I know, thanks to the wonders of wikipedia, that they were managed by a guy who had managed Pet Shop Boys, I might not have minded them it turns out.

I was amused that Cordelia was so keen to protect some of the records.

She had every reason to though.  Hidden deep at the bottom of Alex's second hand 45rpm stash was this shining beauty, representative of all my hippie childhood of the 1980s could possibly offer of goodness:

And that, my friends, is the story I wanted to share with you. 

How I came to own a read along copy of The Dark Crystal on 45rpm record.

 

Jimmy Barnes in Concert at Riwaka Hotel

Thursday last we went to a little town outside of Nelson with some friends to see some very loved bands.  If you are American, don't be surprised at not knowing the first two, Hello Sailor and Dragon, but know that you likely do know Jimmy Barnes, even if you don't actually associate him with some of his work with other artists.

It was pouring rain again.  Not quite so bad as it had previously, but enough that we expected slips in the hills around town and for the crowd to be somewhat reduced.

You can probably see we were having a good time and that due to the rain there were a lot of people mashed under the marque.  I'd like to show you now one of the bizarre things I've noticed that Kiwis do at concerts and while dancing.  It's a hand thing.  It makes no sense to me.  Look:

I noted it at this concert and pondered it, as I always do.  When I saw I'd captured it in a photograph I was pretty stoked.  Maybe now, with an image to show folks, someone will explain this flaccid looking sign for me. 

Yes, flaccid.  Compare it to your standard rock hand image and this one is a paltry excuse for a movement.

Back to the concert images...

It was a very good night of music.  A less good night for shoes.  Alex and I are hoping ours will be dry soon.

 

 

Belated Wedding Photos

Any wedding held at a place called Paddy's Knob has got to be good.  This one certainly was!

An AC Monday (posted on a Friday)

I Saw F**king STARS!!!

This post is about love. The kind that has sustained me since 2005. I left ExBoy to this music. I started dating to this music. I've basically been finding myself to this music. When I say 'I love Stars' you had best believe it. Torquil Campbell says, "We're Stars, and so are you." And I swoon a little more drunkenly yet. Hot diggity dog damn! Coming all the way to Toronto to see a Montreal band play with a Seattle band was a brilliant idea. Of course, I've since seen that Stars will be in Seattle in August. You have no right to fight me and must join me there. Serious. 

Death Cab For Cutie live was very fun. Loud. Which I like. Rockin'. Which I also like. Multi-coloured light show added pizzaz. The largest group I've ever been with all singing along with delight. Very sweet. And it turns out, Ben Gibbard is a hottie. I mean, there is the hot talent thing there, but physically - yum. Snowie, I'm hoping you'll back me here. Of course, I care not a whit if nobody else agrees. More for me. Now, if you'll forgive me, it's to sleep or more headache assistance will be needed on the plane!

Good Hostel People

Good hostel people are something that you hope for but cannot predict. You can choose a hostel by the many others who have rated it on all sorts of things like staff, cleanliness, location, comfort, fun. Usually the last one is highest if the hostel has a bar attached. Which I nearly went for. Party hostel - why not? Then I thought a moment and realized that if I were here with a friend and our joint mission was debauchery that would indeed be the choice to make. On my own, with a bit of lessening on the bad behaviour necessary feel (had a damn nice time not sleeping at all the night before I flew out here, thank you for asking), a nice hostel that got good reviews for other things besides fun was more appropriate. Though, they scored high on fun too, no one looked or sounded like the fun was inebriation driven. It seemed like the staff were nice and helpful and the other hostellers were friendly and open. Which they absolutely have been. I even found someone to go with me to see Stars and Death Cab For Cutie. The tall, black and white squiggly German guy in the the photo below. I'll get a better one today at the concert. (Oh! The concert! I'm gonna pee my pants from happiness! Ahhhh! Brain and heart cannot contain the joy!) Last night we meandered. A lot. First, to find food. Which rocked hardcore and filled us all beyond belief. Second, to find this party thing that was over by the time we arrived. It was midnight. Third, to get some Guinness in me. Then we all went to bed. Today I awoke 7:30amish. (hahahaha - my time is Amish!) Went to the CN tower with a New Zealander who is moving here. Or at least to Canada. Or maybe Europe. He's moving. Wants a new job. In a new place. At any rate, we went up and did all there is to do in the CN Tower and below it. Observation decks. Glass floor. Ride (The Himalamazon...so very, utterly, amazingly lame.) Film. All we didn't do there was eat. I may treat myself to fanciness tomorrow for lunch in the rotating restaurant, but we'll see. Now I'm going to eat some onion soup and do a little computer stuff and wait for the German guy to return from where he went off to this morning (he's in a different room so we didn't pass paths this morning) and then we'll walk over to the ferry terminal and get ferried to the Olympic Island concert venue and I'll be delirious not from sun but from the nearness of Torq and Amy and Ben and the rest. Yippee! Among the litany of World Records, in this, the World's Tallest Building, I saw this little bit of inanity.

Painting Welli Purple with Polka Dots

Kat is the proud new owner of her own BMW. Rides a dream.

We got shushed at the concert. Didn't stay long after that. Good music and a arena of seated 20-30 somethings. Weird. Just weird. Benaroya Hall with the Seattle Symphony and an opera singer is more lively. I know - I've been.

Speaking of Jenna Jameson, Sparky - I still need to borrow that Labyrinth inspired porn off you. Maybe you can bring it to the airport when you and Miss Lit pick me up?

I LOVE the picture of Kat dancing. No idea how that happened, but hell if it ain't dance art!

Unfortunately I didn't get any good photos of the other bridal troupe who were all done up in an Asian theme. Very pretty, and sweet and welcoming. Friendly stranger girls are such a nice thing to find when you go out clubbing.

About four hours of dancing, to be precise. Today my neck and shoulders are a bit sore. Probably because I got a little moshy on a few songs. Pretty dress, lots of high end make up, Sketchers flats on my feet - not even the cumulative gloss of that could stop a Seattle girl from moshing!

Thinking of The Smiths

Please, please, please let me, let me, let me, let me get what I want,
Lord knows it would be the first time.
~ the first line there is the song title, with some editing of 'let me'

No, I'm not being all whingey about men tonight.  Sorry to upset you folks who like to think all I do is mope and allow my hormones and fat fantasy head to get the best of me.  Instead, I'm yearning for the Stars show in Melbourne (February 28th babes!) and hoping a kind heart back home will TiVo me their appearance on Bravo.  Details at: http://www.bravo.ca/television/rehearsalhall/feature.asp

Since Stars love The Smiths, I thought it apropos that the song off the Pretty in Pink soundtrack should pop into my head. 

That is all.  Goodnight.

Floating In My Head

There is a Patty Griffin song that I love that begins:

You know you've done enough,
When every bone is sore;
You know you've prayed enough,
When you don't ask anymore;
You know you're coming to some kind of understanding,
When every dream you've dreamed is passed and you're still standing.

I am still planting little dream seeds.  Watering them too.  Too early yet to need much weeding in this garden plot.  It's all Yoga trainings and being in Nature with friends; innocuous things. Within my vision though, in another row, I can see other dreams: stunted and sick, dying, and some even dead.  I think I may keep turning to face that failing dream lot to remind myself that in my relationship with the Universe there is a fine balance between my doing what is in line with my wishes and my letting go and allowing the PTB to do their thing.  Then the lines from 'Poor Man's House' softly sound in my head and I realize that I haven't kept myself standing and that from time to time, unexpectedly sometimes, with full realization of what is about to occur at others, I buckle down to the ground.  I weep over those dreams that have passed. 

And I'm not done asking yet I guess. 

Or dreaming new dreams. 

Yet while I feel alright about dreaming, I am starting to think that the best thing for me is to stop asking.  If you think back a ways, it sort of is the ultimate bit of practising passivity.  Which, for some reason I am still compelled to do.  It certainly hasn't worked entirely to my benefit (passive men simply do not approach, or attack, no matter the green glowing paint you've painted yourself in and the bucket of condoms you've shown them). 

Or maybe it has.  Maybe the Universe is giving me just what I need.  And I just don't like it.

Perhaps I just need to write on my arms, hands, legs and feet, and perhaps even breasts, that I'm a small bit of the Whole and unable to see the larger picture, locked in as I am to my small little piece of the jigsaw.  I mean, what do any of us want except to find and feel that our piece of the jigsaw fits with the other pieces we see around us?  But which of us has seen the box cover with the finish picture?  I certainly haven't.

Glacier to Lake

Beautiful day's drive today. Marred somewhat by getting little sleep, having my FlexiPass denied online attempting to book the bus, and being motion sick in the mornings. (Do me a favour dears, nobody be 'clever' and say I am pregnant.)

Funny thing: when the Ice Queen and I did this journey back in the day, we had black and white film from Punakaiki until about 1/3 the way down to Wanaka from the Glaciers. Yes, we spent a night at the Glaciers, but just because you have to with the way the transit is scheduled, we did nothing but leave the next morning. Anyway, the point is, firstly, it was rainy shit weather. Secondly I recall her wanting to strangle me if I did not either turn down Sophie Ellis Bextor or play more than just 3 songs off Murder on the Dancefloor. Thirdly, and actually to the point, I took all these black and white photos of the coast at one of the viewpoints the driver pulled into and had us check out. It took me a minute today, on the path to a waterfall (much better looking images this go as the weather was superb) which was our third little looky-loo detour, to realize that I hadn't switched the digicam back to colour last night and had, five years plus some later, taken another set of the same bit of coast in black and white.

That was a long way to go for a funny coincidence. Hope you enjoyed. If not, well, too bad. Plus, some of you admit to skimming the words and just looking at the pictures anyway. So, now, photos...and your attention, I assume.

This blog has been brought to you from a side street in Wanaka where I sat on the cement outside the closed internet cafe. Still had a signal and time paid, now have a cold ass plus a few more sandfly bites. Never say I don't love you and pain myself to keep in contact...