Friday, February 24, 2006
I'm not going to use the clichéd "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" line
Why do people hate Mondays? I don’t exactly like it like I like strawberries, but I don’t not-like it either.
Is it because the weekend is over and you have to get back to work and you have to wait a whole five days before you can even think about putting your feet up?
If you ask me, the real culprit is Sunday. Who would you hate more, the annoying old man who bangs on the door to break up the house party or the one who helps you through your hangover the next morning? (And by “one” I don’t mean “annoying old man”)
Yeah… Sunday is a cranky old neighbour.
Sunday signals the end of the week, ergo the end of the weekend. Sunday is a harbinger of work to come. Sunday says, “Tomorrow is Monday, dude!” Sunday carries a sense of dread and foreboding, knowing what’s around the next corner.
Monday brings no dread or at least it shouldn’t, because all the dread would have been used up on friggin’ Sunday!
Monday doesn’t really say anything. Monday just is. As are Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. But Friday… ah, Fridays are always something special.
Sunday was always the day I hated most. As a schoolboy, Sunday was first and foremost, church day. Later in the day, Sunday was the day to take the clothes to be ironed. I had to skip down to the laundry guys’ place with a bundle of Dad’s shirts and trousers and sets of my school uniform. The laundry guys were right next door to this dude who always had an Alsatian running in and out his front door. So I had to time my walk in and out of the launderers so I always missed the great beast. As would be expected, it didn’t always work. I hated Sundays.
Sunday was also the day to catch up on homework. In school and for years after, Sunday remained the only day of the week “available” for completion of journals, readings for which were obtained by hook or by crook. Failing which, they were beautifully invented. Assignments due always reached fruition well past midnight on a Sunday, as did the realization of forgotten ones.
Although I have little or no experience of Sundays off in a professional sense, Sunday was always the day at work, which brought the most customer traffic with it, leading to extended hours and shorter breaks. Customer service is a bitch.
All in all, there was rarely a Sunday that served up peace of mind and freedom to lay back.
So, my inference is that all the bad press about Monday is just a case of mistaken identity. The blame is laid on the shoulders of a Monday only because it is the first day of a prospective tumultuous week, whose arrival was heralded by Sunday to begin with. Sunday is the one who says, “The honeymoon is over and that thing you’re looking into is the barrel of your new father-in-law’s new hunting rifle...” By the time Monday comes around, the firing has already begun and any day could be as bad as the next.
If you’re the suicidal kind who’ll impulsively slip a nasty note under the boss’ door after work on Friday, drink yourself silly that night, wake up in surprisingly good spirits on Saturday afternoon and find yourself in the mood to party till 4 a.m. Sunday morning, don’t worry. You’ll still have 20 hours of Sunday left to wallow in regret and worry about the shit you’re going to be in on Monday morning.
Stay with me now.
Which of these days would be the worst? To die a thousand deaths on a Sunday of anxiety, or survive the tantrums of a portly, megalomaniacal fifty-something on Monday?
Well, to each his own.
Listen to Vanessa Paradis’ Sunday Mondays.
“The sea was angry that day my friend, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli.” – George Costanza on Seinfeld.
Urge Overkill – Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon
Pulp Fiction!! This song has been haunting me with the image of an OD-ing Uma Thurman.
Roy Orbison – I Drove All Night
I know last week I put in the Cyndi Lauper version, but I love the original! And that video… Jason Priestley and a young Jennifer Connelly; what more could you want?
Aaaand, because this song gets me more pumped than Guerrilla Radio or Song 2 ever could, I’m just gonna post the lyrics to Killing In The Name Of.
A cautionary notice for those of you who dislike explicit lyrics like you dislike two headed snakes, you may take a walk now.
Rage Against The Machine, like groups such as U2 and more recently, Greenday, use their music to covey their political sentiment, as can be plainly seen. Ok, enough talking.
Killing in the name of!
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Uggh!
Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Uggh!
Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya!
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Come on!
Yeah! Come on!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
[start the screaming, baby!]
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Motherfucker!
Uggh!
Is it because the weekend is over and you have to get back to work and you have to wait a whole five days before you can even think about putting your feet up?
If you ask me, the real culprit is Sunday. Who would you hate more, the annoying old man who bangs on the door to break up the house party or the one who helps you through your hangover the next morning? (And by “one” I don’t mean “annoying old man”)
Yeah… Sunday is a cranky old neighbour.
Sunday signals the end of the week, ergo the end of the weekend. Sunday is a harbinger of work to come. Sunday says, “Tomorrow is Monday, dude!” Sunday carries a sense of dread and foreboding, knowing what’s around the next corner.
Monday brings no dread or at least it shouldn’t, because all the dread would have been used up on friggin’ Sunday!
Monday doesn’t really say anything. Monday just is. As are Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. But Friday… ah, Fridays are always something special.
Sunday was always the day I hated most. As a schoolboy, Sunday was first and foremost, church day. Later in the day, Sunday was the day to take the clothes to be ironed. I had to skip down to the laundry guys’ place with a bundle of Dad’s shirts and trousers and sets of my school uniform. The laundry guys were right next door to this dude who always had an Alsatian running in and out his front door. So I had to time my walk in and out of the launderers so I always missed the great beast. As would be expected, it didn’t always work. I hated Sundays.
Sunday was also the day to catch up on homework. In school and for years after, Sunday remained the only day of the week “available” for completion of journals, readings for which were obtained by hook or by crook. Failing which, they were beautifully invented. Assignments due always reached fruition well past midnight on a Sunday, as did the realization of forgotten ones.
Although I have little or no experience of Sundays off in a professional sense, Sunday was always the day at work, which brought the most customer traffic with it, leading to extended hours and shorter breaks. Customer service is a bitch.
All in all, there was rarely a Sunday that served up peace of mind and freedom to lay back.
So, my inference is that all the bad press about Monday is just a case of mistaken identity. The blame is laid on the shoulders of a Monday only because it is the first day of a prospective tumultuous week, whose arrival was heralded by Sunday to begin with. Sunday is the one who says, “The honeymoon is over and that thing you’re looking into is the barrel of your new father-in-law’s new hunting rifle...” By the time Monday comes around, the firing has already begun and any day could be as bad as the next.
If you’re the suicidal kind who’ll impulsively slip a nasty note under the boss’ door after work on Friday, drink yourself silly that night, wake up in surprisingly good spirits on Saturday afternoon and find yourself in the mood to party till 4 a.m. Sunday morning, don’t worry. You’ll still have 20 hours of Sunday left to wallow in regret and worry about the shit you’re going to be in on Monday morning.
Stay with me now.
Which of these days would be the worst? To die a thousand deaths on a Sunday of anxiety, or survive the tantrums of a portly, megalomaniacal fifty-something on Monday?
Well, to each his own.
Listen to Vanessa Paradis’ Sunday Mondays.
“The sea was angry that day my friend, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli.” – George Costanza on Seinfeld.
Urge Overkill – Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon
Pulp Fiction!! This song has been haunting me with the image of an OD-ing Uma Thurman.
Roy Orbison – I Drove All Night
I know last week I put in the Cyndi Lauper version, but I love the original! And that video… Jason Priestley and a young Jennifer Connelly; what more could you want?
Aaaand, because this song gets me more pumped than Guerrilla Radio or Song 2 ever could, I’m just gonna post the lyrics to Killing In The Name Of.
A cautionary notice for those of you who dislike explicit lyrics like you dislike two headed snakes, you may take a walk now.
Rage Against The Machine, like groups such as U2 and more recently, Greenday, use their music to covey their political sentiment, as can be plainly seen. Ok, enough talking.
Killing in the name of!
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Uggh!
Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Uggh!
Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya!
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Come on!
Yeah! Come on!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
[start the screaming, baby!]
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Motherfucker!
Uggh!
0 Comments:
Don't just stand there with your mouth open... say SOMETHING dammit!
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Cold cuts
Everyone has a secret companion even though they might not realize who it is. When you come home, you’re coming home to her, when you leave on vacation, you won’t go without saying goodbye to her. And how many times has she saved your life?
It’s almost reflexive, the number of times a day we stroll into the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. Hungry? Thirsty? Just plain bored? Check the fridge.
The refrigerator has always adapted to changing lifestyles, going from surprisingly useful invention to household necessity to that thing that holds the leftovers and beer and now hardly a ladder step above a non-entity, that we take for granted but could never get by without. Morning, noon and night, there’ll always be something for everyone in the fridge. All you have to do is look and she gives till it hurts. Ever notice that she never sleeps? How could she, with that damn light on in there?
Coming home from school, work, or whatever, you’ll give your significant other, if any, a peck on the cheek and then you gotta take a look in the fridge. Make a sandwich or take a swig out of a bottle (when no one else is looking) or simply pick up something to nibble while you’re parked in front of the tube. My choice used to be cheese or a sandwich or [insert Cola/fizzy drink brand name here]. Like I used to be a waist 32. Now I prefer grabbing a carrot or two to gnaw on. They’re really quite satisfying. All the munching you’ll ever want, some sweetness thrown in, without the accompanying calories.
You wouldn’t be afforded these conveniences by a washing machine or a stove or a dishwasher or a microwave or any other appliance that you might see fit to include in your domestic scheme of things, or scheme of domestic things even. (Snagglepuss anyone? I loved that pink dude…why did he look like the Pink Panther?)
I’ve always had and acknowledged a relationship with my fridge.
While in school the fridge top was my study table, even though there were plenty of other more inviting, well-lit table tops crying out their availability for book-resting. Don’t ask me why. It just was. I’ve spent many late nights and early mornings standing near that fridge, fiddling with the magnet thingies on its face while attempting some last minute cramming. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I wouldn’t fall asleep while standing and the fridge was the only thing that forced me to do just that. For that matter, I don’t suppose anyone else falls asleep standing up either, not counting some very strange human beings.
I’ve lived out of the fridge for more than a week when I’ve been on my own. There’s something disturbingly romantic about putting a casserole back into the fridge knowing that tomorrow at dinnertime you’ll be in front of the TV, still eating the same thing. Or maybe that’s just me.
I’ve had to share the same fridge with a gecko for a few days. Stupid thing got in one night when I opened the door to get a bottle of water. No way was I about to put my hand in and feel about for a twitching tail! So I just closed the door. I expected it to be ready to jump out when I next opened the door a few hours later. No such luck. What happened to its coldbloodedness, I’ll never know. I thought the dinosaurs died out for that very reason. Then why the fuck was there one terrorizing my leftover casserole? And not to mention, Me. I started leaving the fridge open for a few hours a day, hoping he’d be tempted out. Three days later the creepy coolly crawled out of the fridge as if he’d been cruising in Monte Carlo. I never knew the cursed things could strut!!
If I had a hammer…
I still have the same fridge; I don’t study by her anymore although I still look out for geckos trying to get in on the goods whenever I open the door. It’s a curse every house I’ve lived in has borne… Lizards.
The reflex has developed uninhibited though. Idle? Check the fridge. There’s always something in there to fill the time. This is an attribute that will probably contribute in a major way to rising obesity levels and could soon become a pre-natally imbibed response to…absolutely no stimulus at all…
For now and for always, the refrigerator will remain the silent, unappreciated partner in every kitchen, patiently stocking up, knowing you’ll want her eventually, waiting for the moment your hands will stroke her smooth handle, bringing her to life in all her splendour, her most private parts at your disposal, ever ready to satisfy. Take the first step in the right direction today, treat her to a turkey or two, maybe some ham, a roast chicken or even some gouda; you don’t need to wait for an occasion to show her she’s loved. And she’ll always return the kindness.
But don’t forget the carrots.
The job interview I’ve been hoping to get is finally scheduled for tomorrow and now suddenly I don’t give a shit anymore… Apathy sucks.
Valentine’s Day? Get a life! No, I’m not bitter.
Cyndi Lauper – I Drove All Night
The Cars – Drive
Hmmm... Drive, Drove... I just noticed it.
It’s almost reflexive, the number of times a day we stroll into the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. Hungry? Thirsty? Just plain bored? Check the fridge.
The refrigerator has always adapted to changing lifestyles, going from surprisingly useful invention to household necessity to that thing that holds the leftovers and beer and now hardly a ladder step above a non-entity, that we take for granted but could never get by without. Morning, noon and night, there’ll always be something for everyone in the fridge. All you have to do is look and she gives till it hurts. Ever notice that she never sleeps? How could she, with that damn light on in there?
Coming home from school, work, or whatever, you’ll give your significant other, if any, a peck on the cheek and then you gotta take a look in the fridge. Make a sandwich or take a swig out of a bottle (when no one else is looking) or simply pick up something to nibble while you’re parked in front of the tube. My choice used to be cheese or a sandwich or [insert Cola/fizzy drink brand name here]. Like I used to be a waist 32. Now I prefer grabbing a carrot or two to gnaw on. They’re really quite satisfying. All the munching you’ll ever want, some sweetness thrown in, without the accompanying calories.
You wouldn’t be afforded these conveniences by a washing machine or a stove or a dishwasher or a microwave or any other appliance that you might see fit to include in your domestic scheme of things, or scheme of domestic things even. (Snagglepuss anyone? I loved that pink dude…why did he look like the Pink Panther?)
I’ve always had and acknowledged a relationship with my fridge.
While in school the fridge top was my study table, even though there were plenty of other more inviting, well-lit table tops crying out their availability for book-resting. Don’t ask me why. It just was. I’ve spent many late nights and early mornings standing near that fridge, fiddling with the magnet thingies on its face while attempting some last minute cramming. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I wouldn’t fall asleep while standing and the fridge was the only thing that forced me to do just that. For that matter, I don’t suppose anyone else falls asleep standing up either, not counting some very strange human beings.
I’ve lived out of the fridge for more than a week when I’ve been on my own. There’s something disturbingly romantic about putting a casserole back into the fridge knowing that tomorrow at dinnertime you’ll be in front of the TV, still eating the same thing. Or maybe that’s just me.
I’ve had to share the same fridge with a gecko for a few days. Stupid thing got in one night when I opened the door to get a bottle of water. No way was I about to put my hand in and feel about for a twitching tail! So I just closed the door. I expected it to be ready to jump out when I next opened the door a few hours later. No such luck. What happened to its coldbloodedness, I’ll never know. I thought the dinosaurs died out for that very reason. Then why the fuck was there one terrorizing my leftover casserole? And not to mention, Me. I started leaving the fridge open for a few hours a day, hoping he’d be tempted out. Three days later the creepy coolly crawled out of the fridge as if he’d been cruising in Monte Carlo. I never knew the cursed things could strut!!
If I had a hammer…
I still have the same fridge; I don’t study by her anymore although I still look out for geckos trying to get in on the goods whenever I open the door. It’s a curse every house I’ve lived in has borne… Lizards.
The reflex has developed uninhibited though. Idle? Check the fridge. There’s always something in there to fill the time. This is an attribute that will probably contribute in a major way to rising obesity levels and could soon become a pre-natally imbibed response to…absolutely no stimulus at all…
For now and for always, the refrigerator will remain the silent, unappreciated partner in every kitchen, patiently stocking up, knowing you’ll want her eventually, waiting for the moment your hands will stroke her smooth handle, bringing her to life in all her splendour, her most private parts at your disposal, ever ready to satisfy. Take the first step in the right direction today, treat her to a turkey or two, maybe some ham, a roast chicken or even some gouda; you don’t need to wait for an occasion to show her she’s loved. And she’ll always return the kindness.
But don’t forget the carrots.
The job interview I’ve been hoping to get is finally scheduled for tomorrow and now suddenly I don’t give a shit anymore… Apathy sucks.
Valentine’s Day? Get a life! No, I’m not bitter.
Cyndi Lauper – I Drove All Night
The Cars – Drive
Hmmm... Drive, Drove... I just noticed it.
0 Comments:
Don't just stand there with your mouth open... say SOMETHING dammit!
