My friends, artsy pictures here, party pictures on FB later. Consider this a wafer-taste of what is to come.
I am currently listening to this song on repeat. It makes me want to do the following things:
1. learn the piano
2. toast to douche bags, assholes, scum bags, and jerk offs at any opportunity I get (including work drinks).
3. Be a gangster, or, at the very least, not white.
4. Swoon. Kanye, you beast.
I’m migrating to America soon. Imagining something along these lines…
Images from “The Arrival” by Shaun Tan
Perhaps a non-sequitur, but to me a similar vein- this weekend I erred most tellingingly, demanding a new pal listen to a favourite song of mine, a rather controverial choice. I instantly rued the move, having flashbacks to this story. And yet, I couldn’t resist. I told him to listen really really carefully to the lyrics. I tapped my finger at certain points, hoping my added emphasis would help him fully appreciate the humour. I explained the ethos behind it, forced my point, smiled knowlingly throughout certain verses, and wrapped up with philospohcial anaysis of why it is so awesome. Yikes.
I guess my saving grace is that most people don’t think Eminem has ever kept shit real, so I was more likely the judgee, not the judger.
The age old adage is undeniable: Haters are gonna hate. But I wish some of them would just read this old Eggers interview (and rant). And maybe get a bit more self-aware. And realise that not only is hating BORING, but that they could be partying with Al Pacino if only they weren’t such nay-saying douchebags.
This time tomorrow, I will be an aunty.
Am aiming for somewhere between the comfort of Auntie Em and the general awesomeness of Aunt Viv.
Without sounding like a lush, I just really love alcohol. Since I met and developed a massive crush on a bartender in my youth, I have sipped, savoured and over-indulged in many fine spirits, cheap and not-so-cheap wines and delicious beers. When travelling, it was a personal mission to hunt out the best neighbourhood bars, the cheapest dive bars, the historical literary watering holes. I have sipped Champagne in manicured imperial gardens. I have watched an old lady make me the most dramatic and fantastic martini, before leaving the bar with a walking stick. I have walked and then stumbled between a dozen wineries, never spitting out the samples. Many happy hours of my life have been spent holding up the end of a bar, and most of my treasured memories with friends involve some imbibing. And now our livelihood is partially sourced from the plying of others with liquor – the aforementioned bartender and I own and live above our very own neighbourhood bar.
So it is with some hesitation that I plan to spend October refraining from the drink. And in a display of the universe’s cruelty, the month has begun with a string of killer sunny days. The kind that are best enjoyed with some form of water view, and a sweating glass of beer.
Wish me luck.