I had nice evening at home with The Ant, who cooked us up some bella pasta. There were three things we discussed ad liberatum, over the said meal, wine and in between commercial breaks during Desperate Housewives:
1) The Snakes On A Plane movie:
OK, if there are two ass-shrivvelingly scary phobias people have its snakes and the potential of air disaster. Watching a movie on just snakes on the Discovery Channel alone is hair raising. (Or for me, a whoring herpaphobiac at any rate). Watching aeroplane flights gone wrong on the Reality Channel is scary. Couple these two together and you have one guaranteed scary-ass, apolexic, nerve-shatteringly, no-nails-left experience. Who would put themselves through such torture? Not me. Oh no. Perhaps sadomasochists, compulsive tatooees, wrestlers, those with piercings on their totty’s, people who lie on hot coals, you know, those who divulge pleasure from torture.
2) Venting in the form of art:
Now if blogging or writing can be looked at as an art, or a creative outlet at the very least, why is it singers and poets can write about the anguish and pain and hate they feel when the people they love wrench their hearts out from their upper torso and hurl it into a dumpster - and most pertinently - not get grief for it? Think about Adam Sandler in The Wedding Singer. You know the song he sings about his ex-fiancé:
I hope you’re happy with what you did to me
Now I lie around all day feeling melancholy
But it all was bullshit
It was a goddamn joke
And if I see your face Linda,
I hope you fucking choke.
You know, clean, vent-letting lyrics like that. Or like how Justin Timberlake disses Britney in Cry Me A River. We know someone whose ex is in a band and wrote a song about her called ‘Drown Bitch.’ He’s played it to her and a crowd of admirer’s before. But not all lyrics are bad either. When singers fall in love, they profess their undying affections through the form that is their art.
But it seems that blogland makes no allowances for this. Perhaps because it is live-time, and people can comment and make their feelings known about your rambles. Perhaps it seems more personal. (Especially if they read it themselves.) Still, bloggers have an unwritten law, most of time, where they don’t even use real names. If I knew one of my ex’s had written a song about me, possibly called ‘Die Blog Woman, Die,’ I’d be flattered that he cared or felt enough to do this in the first place.
3) Men with English accents turn me on; men with Irish accents turn The Ant on. Men in general turn us on.
PS: It’s our joint birthday party tonight. Wooooooooohooo! Rock and roll. When else do you get the chance to have all your mates in one room at one time?
PPS: Doc I know you’re there in spirit my lovely. Even though it’s not the same. :(
PPPS: Traffic. Oxford Road. This Morning. Irritation.