The coolness that is Robyn
I was watching music videos on Juice and happened to see a girl, who used to work on the reception desk at my old job, in a music video writhing about in a faux-lesbionic manner in the back of a limo while some boring rappers try to be bad-asses.
Wow, I kind of know a real booty girl!
One of the signs of getting older, or perhaps rather maturing is when you call noise control on some rowdy neighbours.
Having attended more than a few parties where noise control was called, including the spectacular Metalfest ‘94, where my friend’s sister got a whole bunch of metal bands playing on the deck at the back of her parents’ quiet suburban home, I know how much it sucks and I’ll happily tolerate hearing other people’s stereos. But I have limits.
The first and only time I called noise control was at the tender age of 22. I was living next door to a student village. There were supposedly strict rules for the residents about noise, and indeed there was never usually much noise coming from there. But then one night, I think near the end of a semester, someone was played their stereo really loudly. A massive party was in action. This German guy who lived in my building got out onto his balcony and started yelling at the students, who laughed at him and called him a Nazi. I was caught in the middle of this cul-de-sac melee and I didn’t like it. I picked up the phone and called noise control. Others had also complained and soon enough events at the student village simmered down.
Tonight I did the lite version of calling noise control - I banged on the wall.
My neighbours on one side are this cool married couple. They’re really nice people and possibly the best neighbours I’ve ever had. But tonight something mental was going on. Madonna’s “Immaculate Collection” was being played at a reasonable volume. Yeah, it was loud enough for me to be able to figure out what the music was (and to wonder if perhaps they were going to listen to “Like A Virgin” and recreate the Madonna/Britney/Christina lesbo pash moment from the MTV awards, OMG, how cool was that?), but not loud enough to be at all annoying.
Then it got annoying. Someone was playing with the volume control. Making things go really loud, then really soft, like they were just sitting there twisting it back and forth. Then it just got really loud.
Sometimes cars with loud stereos stop in traffic outside my house and it makes my windows rattle. This was worse than that. Everything in my lounge was rattling to the bass of “Holiday”. It was really, really horrible. Then the volume went down. Then it went right back up. I was getting really pissed off. After it went down again I got up, walked over to their side of the room and banged on the wall. I heard the stereo get turned right down.
Ha, that’ll learn them kids.
I met up for coffee today with a few MCC people. It’s actually really cool how we can all sit around and talk about all the cool stuff we’re doing. The bling isn’t rolling in yet, but it will be eventually.
Meeting up with people for coffee during a weekday seems so cool. I’m not sure why. I should do it more often.
At the table next to us were a couple of mothers with small children. The mothers had coffees, the kids had fluffies. Ah, the fluffy. A small espresso cup filled with milk foam, sprinkled with chocolate powder and possibly a marshmallow, or if you’re really lucky a mini chocolate-marshallow treat. Some cafes charge about 50 cents or a dollar for a fluffy, but others let kids have them free.
I guess the theory behind the fluffy is that a) it’s something for the kids so they can be just like the grown-ups. While a cappuccino would cause a typical three year old to turn into Satan, a little cup of milk fluff would be harmless. Unless they were lactose intolerant. And then b) it familiarises the kids with cafe life, readying them for a life of latte addiction. The younger they start, they more they spend.
But when I think back to all the kids in cafes I’ve seen, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a child enjoying a fluffy. The average kid will eat the marshmallow and then go and play in the sandpit or throw things at the cafe’s cat. Why could this be? Oh, maybe it’s because a small coffee cup filled with milk foam is really boring and that no one - adult or child - would willingly eat one.
No, that can’t be right. Fluffies are fun!!!
See, I really was in Paris:
That’s at the top of the Arc de Triomphe overlooking the city. In the background you can see the - oh, you know what that thing in the background is.
I recently scanned a photo of myself from about six years ago. I was 22 and was dressed up in my finest goth wear. It’s important to note that I was never a goth, but was going to a goth ball so I didn’t want to just show up wearing some black jeans and eyeliner and be like “Hey! I’m a goth!”.
I went all out to do the goth thing and even bought some really cool make-up from Shiseido to get the pale face thing happening well. But I didn’t end up making it to the goth ball. The people who had the tickets never showed up. I had a shitty evening with a friend who was rapidly overstaying his welcome.
But the day before the ball, when I was practising my make-up, I took the photo that shows me in all my gothness. So with sexygothchick.jpg on my computer, I decided to do something truly diabolical with it. Yes, I put it on Hot Or Not.
I realised that for maximum impact I would have to create a persona to go along with it. I decided that Hot Or Not Goth Robyn would be a 22 year old goth chick. No wait - a bisexual goth chick. Yes, and her keywords would included poetry, pain and Jack Osbourne.
So I uploaded the picture and created the account. I keep getting bisexual goth chicks clicking on the button that says they want to meet me. My average rating is about five out of 10, which is nice. And a few people have even rated me a 10.
Damn, if only I really were a 22-year-old hot goth chick.
A friend of mine described me as a nympho once. “Oh, my dear boy,” I responded. “Do you know how many years it’s been since I last had a root?”
I was delighted to read in the Straight Dope that nymphomania doesn’t really exist anymore as a legitimate psychological condition. There’s just a non-specific condition about people who are distressed when they have sex a lot. In other words, having frequent, compulsive sex is only a problem if it bothers you to do so.
I went for a walk down to the Waitakere Dam. On the way down I past various groups of people walking up. All the old couples said hello to me, all the younger couples were too absorbed in conversation about relationships or gossip to even look up.
When I got back I was searching for information about the dam and found this. I didn’t even know it was there. I don’t remember writing it. WTF?
My web site is stagnating. I hate that. Ever since I started this Live Journal I’ve all but abandoned my web site simply because the LJ is a) easier to update and b) more fun. I want to merge the two sites, but it’s just taking so long. The good news is that I’ve asked my web site admin guy to install Movable Type, and he’s promised to look into it, so that’s a start.
I feel burdened by technology.
I’m impressed with the anonymous sources that the New Zealand Herald uses to spice up its news stories.
A few weeks ago, in an article about a guy who was badly burned during the filming of a reality TV show, a source was quoted as saying that the fellow was “a really unhappy customer”. That’s really masterful understatement. I like it when anonymous sources cop an attitude.
Then in today’s Herald, in an article about Jonah Lomu’s secret wedding, a source was quoted as saying, “I guess it was a nice wedding but I’m not the wedding type.”
Wow, the anonymous source is not the wedding type. I would like to see such snippets of personality come through in future articles. For example:
A source close to the MP said that late night drinking was often common. “After a late night in the debating chamber the vodka would come out. I am lactose intolerant, enjoy the films of Akira Kurosawa and I am an unfulfilled submissive.”
It’s about time that anonymous sources get the recognition that they deserve.
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My favourite daily half hour of TV at the moment is Batman, which is on Monday to Friday at 6 pm on Prime. Today’s villain was The Minstral and while Batman was at police HQ discussing the fiendish antics of his latest nemesis, Commissioner Gordon commented that the crook was, “A minstral who is also an electronic genius. What a strange combination!” Like, OMG, doesn’t that just describe makers of electronica. (No, not really, but it’s a good quote.)
It’s funny watching the old Batman. I reckon it’s about halfway through the run. The fresh early excitement is gone. The dialogue is starting to get a little bit self-referential and sarcastic, all of the villains have a sexy woman in their crew of goons, but it’s not quite at the dire final season where Batgirl (almost the Scrappy-Do of the series) was introduced.
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“Space” have a weekly feature called “New Zealand Pride”. They pick out little moments from overseas movies, TV shows, etc where New Zealand is mentioned. Months ago I submitted an idea for it and tonight it was used. There’s a scene in the David Mamet film “Heist” where Gene Hackman’s character has acquired two false New Zealand passports. If you look really closely you can see that the city of issue is “New Castle” which is not in New Zealand. See, if I was a customs official Gene Hackman wouldn’t be going anywhere.
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I saw “Confessions of a Dangerous Mind” today. I’d seen it before in gay Paris, so it was novel seeing it without French subtitles. I also wasn’t sick, so I didn’t cough all the way through it. There were a bunch of giggly girls who girlishly giggled whenever Sam Rockwell’s barenaked buttocks were shown. It’s good film. It’s beautifully photographed (cinematographed?) and I am easily won over by the kind of tricky love that Chuck and Penny have. And it has the infamous “in the ass” segment of “The Newlywed Game”.
There’s an ad I’ve seen a few times for a cheap-arse compilation CD called “Music, Music, Music”. It’s filled with hits songs from that time after World War II and before rock ‘n’ roll. In fact, the ad’s voice over says something like, “before there was rock ‘n’ roll there were song like…” and “How much is that doggy in the window?” is played.
But watching that ad and seeing all the cute novelty songs that had filled the charts in those years made me get down on my knees and thank God for rock ‘n’ roll.
I remember asking my parents if they were into disco music in the ’70s. They reacted with shock and horror, like I’d asked them if they partook in bi-weekly coffee enemas. “Oh no,” my mother exclaimed. “Disco music is modern.”
My parents listen to classical music. I think my mother listens to it because she genuinely likes it (she does the classical music show on Raglan Community Radio, yo), but I think my dad likes classical music more because he thinks he should listen to it, not because he actually likes it. He’s truer when he puts the Simon and Garfunkel greatest hits CD on.
So I grew up in a quiet house. Apart from the half hour of music videos provided by “Ready To Roll” every Saturday at 6.00 pm, I didn’t have much pop in my life. But then in mid-1985 I bought Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” on tape and everything changed.
Well, that’s the short version.
Now it’s time for me to reveal the translation of the old Polish folk saying that I posted here a couple of days ago.
“Robyn ma cycki i zabija ludzi wzrokiem, bo moze,” means:
Robyn has tits and kills people with her eyes, because she can.
(Ruchaj mnie. Liz mi cipke.)
Coming home on the bus today I saw a woman opened her newly purchased box of Winsor Pilates bits and pieces. I’ve seen the Winsor Pilates infomercial enough to be immune to its seductive call. It’s just another workout video and like most of the fitness-related infomercials it has the fine print that acknowledges that you have to stop eating shit to get the killer abs in the infomercial.
What it comes down to, what they never show in the infomercials, is that you will be required to get down on the floor in front of your TV and wave your arms and legs around. You will need to do this every day, even on the days when you don’t feel like doing it. And that while you can lose weight and tone your muscles, you’ll never look as hot as Daisy Fuentes does in the infomercial.
Pumping iron is much more fun.
At the gym this morning I was reading a women’s magazine while I was warming up on the treadmill. I flicked past the usual latest celebrity styles, how to get five different looks from one shirt, why anorexia is really bad, etc. Suddenly one page caught my attention.
It was the sex advice page and was doing one of those “how to please your man” things. There a quote from the text had been pulled out. It read, “When my partner is about to come, I squeeze his balls.” I almost fell off the treadmill.
Come on, partners don’t get their balls squeezed. Boyfriends do.