Road Music

24 hours later and I’m still grinding away at that assignment. There is so much left to be done.

So of course I’m ending my night sitting in the cold, past midnight, watching road videos.

Does anyone do good road videos anymore? I mean like the sweaty, jaded, busted-ass music videos that so many 80s bands put out? Your Mama Don’t Dance, the clip I shared the other day, was just one of so many classics. It seemed like all hard rock bands put out one or two… before the 90s came along and people like Trent Reznor made music videos all about artistically rotting pig heads.

I think the old road videos were largely assembled as great big MTV ads for whatever tour the band happened to be staging at that moment. There were some, like Pour Some Sugar on Me and the aforementioned, which were bouncy and upbeat. However what I find notable is how many seem much less ad-like, and have that true touring air of resilience mixed with melancholy.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that they could also showcase groups of fit young men, working hard and being lonely. It made all the girls like me want to scoop them up and take them somewhere warm.

To the game you stay a slave…

The Facebook Stalker

Facebook has found my next-door neighbour. And the real estate agent who showed us around a few houses last year. And the chef who used to do out-catering for the place I worked at two jobs ago. And our old landlord (the one who called me Tracey).

I share friends with none of these people, and yet Facebook somehow suggests them as people I might know. It’s a reminder that we weave a diverse and intricate web with every interaction we perform online. I have their email addresses, or have simply pinned the house next door to the one they pinned. In this way, Facebook is the creepiest (and most inept) stalker I’ve ever encountered. “You threw away this English muffins wrapper once, and so therefore I will flood you with English muffins because you must love them!!!!… PLEEEEESE pay attention to me!!!!”

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Facebook has a very patchy sense of who I am

I guess that’s one benefit to a more connected world.

I had a day off today. We have a small conference in-house today and tomorrow, and I’ll be opening up the venue for them in the morning. One thought that occurred to me this evening, is that I’m hoping the venue was left clean and tidy as I won’t have time to clean it in the morning. The staff member who was taking care of this group this afternoon has a tendency to leave jobs half-finished when no one is looking over her shoulder.

So I logged into the timeclock from home.

Continue reading Facebook has a very patchy sense of who I am

Let it Play

It’s a cliche, but there really aren’t enough hours in a day. I had more weed-burning to do, more plants to repot, more landscaping material to collect. Plus cleaning the fish tanks, and doing laundry, and weeding. I intended to bake a calzone and finish painting my table and finally sort out the massive list of bookmarks on my computer. I was also going to go to the farmer’s market.

Actually, looking at that list, I guess I didn’t do too badly with my (short) long weekend. Saturday was a work day, but I still did 5.5 out of 10. Only one of the fish tanks got cleaned. However, that’s a C+. A passing grade.

And after such heavy blogs over the past couple of days, I just want to stretch out my sore muscles, and plait my newly-washed hair, and dig some old friends out of my CD collection. There’s no point in dwelling on such somber subjects every day.

So this particular guilty pleasure seems fitting. When I hear the music, all my troubles just fade away.

My God, we were all so young…

 

On The Lonely Death of Jani Lane – A Reprise

As with yesterday, not every day is interesting or exciting enough to easily bless me with blog ideas. Realistically, I’m writing every day just to force myself into the habit – it’s an act of fortitude, not grand inspiration. And tonight, while the rain is battering the house with Biblical anger, I’m wondering how I got into this recent pattern of sleeping 8pm-2am, waking up to write, and then falling asleep again from around 6am. Every night. It’s a lonely, depressive routine that’s cutting me off from my husband and preventing me from getting much done outside of work.

When I’m searching for ideas, I tend to trawl news sites for anything that sparks the ranty monster in my brain. Failing that, I flounder around on Facebook or even YouTube. YouTube is getting to know me well enough now – it offers me Mean Tweets and slam poetry and old Skid Row videos. And then this one came up…

Oh yeah. It’s 3:30am, I’m on the couch all by myself, and Jani Lane is still dead. Thanks YouTube.

Continue reading On The Lonely Death of Jani Lane – A Reprise

The Road Album

On the cold drive home after a 13-hour shift, it occurred to me that so much of the music I listen to has been carried along with my life for 20+ years. The Bon Jovi album I had on in the car was purchased in 1995…

I listened to it in the little tin flat that was attached to my parent’s farmhouse – where the Axminster carpet dated from the 1930s and the summer sunshine would bake us like potatoes in the campfire.

I took it to my first house/project/money-pit down south – where I lived in an old Police station with my ex, with the constant traffic noise, fighting a seemingly endless battle against the linoleum and asphalt that surrounded me. But I brought in ixias and sparaxis bulbs and grew them through the asphalt and they were the only things that made my life tolerable.

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The Maiden Review

I was only kidding last night. Maiden were good – really good.

They bounced around like men half their age (singer, Bruce Dickinson, is the youngest band-member at 57 and still amazingly capable in the vocal department). Guitarist, Janick Gers, treated the audience to a classic array of hamstring stretches, facial expressions, Stratocaster flings, and playing-guitar-with-his-feet. It was like hitting rewind to the 80s, only there were a few more wrinkles. There were multiple times when I found myself worrying about their knees.

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Like a bunch of refugees from a guerilla love-in

It was a long trip to collect all my prizes this afternoon – winding up past Helensville and back. The car was stuffed full. And what with Auckland traffic, it was well after dark by the time I got home.

I made a point to pick some upbeat driving music to help get me through the hours on the road… which is easier said than done, since my car no longer has a radio with an aux input so I have to rely on good old CDs… or the radio. Cough.

Sorry Dad.

Continue reading Like a bunch of refugees from a guerilla love-in

Bret, you’ve got it going on

It’s Bret Michaels’ birthday today. He’s 53.

I’ve riffed a little on this before, but one day I’ll sit down here and explain the vast and complex relationship I’ve had with Bret Michaels over the past 27 years (well, at least with a picture of Bret Michaels). It will sound insane, but it’s a fundamental part of what makes me me. Through him, I’ve learned about grace under pressure, persevering in spite of critics, and the benefits of laughing at myself. I wish I had his charm. And the greatest part is that he didn’t actually have to participate in our relationship in order for me to learn those things.

Tragically unhip. Sex obsessed and badly dressed. That is, and always has been, Poison. That is us.

1991

Continue reading Bret, you’ve got it going on

Youth Gone Wild

“How many singles were released from Ratt’s album Out of the Cellar?”

“In what year was Joe Elliot born?”

“Who was the drummer for Cinderella?”

… I got a new phone.

It was about time. My old phone was around 4 years old, and kept having little moments where it forgot it was a phone and thought it was a paperweight or a toaster or something. It was reaching the point where the choice was: a) get a new phone, or b) throw this one through the wall.

Continue reading Youth Gone Wild