The Poodle's Friend

Pan's Labyrinth

2007-02-09T14:24:00.000Z

Here it is, the promised review, as spoiler-free as possible. It will be rather biased, though, because I loved Pan's Labyrinth to bits and will hence proceed to rave about it and about how perfect it is in every possible way. Well, almost. If you haven't seen it already, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? GO. WATCH. NOW!!

Right, so, where to begin? A brief synopsis might be in order here. Well, Pan's Labyrinth is set in Franco's Spain and juxtaposes the story of the antifascist struggle against the regime to young Ofelia's retreat into an extremely creepy fantasy world. The film takes place almost entirely in a military campsite deep in a mountainous and forested area, with lots of eerie-looking woodland to add to the setting. There's Mercedes, one of the servants, there's Ofelia, there's Ofelia's mum, and then there's Ofelia's mum's husband, the Capitan. The Capitan is a bad, bad man. Ofelia doesn't want to call the Capitan 'father'; all she wants is to read her books and sit with her depressed mum and be left alone. But she's also extremely observant and curious and innocent, and she discovers a portal to a hidden world, one day, guided by a slightly shifty-looking faun. She's not going to be left alone after that.

The interplay between fairy tale and reality is astonishing. Ofelia's fantasy is populated with typical fantastic creatures and, very much in the manner of classic fairy tales, she has several 'tasks' to fulfil. My memory of the literary conventions of fairy tales is somewhat rusty, but I do remember Karl Popper and the elements he identified. Popper talked about protagonists and antagonists, tasks and magical helpers, balance and disequilibrium. Ofelia's tasks may be all rather magical in nature, but her antagonist is human and unambiguosly real. Her helpers are the Faun and Mercedes; one magical, one human. The disequilibrium is constant and overwhelming; people get murdered in this film, but not by monsters; by other people.

This, perhaps, is what makes the film such a powerful experience. Well, that and the fact that the acting is amazing, the storyline gripping, the ambiance just the right amount of eerie.

The fantasy world and the real world are so tightly interwoven that the viewer (in this case, me) entertains serious doubts as to the fictionality of Ofelia's world. Is it really just in her imagination, or is it somewhat more concrete than that? Del Toro never gives us a definitive answer, but to overemphasise this question would be, in my opinion, deceptive. It doesn't really matter if Del Toro meant for the Faun and the giant toad and the Pale Man (see below, but don't be scared, it's just a photo) to be real, or if he meant them to be figments of Ofelia's imagination. What matters is that they are there and that they feel real to Ofelia.

That's the point, I suppose. Believing is what counts, it's what brings hope and makes everything better. Another point is that you shouldn't stress children out by smashing bottles into people's faces (don't look at me like that, it happened in the film!), because otherwise their fantasy world will have fairies that look like grasshoppers and toads that live in the dirty, dirty mud. Ew.

Next review: Music and Lyrics. Best romantic comedy I've seen since You've Got Mail.

Randomisms III

2007-02-04T23:31:00.000Z

Friends, Romans, countrymen...

I am back. This time for real.

Fo’ sho’!

Moving on.

This shall hopefully be the last in a series of posts in which I moan about uni life, mostly because uni life is finally starting to become a little more than bearable. Yes, dear readers, I am actually doing fine this term.

Your comments on the previous posts were much appreciated. I’m not trying to say that I’m glad none of you had it easy in uni, but I was rather relieved to know I wasn’t the only one. As airy voices says, it’s good to know!

Nitin suggests Scrubs as comfort food. I have yet to be sucked into the Scrubs mania, but I am doing a lot more in the way of watching movies and generally suspending disbelief for a couple of hours, at least once a week. Just an hour ago, in fact, I was busy watching Pan’s Labyrinth – MASTERPIECE. But more on that soon, as I think it deserves a post of its own.

Ash wisely advises finding my own niche. Well, I seem to have found a small number of niches to squeeze into. I’ve stopped trying to be close to everyone. That truly is impossible, unless you are some kind of rabid social animal, which I’m obviously not. And really, it’s useless to pretend to be. All it does is make me tired, grumpy and unhappy. You’ll be happy to know that I am no longer permanently tired, grumpy and unhappy. And I’m now close enough to people to practice my very own brand of sarcastic, derisive humour. You’d be surprised how much people enjoy being made fun of, as long as they’re sure you’re joking.

Whether you are joking or not is your own little secret, of course.

Szerelem (whom Pan and I have met – did we mention that?) reiterates the universal truth of the ubiquity of idiocy. Oooh, I like that. The Ubiquity of Idiocy: a universal truth. I should write a book. Anyway, having established that idiocy is, in fact, ubiquitous, it is much easier to embrace that and move on, is it not? Well, it is for me.

The all-knowing Pan tells me that the first term is always the worst term. How right she is! No amount of monetary compensation could ever persuade me to go through Freshers’ Week again; forced conversation, forced smiling, forced niceties, forced everything… Those were possibly the most exhausting and draining three days of my life. But they’re over now, and I’m free to ignore people that I don’t like, and I can stay in my room if I want to without feeling like I should be out there, socialising at all costs.

Sophia points out the importance of direction. Hmm. Well, I am currently seriously considering doing linguistics in my third year; apparently, you can switch to that after two years and get some kind of double degree. The more I think about it, the more I realise that what I really, really love is knowing how languages work. I just never knew you could get a degree out of it! So yeah, I am seriously thinking about that. Of course, in TPF-world, that means I won’t start doing any research or talking to anyone about it until the last possible minute. Viva procrastination!

In summary, I am taking matters into my own hands, dear friends. So far, so good. Very soon, I shall post about Pan’s Labyrinth, and then maybe, maybe I shall start introducing you to some of the people that populate my new social circle. Be there.

Or be square.

Randomisms II

2006-12-22T23:38:00.000Z

Sigh. Yes, I know, I haven't written anything in ages. I might as well have been abducted by aliens.

Truth is, I haven't really felt like blogging, these days (or shall I say 'these weeks'?). It's not that there wasn't anything to blog about. Au contraire, things have happened. I have, for instance, seen a number of films that I would have muchly loved reviewing. Casino Royale, for example.

Is amazing.

Other things have also happened. Pan and I met Ash a few weeks ago. He even has a lovely post about it. Apparently, Pan and I are quite the freaks! OK, the 'apparently' is superfluous, we truly are freaks. Poor Ash. Anyway, the highlights of this blogmeet were unquestionably the Krispy Kreme doughnuts. See, I am not a doughnut person. I don't like doughnuts. I like things that contain chocolate, and most doughnuts don't. But Krispy Kreme... God, I am having cravings now.

I have met many people. Many people that are easily mocked, easily nicknamed in an amusing fashion. I have had two men attempting to seduce me (no, not in a dramatic Thomas Hardy, pic-nic-in-the-woods-with-attached-sexual-trauma way, but rather, in a drunk, let's dance together, do you want to go for a walk by the river? way. I mean, seriously, Do you want to go for a walk by the river? What the fuck? What am I, Meg Ryan?). I have carried drunk people up to their rooms. And now that I'm back home, I have met Pan's uni friends and have yet more amusing stories to tell, more people to nickname, possibly mock and definitely blog about.

I would now expound on the hotness of Daniel Craig and Eva Green and generally gush about Casino Royale and perhaps shrug about The Prestige which Pan and I saw today for the discounted price of 4.50 Euros each. Then I might mention Paolo and his band, and Mexican Girl and her fight with Dirty Vibes, and Solarium Boy (all people from Pan's uni). I might talk about the ditzy Turkish girls that have moved into my building. I might talk about the weather.

But I won't because there are more serious things to talk about. Please bear in mind that I don't do this very often. I prefer blogging about the frivolous and I don't like talking about such personal matters on here, but I'd also like to explain why I've been absent for so long. Forgive me if this all seems a little forced or irrelevant or downright boring.

OK, I will now get to the point: I don't like uni.

I mean, I don't hate it. I love, love, love the town. It's absolutely beautiful. And I love my bike. And my course is not what I hoped it would be, but I know for a fact that it'll be better in my second year when I won't have to do so much British history, and it's all right anyway because at least I've done well, whether I enjoyed it or not. I also have a number of friends that I'm really close to. The only problem is that they're in a different college, so I don't get to see them very often (in case you're wondering, one of these is that very same Fatty mentioned in the previous post. Pan and Fatty have actually met, and they get along like a house on fire. Mind you, Pan still refuses to say anything nice about Fatty that goes beyond 'She's bubbly,' but that's an improvement on 'She's fat!', don't you think?), but that can also be a good thing, can it not? At least there's not risk me getting bored of them or vice versa (highly unlikely, though, as I am so incredibly witty and adorable).

So what is the problem, you say?

Ha. I wish I knew.

Well, OK, I do know, and I've mentioned it before, and I sound like a whiny bitch, but really, uni is such a letdown at the moment. I mean, I'm in one of the world's best universities, and yet, I am surrounded by idiots. How did these people even get in? Oh, I'm sure they're all very intelligent and everything, but I'm not sure how much a person whose aim for the first term was to get more than 200 Facebook friends deserves to be in this university.

The problem with living in uni is that I can't avoid it. I have to be there night and day, 24/7, which wasn't the case in high school. That's why high school was bearable. I could go home every evening and forget about it. But uni doesn't let you do that. You live in it. Thankfully, I am on holiday right now. See, we have ridiculously short terms, so I've been on holiday for the past three weeks, and back in Milan, and I have three more weeks to go. But honestly, the thought of going back to uni in three weeks' time is enough to put me in a bad mood for half a day. So I try not to think about it. I'm sure it will be better next term. It has to be, I suppose.

So yeah, that's why I haven't blogged in so long. Disappointment can truly sap all the energy out of a person.

Randomisms

2006-10-23T21:37:00.000+01:00

Well, then. It's been a while, hasn't it?

Do you like lists? I don't particularly like them. Or bullet points, for that matter. But here goes. Bullet points.

I've been busy nerding it out here. I've got to write an essay every week, and because I'm so disgustingly nerdy, the last two have been above the 4000 word mark. Sigh. I know, I know. Shame on me. I just can't help it. I write. And then I write some more. And I use big SAT words. It helps to know Italian; I actually know all the long English words that derive from Latin. Like, uh, television. But maybe that's Greek.

No, I don't like bullet points. But I can't stop now, can I?

They have these chocolate chip cookies at Sainsbury's that are absolutely divine and they cost nothing. Also, they have 55 calories per cookie. This is the first time in my life that I have checked calories on food, but I only did it because I finished half a packet (more or less 10 cookies) in half an hour and was freaked out by how deliciously addictive these things were. So I looked at the little box that has all the weird numbers on it and saw 55 calories per cookie. This did not make me feel better. So I had another one. Just to make myself feel better.
I have a new Indian friend. Pan hates her and calls her Fatty. Which isn't very nice. How Pan can know that Fatty is actually fatty is beyond me, though, as they haven't even met. Anyway, Fatty (she's not even fat, for goodness' sake, it's just Pan being a bitch) is from Delhi. She says Delhi is better than Bombay. She also dislikes Himesh. That seems to be the consensus on Himesh in India. People don't like him.
There is a lecture on Monday morning at 9 that I am actively skipping. Every week. I feel rebellious.
I am absolutely in love with caramel Frappuccinos. I feel debauched and vaguely like a sitcom character. But there's just something about caramel Frappuccinos. They're just out of this world. They truly are. Sigh. Now I want one.
Uni is just like my high school. There are groups. There are many people that are not very nice. People that aren't as smart as I expected them to be. Then again, maybe the not so nice people are smart but also not so nice. Maybe I was making the mistake of equating smartness with being nice, which apparently is so wrong! Who would have thought?
I have a bike! ME! A BIKE! And I use it all the time! Even though there is a shortcut to my department that cannot be cycled that takes exactly the same amount of time as it takes cycling the long way. But, it wakes me up in the mornings. And also, my bike is soooo pretty! I have yet to name it though. I can't even figure out if its a girl or a boy. Oh! I just had an idea. I'm naming it Blaise. Oh, that is so clever. I love being a fangirl.
British people are weird. I shall expound on that some other time. Now I'm off to socialise. Wheeee! Yeah.

Sigh. End of bullet points.

I'm actually enjoying it. Some bits are fun. And I've met some great people. Although I do seem to be tired all the time. Hmmm.

On our favourite midget

2006-10-05T16:35:00.000+01:00

If there's one thing that one learns upon coming to uni, apart from the root causes of population growth in England in the 18th and 19th centuries - Freshers' week my ass, I had lectures this morning at 9!, one thing apart from one's way around tiny medieval towns full of old university buildings and crazy bikers, one thing apart from just how expensive Marks and Spencer's is, that one thing is the value of true friendship.

I was always one of those people who never particularly fit in any friendship group. I always got along well with most people, but I never got along with anyone well enough to consider them anything other than people to pass time with. The problem is, I was usually a little too mature, a little too intelligent for people. So I ended up getting a lot of respect, some dislike, and generally very little love.

But that was OK, because I'd rather be respected for who I am any day than pretend to be someone I'm not just to get approval.

I wasn't too worried anyway because I figured uni would be full of people like me and then I'd finally be able to have a bunch of a few close friends, as well as a larger group of people I could simply have fun with.

And then, I met Pan. Pan came to my school 4 years ago. She must have been very lonely and very angry because of all she had to leave behind. It must have taken a huge effort to manage to make friends, because it's always so hard to go to new schools (I've never done it myself, except for this week, and it's hard enough as it is with nobody knowing each other; it must be near-impossible to join high school cliques). I never noticed any of this. Pan was one of the new students. I was busy passing time with my not-quite-friends.

But Pan and I had a mutual friend. Our mutual friend, who will now have the dubious honour of being referred to with her real name, Thais, was in fact about to leave. I hadn't been friends with Thais either for a long time, but one day our maths teacher moved her to sit next to me for reasons that I forget, and we got talking and realised that we had a very similar sense of humour and everything.

Thais was also friends with Pan, and the week before she left, Pan and I went out with her quite often and generally spent time with her, and hence with each other. Sometimes, Thais would randomly announce: 'You two are going to be best friends.' Pan and I would exchange looks and smile uncomfortable smiles. Who knows what Pan was thinking. I thought: 'I don't know Pan at all. She must be weirded out that Thais is saying this. And so am I.'

OK, OK, my inner monologue is not quite so boring, it's usually liberally sprinkled with hilarious little jokes and comments, but you get the idea.

Anyway, one day, a couple of days before Thais left, I went and sat next to her and Pan in economics. I don't think I'll ever forget that lesson. It turned out that Pan and I had uncannily similar interests; we must have been the only two people in our school who were into fanfiction. And for some reason, in that 1-hour lesson, we actually told each other about that. It's not something you go trumpeting around to semi-strangers, you know!

Before we even knew it, Pan and I had become inseparable. And the rest is history.

It was Pan's birthday 5 days ago. I'd promised her a post, but I've been very busy pretending to enjoy freshers' week (parts of which I actually did enjoy, but would it be very nerdy to say that I enjoyed this morning's 9 am lecture more?), socialising and generally having very little time for myself. But I have realised something; that true friends are the hardest thing to find. I thought uni would provide a bunch of people that I could pick and choose from. Apparently not. Apparently, being in one of the world's best unis does not mean that all the people are nice, and friendly, and mature. Apparently, it just means that they're all very intelligent. But clearly, intelligence is not enough.

And that's why I thank my lucky stars that I have Pan. No matter what happens, no matter who pisses me off, no matter what people around me are like, Pan's there to be my best friend. It's entirely OK for me to be myself with Pan; I don't have to try to make her laugh (she's so silly that she'll laugh anyway), I don't have to try to make her like me. I know she doesn't try! She's such a bitch sometimes, I don't know why I even bother with her!

OK, well, I do know why I bother with her. It's because I get to go to India every now and then. And who doesn't want to go to Incredible India?

So, happy belated birthday, Pan. Thank your parents for having had sex! And thank you for being so adorable.

PS: Pan and I share other interests apart from fanfiction. Like, uh, for example Veronica Mars. And books. And Bollywood. All very geeky. On the other hand, Pan likes Snickers. EEEEEW!

Uni time!

2006-09-27T21:05:00.000+01:00

TPF has left Italy. TPF will soon be going to uni! TPF may or may not be able to blog regularly through the next couple of weeks. All things considered, it might be a better sign if she doesn't, because that might mean she actually has friends!

Anyway, you people keep blogging. TPF will visit! [ASH - I WANT THAT SILLY PICTURE AND I WANT IT NOW!]

In which a meme is born

2006-09-25T11:10:00.000+01:00

Well, I guess I could blog about how I'm leaving on Wednesday for uni and how uncharacteristically little I'm looking forward to it. Or I could blog about how it's raining here today and it's also quite cold and really, how irritating. Or perhaps I could blog about how my beloved AC Milan has managed a flimsy draw against Livorno and how cute is Gourcuff?

But no. Today, I have decided to go for answering one of mankind's fundamental questions; how do memes begin?

It's a bit like yoghurt, if you think about it. To make yoghurt, you need yoghurt (at least that's what my mother says, and my mother makes the best yoghurt in the world). So if you need yoghurt to make yoghurt, how did they make the first yoghurt?

Who knows. And yes, yes, this is a crappy analogy. But still. I bet half of you didn't know that yoghurt needs yoghurt! You learn something new every day.

Anyway, after much pondered research and analysis, I have come to the conclusion that memes begin because someone begins them. And so, to test my theory, I have decided that I will start a meme and see if it works. For this, I will need your support, gentle readers. Please be patient and do what this meme asks of you, in the interests of scientific enquiry.

The meme is as thus:
List the ten most played songs in your iTunes library.

Yep, it really is that simple. And it might have been done before. In fact, I'm sure it's been done before. Do you see me caring? No, I don't see me caring either. Oh, of course, you might not have iTunes, in which case you may or may not have a play counter. Suit yourself.

I shall set the example and do the meme myself.

1. Rang de Basanti (from the homonymous movie), played 34 times. Yes, 34. I can't believe it either. But it's such a great song! Of course, I have no idea what it means. Except for 'rang', which is 'renk' in Turkish and means colour, and 'basanti' which is a colour. Something like saffron, but not quite. Anyway, the rest of the song could be in Polish for all I know.

2. Right Here, Right Now (remixed) from Bluffmaster. Pan and I loooooove this song. And the video is uber-cool. And Abhishek Bachchan has that gruff, manly handsome-ness that makes us swoon.

3. Chand Sifarish, from Fanaa (one day, I will review Fanaa, as I will Rang de Basanti). The remix, Fanaa For You, is also great. It played that night we went clubbing in Bombay, and I was positively skipping with delight, as they were playing a song that I actually recognised. My skipping might have been perceived as an attempt at drunken dancing, which probably explains the weird looks I was getting.

4. Beep, by the Pussycat Dolls. And finally, something in English. I used to play this song all the time, like thrice a day. I think it's possibly one of the catchiest pop songs of the last couple of years. Of course, nothing beats Britney. Britney RULES. I hope she dumps that sleazebag K-Fed sometime soon, because he's ruined her, that jerk. I hate you, K-Fed! I hope you keel over and go comatose from your own sleaziness!

5. Aashiqui Meri, by Himesh Reshammiya. The first time I heard this was on a rick in Bombay, sitting between Pan and Gary. After the first few beats, Pan and I were nodding to the rhythm, telling each other how cool the song was. Gary, on the other hand, was cringing, poor thing. Apparently, you either love Himesh or you hate him, and most people hate him. Pan and I were unhindered by such prejudices, of course, and quite enjoyed him. Although I hear Pan is starting to get tired of him too. Must be an Indian thing, though, because personally, I still think Himesh rocks. Eris is going to kill me.

6. Ruth Aa Gayee Re, from Earth - 1947. A great song from a beautiful movie. Sigh. It makes me want to cry to even think of the movie. Sniff. There, see? I'm sniffling.

By the way, are you starting to see a pattern here? So am I.

7. Jub Dil Miley, from Yaadein. Apparently, this movie sucks. I haven't seen it myself, but Pan has, and is possibly the only person in the world who liked it. Anyway, the song is a sex song. As in, it makes one want to engage in extracurricular activities.

8. Touch the Sky, by Kanye West. I love Kanye West. He's so good. His songs have a catchiness to them that make the average non-rapping listener very happy. You can always sing the chorus, you don't need to rap it! And he's a great live performer too. Also, Kanye is kind of cute. And you all know how important appearances are in life!

9. Taal Se Taal Mila, from Taal. Another one of those sex songs. Now, I don't speak Hindi, but apparently this song is about how much the female lead (Aishwarya Rai) wants to engage in the aforementioned extracurricular activities with the male lead (whom I shall not name because he's a stupid idiot who can't act). Now this might all be the product of Pan's overactive and perverted imagination. But then again, it might be true. Whatever the case, I know I enjoy it. The song, I mean. What were you thinking?

10. Çakkıdı, by Kenan Doğulu. Sadly, there is only one song in my mother tongue in this top ten. But it's a great song, with a great video (I'm sure they have it on YouTube). Strangely enough, although it's one of the very few songs in this list that I can sing along to, that's not very useful at all, because the lyrics aren't very interesting. I mean, the title isn't even a word. It's an onomatopoeia. 50 Cent could come up with this song. But hey, it's catchy. I like catchy songs.

And that, dear readers, is it. Don't ask me why 70% of the songs are in a language that I don't understand (in fact, are in languages that I don't understand, because they're not all in Hindi, as Pan tells me). All I can say is that Bollywood soundtracks are catchy. I loooooove them. They are my personal Britney Spears.

BRITNEY, COME BACK! I don't want meanigful alternative music, I don't want anything like that, I want POP! POOOOOP! Which sounds like poop. Oh well.

I tag Pan, Ash and Sophia. Come on guys, it's scientific enquiry!

PS: I do occasionally listen to music with a degree of depth. However, deep music is rarely catchy and often depressing. Hence, it is not played half as often as, say, Britney. Oh dear, I'm obsessed with Britney. Sigh. I just wish she'd come back to us. Sniff.

Because when you're tagged, you're tagged.

2006-09-17T22:39:00.000+01:00

Silliness!

I have no idea who the man behind me is.

As we're in the subject of silly pictures, here's another one.

My beloved flip-flops. Bought during a school trip to Sardinia in the Summer of 2004, they'd been with me for 2 years, worn under jeans, skirts and bikinis. Now, they lie abandoned in some waste treatment facility, sent there by that merciless, unfeeling creature that I call mother.

I have yet to get over the trauma.

I tag Pan, who'll never do it anyway (come on! Prove me wrong!), Ash and Nitin (and thanks to simmi for the tag!).

The Fantastic Bore

2006-09-12T18:54:00.000+01:00

In which eloquent excerpts from a chat conversation between TPF and Pan are used to illustrate the utter crappiness of the movie The Fantastic Four, which, for the record, both TPF and Pan watched on TV, and therefore for free, because they would both rather eat raw liver than pay to watch that movie. Because it is that bad. Oh, you might want to know that in this conversation, the characters in the movie were referred to as follows: Reed Richards=Reed, Sue Storm=Jessica Alba, Johnny Storm=Johnny, The Thing=Ben, Von Doom=Cole (because the dude playing him is Cole on Charmed).

[The audience is introduced to the underdeveloped, 2-dimensional characters]
Pan: i used to be totally into this cartoon, like badly
but he was always married to sue
never saw the start of it all
TPF: um, who's married to sue?
who's sue? jessica alba?
Pan: richards
yeah
TPF: who's richard?
Pan: i never got his first name
reed, i think
TPF: the dude in the elevator right now?
Pan: yeah, they eventually get married
and the human torch fire dude is her brother
TPF: oh
Pan: his name is Johnny
TPF: I thought he was her boyfriend
Pan: :)
TPF: that's what it looked like in the trailer

...

[A scantily clad Jessica Alba appears onscreen, wearing revealing clothing for no apparent reason. This distracts viewers, even female viewers, so it must be even worse for hormonal teenaged male viewers. Also, the choppy plot advancement is mentioned]
TPF: omg look at jessica alba! OMG DUDE SHE'S
Pan: BOOBS
TPF: BOOBS
Pan: BOOBS
BOOBS
TPF: stop looking at her boobs, Pan
Pan: okay, have stopped now
TPF: yeah, because shes not onscreen
Pan: they're already in space? that was fast

...

[Pan and TPF note the hotness of Cole, the only member of the film's cast who can actually produce expressions other than a blank look]
TPF: cole is a jerk
Pan: even in charmed
TPF: a hot jerk, though
in charmed he's sexy evil
Pan: totally. he's totally typecast
TPF: PAN! i didn't know you watched Charmed! I SEE BLACKMAIL MATERIAL HERE!

...

[More bad plotting, ridiculously bad acting, tiny Sin City reference and special effects that would make even Buffy and Charmed fans cringe]
TPF: dude, is she flriting with two different men?
WHORE
Pan: yeah, well, she's jessica alba
TPF: yeah, she can afford to even have sex with bruce willis
Pan: she can flirt with 10 men if she wants
TPF: :) yeah
dude, btw, are these people willingly allowing themselves to get radiated by a cosmic storm?
Pan: reed is a crappy actor
TPF: or is there going to be a mistake?
oh
'It's impossible! It's got to be 7 hours!'
that explains it
Pan: aah
totally explains it
she's pretending to be clueless
how stupid!
i cant see her boobs
im annoyed
TPF: oh but she looks hot in that suit
omg, bad cgi
Pan: poor ben, i always feel sorry for him. he becomes red and ugly and unattractive
TPF: BAD ACTING JESSICA!
Pan: ha! bad effects
TPF: poor ben
Pan: i know
rather bad effects
TPF: yeah
rather bad
is cole going to get radiated too? and become evil?

...

[The only decent special effects are commented upon]
Pan: OMG
he's burning
TPF: JOHNNY IS CATCHING FIRE!
PAN: I KNOW
HOW COOL IS THAT? WAIT TILL HE STARTS FLYING
TPF: OMFG!
HE FLEW!
Pan: and he just did
TPF: HE'S NAKED!
Pan: hot

...

[Feeling sorry for the only likeable character, Ben, and more mocking of the terrible, terrible special effects]
Pan: no one's going to love him now
TPF: What will his wife do?
don't tell me
Pan: how horrible
TPF: i want to see
Pan: i'd totally leave him
TPF: omg, she's going to leave him, isn't she?
Pan: i dont know what happens
he's like an ape now, who wouldnt want to leave him? i would
BAD EFFECTS
TPF: MUHAAHHAHAHA
Pan: he looks like hagrid
TPF: the hand looks like plastic!

...

[The Fantastic Four cause a huge pile-up on a bridge and then are hailed as heroes for saving the people whose lives they endangered in the first place. Pan and TPF comment on the idiocy of this and, once again, on the hotness of Cole]
Pan: why do people love them so much? theyre the ones who caused the accident
TPF: oh! cole!
Pan: jessica alba is so totally dumping him
right now
TPF: why isn't anyone wondering where cole's symptoms are?
Pan: i know
it's silly
TPF: the only person in this movie who can act is cole
Pan: i know. it's almost a b movie
with bad actors and effects
TPF: almost as bad as buffy effects
OMG! COLE IS MADE OF METAL!
i like the fire effects though, they actually look nice

...

[Pan feels sorry for Cole, and Jessica Alba's bad acting and revealing wardrobe are remarked upon yet again]
TPF: oh jessica
bad acting
Pan: she cant act at all
BOOBS
she's like in it for the boobs
and then there is cole, who's finally changing
everyone's so mean to him, including his own girlfriend
TPF: aaaaaaaw!
poor evil mastermind!
awww
Pan: no wonder he goes evil
i would if everyone hated me
someone needs to hug him
why arent the others being nice to him?
TPF: because he's evil? he's a bad bad person
Pan: he's evil because they're not nice to him
it's a vicious cycle, like the poverty cycle
TPF: no
they're not nice to him
because he's evil
Pan: no, hes evil because they're not nice to him
TPF: fine

...

[A bad explanation is given for how the Fantastic Four's uniforms resist their superpowers. TPF, with her eternally inquisitive and analytic mind, cannot believe her ears, and wonders how on earth it all actually got made into a movie]
TPF: its silly that the radiation modified the uniforms too
Pan: i know
TPF: i mean
the uniforms are not organic
they have no genes. how can they mutate?
Pan: yes, sweetie
TPF: it's really stupid
Pan: I know

...

[Generic bitching about the utter lack of plot, even past the 1-hour mark. Expressions of disbelief on the badness of the movie]
TPF: dude
this is such a bad movie
Pan: bad acting
TPF: nothing is happening
NOTHING at all
ben is the only one who's acting
Pan: i cant believe we're seeing this
TPF: neither can i
Pan: they could at least make out. why are they not making out?
how silly
TPF: can jessica do anything but look mildly sad?
is she able to do anything else? does she have other expressions?
Pan: she cant do anything
she has to show her boobs
aah evil ben
TPF: dude
do you think there'll actually be a plot one day? a plot that lasts more than 10 minutes?
Pan: well Cole is getting evil. and they have to stop him
TPF: yeah, well
the movie's almost over
Pan: cole looks even hotter now
he' got a metal face
oh great, he has a mask now. why couldnt they come up with a better mask?
he's darth cole now
TPF: MUHAHHAHHA! DARTH COLE!

...

[Oh yes. It really is a bad movie]
TPF: this is a really bad movie. really bad
Pan: i know
TPF: like so bad it's almost funny
Pan: they destroyed half of new york
and people still love them

...

[The obligatory romantic ending is bad. Very bad. Worse than usual]
TPF: AAAAAAAAAAAAAW
how romantic!
NO MORE THINKING
NO MORE VARIABLES
SUE STORM
WILL YOU MARRY ME?
what kind of surname is storm?
Pan: he's just asking her because she can get invisible
TPF: yeah

Thankfully, the movie ended at this point. It was bad. Really, really bad. In case you hadn't realised.

PS: Pan and TPF don't really call each other Pan and TPF on random msn conversations. In fact, they never call each other Pan and TPF. They actually have real names.

Book meme

2006-09-09T22:26:00.000+01:00

What better than a meme to get back into blogging? Thanks to Sophia for the tag!

1. One book that changed your life: As anticlimactic as this might be for a start to a meme, I have no answer to this. There is no book that changed my life. Perhaps I am too young. But, as Pan said, a book that changed your life may be a book that made you think thoughts you'd never thought before. In that case, I'd say The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. It's a book that everyone should read. It should be made a compulsory read for all schoolchildren. One day, when I become the ruler of the universe, I shall make sure that everyone reads it.

2. One book that you’ve read more than once: The His Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman. Can't wait for the movie to be released. Especially as it's got Eva Green and Nicole Kidman. I'm pretty miffed that Daniel Craig and not Jason Isaacs is playing Lord Asriel, because Jason Isaacs is just... well, I don't think words could do him justice.

3. One book you’d want on a desert island: The entire Harry Potter series, after book seven comes out, obviously, because I really wouldn't want to be tormented with thoughts on whether Snape is truly evil or not, or what the last Horcrux is, or if Ron and Hermione will finally DO IT. Not when I'm on a desert island getting bitten by mosquitos.

4. One book that made you laugh: The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the entire series, by Douglas Adams. I found the plots rather weak, overall, but the silly chapters, the Guide entries, Random's teenage drama, everything, it was all hilarious. I've never snickered so much in my life as I did whilst reading those books. Even on a 16-hour bus ride from Antalya to Sivas, when everyone else was sleeping and getting mad at me for keeping my lights on.

5. One book that made you cry: Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust. Well, I had tears building up at any rate, and all because of the beauty of that book. It wasn't the plot, it wasn't anything, it was just that it's such a beautiful, beautiful book, and beauty can be so moving. Sigh. I wish I could read it again like it was the frist time.

6. One book that you wish had been written: My wife, TPF, by Thomas Hardy. I LOVE YOU, THOMAS! COME BACK AND MARRY ME!

7. One book that you wish had never been written: Great Expectations, because it is dull. And Hardy is so much better! SO THERE!

8. One book you’re currently reading: Latife Hanım, by Ipek Çalışlar, about Mustafa Kemal Atatürk's wife. It's in Turkish, and I'm not used to reading in Turkish, so it's a bit of a challenge, but being a shameless history nerd, I enjoy these kinds of books.

9. One book you’ve been meaning to read: The Simoqin Prophecies, by Samit Basu.

10. Now tag six people, which I shall be unable to do because anyone I could tag has already been tagged. Sigh.

Network Hunting

2006-08-10T09:13:00.001+01:00

Most internet cafés are weird places. They're predominantly populated by males of the 15-50 age range who are either there to play addictive videogames or to surf online dating websites, disguised as tall, good-looking and well-earning businessmen.

Internet cafés in Turkey are no different. It is hence unadvisable for any female to enter one without a suitably well-built male escort.

If, like me, you happen to be staying at your grandmother's house, you can hardly expect the ancient-looking computer to have an internet connection, because chances are it doesn't. But in this day and age, a computer without an internet connection is like a watermelon without seeds, a sea without waves, Peron without Evita, Posh without Becks, food without salt and I think you get the point.

So you can imagine my discomfort as I sat there with my brand new Preity perched on my lap (because she is a laptop after all), and a nasty 'The page you were looking for could not be found' message from Internet Explorer. What to do? What to do? Face the hordes of hairy creeps at the nearest internet café, or live through weeks of net deprivation?

I can tell you, I was very close to making myself the object of lewd fantasies by entering the dreaded air-condition deprived hellhole when suddenly, Preity went 'ding!'.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, she went 'ding!' during a relatively entertaining Turkish League football match.

'What could she possibly be dinging for?' I thought. To my surprise, there it was! A feeble yet beautifully real wireless network! Excitement and adrenalin flooding my veins, I clicked on My Network Places, anticipating blissful internet surfing. Alas, my joy was to be short-lived, for the selfish, heartless owners of the wireless network, wherever I was picking it up from, had made it password protected. I briefly considered trying to guess the password. Recognising that as a flash of insanity, no doubt brought upon by disappointment, I dropped that idea immediately and fell back to clicking the refresh button over and over again, hoping, by some kind of miracle, to pick up some unprotected network.

It didn't happen.

Undeterred, I took the matter into my own hands. I unplugged Preity and embarked upon what will henceforth be known as The Long March In Search For A Wireless Network. Too bad Mao wasn't there to lead the way.

After much fruitless refreshing at different points in the house, with Preity perched precariously in the crook of my elbow, I eventually got to the balcony on the other side of the house. Here, I sat down and prayed to Gandhi, as I used to do when I was late for school and the tram didn't come.

It worked.

I found a wireless hotspot on my grandmother's balcony.

The only problem is that the signal is so incredibly weak that moving by half a metre breaks the connection. Also, there is an air conditioning motor right above my head and if I try sitting somewhere else, well, the magic is broken.

Not that I'm complaining. I'm exploiting someone else's wireless network because they were too nice to password protect it. I'm saving money that would have otherwise been spent at a seedy internet café. I am doing all this without having to step out of the house (unless you consider the balcony as being effectively 'out'). I am stealing.

Crime pays.

Holiday!

2006-08-05T17:27:00.000+01:00

I turned 18 a few days ago, and actually felt it. You know how birthdays usually don't feel like anything, and if it weren't for the fact that we have calendars, they'd go by unregistered? Well, for the first time in my life, I have found that to be untrue. I actually felt something when I turned 18 or, rather, the days before and after I turned 18.

Nothing physical, of course. I didn't sprout a second head or third eyebrow or anything of the sort. But I did feel a strange sort of psychological pressure, a nagging thought of 'OK, I'm 18, now I actually have to do something with my life'.

Of course, this only lasted for a few hours because luckily, I get over things pretty fast. Also, the purchase of a new laptop aided in the recovery.

Oh, yes, the new laptop.

Well, what can I say, she's beautiful. Yes, of course she's female. All laptops are female, didn't you know? Now I've officially left Moses Jr. to my mother (Moses is Jr. because his motherboard got changed last year. He used to be just Moses) and taken possession of my brand new Preity. Preity like the actress.

Preity is pretty for many reasons. Firstly, she is the first item I have bought especially for university. Also, she has almost invisible yet uber-cool designs all over her. On top of all that, she allows me to type as I sit in bed in Turkey, as I am right now.

Oh, yes, Turkey.

Well, I'm back in the motherland for the summer, as I usually am. I haven't been to the seaside yet, but I'll go tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, and... you get the gist. To say that it is hot here would be an understatement, so bathing is kind of essential. Either that or you sit under the air conditioning all day, but that isn't very healthy.

The highlight up to now has been meeting my hot cousin Aladdin. Now despite being my age, Aladdin is actually my mum's cousin, and that gives me an excuse to think about just how good looking that boy is. No, seriously. He really is hot. Of course, I feel nothing but sisterly affection towards him, but there's no harm in aesthetic appreciation, is there? The problem is that Aladdin consistently goes out with girls who are simply not pretty enough for him. I should know. He shows me their photos.

This last one, for example, is definitely not much above average, and believe me when I say that Aladdin is HOT. In case I hadn't managed to get the point across previously. So I wonder, how is it that normal girls get hot guys and pretty girls with brains (like me, for example) get nothing? Perhaps we scare the men off. It's the brain; girls aren't supposed to have one.

Aladdin is not my cousin's real name, obviously. Pan came up with it. She's seen a photo and is convinced that he looks like Aladdin.

Speaking of Pan, she's stuck in Milan, poor thing, and Milan is a ghost city in August. It's weird not seeing her or talking to her on the phone every day. I miss her. Sniff.

And that, friends, is all for now. Excuse the mess of random topics that was this post.

Today, mum was born

2006-07-22T00:33:00.000+01:00

Today is my mum's birthday.

My mum and I fight a lot, mostly about the same things over and over again. She complains that I never shut drawers after I open them, and I always complain that she should be grateful that I'm not an angst-ridden junkie and that surely, leaving drawers open is the best bad habit a daughter could have.

My mum and I occasionally fight about more important things, and neither one of us likes doing that. We fight because sometimes, I can be a really mean and never admit to it, and because sometimes, she can be a really mean too but never admit to it either, which in turn makes me act even meaner. It's a vicious cycle, really. I have drawn a diagram using sophisticated software (MS Paint) to illustrated just how vicious it is. See below.
Thankfully, when it comes to fighting with my mum, I have only a limited capacity for anger and so I end up giving her a hug five minutes after and things go back to normal.

My mum and I sometimes don't manage to get things to go back to normal, because we're both very stubborn and refuse to admit that we might be wrong. Also, I am always right, so it's her fault, really. When these situations occur, we have what I often refer to as a Cold War. We try our best to be polite, whilst internally fuming. At least, that's what I do, but I'm sure she's exactly the same.

My mum and I engage in activities other than fighting. We like to lie down on the couch together and watch TV. Sometimes, it's Gilmore Girls, which reminds us of ourselves except that, well, my mother is not a single mother, and my love life isn't half as exciting as Rory's (read: I don't have one). But these are differences that can be overlooked. Sometimes, we watch CSI and delight in trying to guess who the murderer is and invariably getting it wrong. A few years ago, Tuesday evening used to be our ER evening, and we'd randomly get weepy over dying cancer patients and children with incurable genetic diseases and stillborn babies. We like to watch movies that make us cry, and then laugh at each other for crying.

My mum and I are always late, for everything. Despite this, neither of us have ever missed a plane, train or bus. People are so exasperated that they are literally praying for the day the plane leaves without us, so that we might learn. They are, of course, delusional. We'll never give up being late.

My mum is not very good with names, which is a family joke, so she practices learning random celebrity names from the Italian version of Dancing With the Stars.

My mum is also not very good with languages, which is another family joke, but she refuses to speak any other language than Turkish with me, even though it could help her improve her English and Italian. She says that if she lets me forget Turkish, she'll have no way to communicate with me when I'm older. She's right, as usual.

My mum is always right. That's why I never even bother to complain anymore when she makes me take a jacket out with me 'just in case,' even if it's Spring.

My mum worries about the most absurd things. We were going on holiday for a few days some time ago, and we had to park the car at the airport. She insisted that we park it underground because 'you never know, there might be a hailstorm'.

My mum worries about things that are worth worrying about, mainly because she cares about people other than herself, which is more than I can say for me. Because my mum is so nice, everybody loves her, including me.

My mum is the most incredible people person I know. She can walk into a stuffy government office, wait in line for a tediously long hour and then smile and make friends with the person behind the counter, so that if she's missing a document, she can come back later and skip the line and get it all done in a second. She's friends with bank workers and consulate workers. Cleaning ladies tell her about their family sagas. The whole extended family loves her. I have yet to know of a single person who did not immediately love my mother after meeting her. I don't know how she does it, but it's amazing, and it makes me really proud.

My mum is one of my two best friends. I tell her absolutely everything.

My mum is hilarious. She is also a great actress. Sometimes, I ask her to be 'angry mum', an act in which she pretends to be evil, snaps at me and generally acts completely out of character. She is so believable that I have to tell her to stop after a while because it scares me.

My mum is an advocate of healthy eating. She puts so little salt in the food she makes that once, when we went for a check up, our blood analyses showed that everything was in the norm except for our salt levels, which were below the ideal lower boundary. The doctor, who had never seen something like that in his life, could hardly believe it. I just found it hilarious, and thenceforth took the opportunity to eat my food salty, just how I love it.

My mum has been trying to 'get back to 58 kg' for the last ten years now.

My mum is now more than half a century old. When I think that she's on the way to being 60, I get scared, so I try not to think about it.

I love my mum very very much, and wish her a very happy birthday. I'm glad she was born and I'm glad she's my mum, because, as I often tell her, she's the best mum in the world.

In defence of internet regulations

2006-07-19T21:43:00.000+01:00

The internet is such a scary place. Even though it's not technically a place, insofar as it is not a physical location. OK, I shall amend that. The internet is a scary medium. Better? Loads.

It's scary because all the things that make it so amazing also make it overly easy to misuse. Like, for example; it takes five minutes for any random person to start a blog. I should know; I've done it myself. Now, whilst this may provide a safe and healthy outlet for all manner of human expression, including but not limited to bad poetry, miscellaneous venting and the narration of imaginary sexual escapades, it also allows anyone and everyone to say the most absurd things.

Unfortunately, absurd does not always mean 'My pink slippers ate my cobra.' It also means bad things. Terrible things that are better off not mentioned, lest some impressionable mind should stumble upon them and spread the badness.

Also, under the comforting shelter of anonymity, the internet allows people to create characters for themselves, which in turn allows them to say whatever they want, which is never a good thing. I mean, peer pressure exists for many reasons, one of which is to curb dangerous deviant tendencies.

What exactly do I mean by this? Well, as a mentor figure probably told you at some point in your life, extremes are bad. They are. But you can publicise any extremist viewpoint on the internet without anyone stopping you or knowing who you are.

So you get all manner of creeps and idiots, alongside the mature and interesting individuals. And the worst thing is, you don't even know what you're looking at until you're drawn so into it that you can barely tear yourself away form the screen and succumb to the fits of hilarity and/or frustration that the situation warrants. Is it just me or do many internet users act much younger than they are? You see adults bickering and flaming each other like there's no tomorrow. No such thing as healthy debate. Which makes for free entertainment, but also makes you reflect on the general crappiness of humanity, if you should so happen to be inclined towards depressive thoughts.

OK, fine, freedom of expression, I get it.

I like the internet. It has email and Wikipedia. It also has online newspapers (which I don't really care about, but which my dad likes to read) and gossip columns on BBC (which I try to avoid but end up knowing off by heart anyway because of Pan). But it scares me. Mostly because people scare me. People are creepy. They shouldn't be allowed on the internet.

Go ahead and disagree.

Oh, and before I forget. One thing that makes me say 'Screw human rights! This is punishable by 56k modem!' is the abysmal state of grammar on the internet. 'Grammarcrime', as I like to call it, is the worst possible offence in today's web-based world. In my totalitarian dictatorship, which I shall establish as soon as I take over the world (I do seem to have autocratic tendencies, don't I?), words such as 'definately' and sentences such as 'Your writing a new post on you're blog?' will be hunted down and executed.

PS: None of this, of course, applies to me or my blogroll. I love me! And my blogroll!

Catching Up

2006-07-13T10:32:00.000+01:00

Dearest readers,

I apologize for my prolonged absence from the blogosphere. Pan told me she had a new post today, so, after reading it, I went on my own blog and noticed that I hadn't posted anything for more than a month. The guilt almost overwhelmed me, I can tell you.

Many things have happened in my life in these past few weeks, emotionally significant events.
What happened that was such a big deal?, you may ask. Here's the list:

I got back from India,
which was traumatic, to say the least, because India rules and it reminds me of Turkey so I've developed an unhealthy emotional attachment to it. After three weeks of a mostly vegetarian diet, I was thinner and healthier, so much so that the first thing my mother said to me after not seeing me for ages was not 'Oh, TPF, apple of my eye, how I missed you!', or 'Oh, TPF, home is not the same without you!', but 'Wow, TPF, your skin is loads better.'

No, seriously, she actually said that.

And now for the visual aids.

Now this is what I call persuasion. Would you dare defy the author of this? I know I wouldn't. Of course, I don't own a car with which to risk it, but if I did, I'd steer clear of that gate. You know, this kind of reminds me of that scene from Godfather where Marlon Brando sends a guy the corpse of his favourite horse so that the guy wakes up in bed to see blood all over the place, lifts the covers and sees his dead horse. Of course, I stopped watching the movie after that scene because my 12 year-old cousin was with me and also because the volume didn't work and it was hard to understand Marlon Brando's sexy accent.

By the way, you've probably heard about the bomb blasts in Bombay. I was actually on one of those trains a month ago and I know people who use them every day. Luckily, everyone I know is OK, including adorable fuzz-head Eris, and Gary, whose house we stayed in for three days, but I think all that, plus the clubbing, plus the trudging in fashion street under heavy rains warrants a separate post.

I got a sexy tan
at Harry's house in Liguria (which is an Italian region by the sea). Yep, friends. I am no longer 'she of the sickly pallor', but 'she of the chocolate brown sexiness that goes with her prom dress'. Oh, right, the prom.

I partied
at the prom, which wasn't very good because the music was bad, but hey, at least I didn't buy a new dress for it. I used the same one I used in my tenth grade prom. Which means a) I haven't gained any weight, which is good, and b) My frontal assets have remained unchanged, which is decidedly less good. I personally like to think of option 'a' more.

I also partied at Vintage Girl's cool end of year bash/early birthday party where, believe it or not, there was an open bar and, believe it or not, decent music. Two mojitos, one vodka lemon, one sangria and liberal quantities of wine later I was having the time of my life. And this was the day after the prom. Thank God for Pan, who was somehow more sober than me (and that, friends, is an event in and of itself). And the day after that, at nine in the morning, I had to go for Graduation Day rehearsals.

Oh, right, graduation.

I graduated
from high school, obviously. My family was late for the ceremony. You know, I keep telling people that it runs in the family, that I can't help it if I'm always late, it's genetic, and people don't believe me. Well, if their parents were late for their graduation, they would believe me. And that's that.

Oh, Pan and I went to order photographs from the school photographer today and I discovered that I look positively miserable in my Graduation Day ones. I wonder why that is. Hmm. Maybe because my parents were late for it, and I soooo hope my mother reads this so she can see the pain she caused me. Sniff. I will so never get over this.

I went to the EXIT festival
in Serbia, where I got to watch Franz Ferdinand, Morrissey and, drumroll, BILLY IDOL. Oh yes. Billy Idol. Who is still incredibly hot despite his age. Who is so sexy I couldn't refrain from drooling and practically fainting despite the fact that my mother (also a fan) was next to me and I should have perhaps tried to maintain some decorum. Oh my. I am swooning at the memory of his hotness.

He sang everything. Everything except Cradle of Love, but perhaps that's a good thing, because I might have truly fainted had he sung Cradle of Love.

Franz Ferdinand were OK, but I don't like them much so I wasn't all that interested. Morrissey rocked, but I was disappointed because I'm much more of a Smiths fan and he didn't sing any Smiths songs. But he did sing How Soon is Now, which I happen to know off by heart because I used to watch Charmed.

Oh dear. I have just publicly admitted to watching Charmed. You know, I always hated Prue and was so glad when she died because every time I saw her I was inevitably reminded of Brenda Walsh from Beverly Hills, 90210 and I really disliked Brenda Walsh.

OK, now that I've got that out of the way...

I saw the Rolling Stones
at Milan's football stadium. Pan's post has more details on that. I can just tell you that it was amazing, despite the fact the Mick and Keith were little more than specks dressed in weirdly coloured clothing. And, oh, Start Me Up and Brown Sugar, one after the other... I practically died.

I got my IB results
which were good, and I am officially a Uni girl now! SQUEE! But term starts in October, so I have plenty of time to basically do whatever I want. Pan, Harry, Marry and I are supposed to go to Berlin sometime this month, but the way things are going, that is so not going to happen.

Speaking of Berlin...

Italy won the World Cup
for the first time in 24 years! AND I WAS THERE! Well, not at the World Cup, but in Italy. Italy went crazy. Even I went crazy, and I'm not even Italian! Seriously, I bought a flag for 10 Euros before I even knew if Italy was going to win or not. And I wore it as a belt the next day.

Meanwhile, the Middle East is going to war again and my life seems stupidly fickle and useless. Oh well. I shall indulge in the fickleness. Meanwhile, I shall also do some much needed blog-hopping and see how my beloved blogroll is doing.

Yours,
TPF

Blogging in the Rain - another joint post

2006-05-31T17:55:00.000+01:00

After the overwhelming response they got from their beloved fans, Pan and TPF have decided to grace you all with another gem from your favourite teenage bloggers.

In the past few days they have been busy shopping.

Yes, that's right, folks. TPF has never been to India before and instead of sightseeing, she has been keeping herself busy by trying to buy away half the city. Pan, who on the other hand was born in Bombay, is buying the other half.

Today, Pan and TPF bought 12 pairs of earrings, not to mention a ring, for less than 6 Euros. The street vendor thought that he was ripping Pan and TPF off but in reality, what the poor street vendor doesn't know is that Pan and TPF were the ones who had the upper hand in the transaction. They're evil and they love it! [Also, they love exploiting cheap labour]

TPF ruined Pan's morning the other day because she randomly pretended to be sick. The reason for this is that she is an attention-seeking brat. To this day, the reasons for her random 'condition' remain one of the biggest mysteries of mankind. Suffice it to say that once Pan forcibly dragged her to a shopping mall, TPF immediately got better.

[This is all Pan's fabrication. TPF was truly feeling unwell.]

Well, we all know who just typed that out!

The monsoon has officially arrived in Bombay. This was testified to by the copious wading through ankle-deep water under a flimsy, Milanese and shared chatri* that Pan and TPF engaged in this evening.

This of course was nothing compared to the walking around barefoot in a damp-floored temple that TPF had to endure for the sake of cultural awareness. Yes, friends, our darling TPF was seen BAREFOOT in a damp, fungus-ridden public space. Behold the flying pigs.

Pan and TPF cooked. Together. It was ugly. It was bitter. It was war!

Enough said on that.

Throughout all this, Pan and TPF have fallen victim to the infamous leer. The characteristics of this leer include:

1) bared teeth
2) perverted sneer
3) traces of drool
4) dirty mumblings in Marathi
5) touching of private areas, including but not limited to 'the tool' or the 'the wand', as it is known in the wizarding world

Of course, Pan and TPF are hardly blameless in this situation, being the uber-hot chicks that they are. Also, TPF happens to be rather pale compared to the average Mumbaite, and Pan favours clothing that enhances her naturally prominent assets.

Wait till Eris joins them. She's bald, for God's sake.

So for now, TPF and Pan once again leave the blogosphere and hope that you will all survive for a couple of days without their riveting posts, although from the astounding amount of comments they have received on their last entry, it seems as if you shall all live.

*umbrella

Bombay Blogging - a joint post

2006-05-29T07:20:00.000+01:00

Hello, imaginary following. Today, Pan and TPF shall be joining their already immense wits to create one fun-fest of a post! Buckle up!

We are in Bombay, as you can tell by the title, and we're posting together, as you can also tell by the title (and by the fact that the same post is in both our blogs). We are also fighting over the keyboard, an activity which is definitely in line with our usual bickering and childish banter.

No, we are not married. But thanks for asking.

Moving on.

We have already taken some funny photos which shall be posted as soon as we get back to Italy. Meanwhile, we shall tell you what's been going on for the last two days.

The flight was mostly uneventful, except for Pan's mispronounciation of German (we were flying Austrian Air). You see, she kept pronouncing 'flug' as if it rhymed with 'plug', when the 'u' is actually supposed to be pronounced as something like the the double 'o'in 'book'. Also, TPF mocked Pan for her sentimentalism, which was very very mean of her. Pan sulked and TPF apologized and everything was fine again. We watched a Hindi movie with subtitles - Bluff Master on the plane and marvelled at the uber-cool headphones, which the plane people were kind enough to supply. We also had a Britney Spears marathon on our iPod which was rather cool.

At the airport, Pan got paranoid about our luggage not coming thorugh. Luckily, TPF was there to save the day and make sure Pan didn't hyperventilate. Pan's friends came all the way to the airport to say hi to her, which made her feel like a horrible friend (which she is).

We eventually got home and survived thanks to the aid of ceiling fans. It's pretty hot and humid here, kind of like Turkish summers, which makes TPF feel at home and Pan feel sticky with perspiration. Because women don't sweat, they perspire.

Yesterday, we went out for a walk with a friend of Pan's. Apparently, Pan sucks at road crossing. TPF saved her life numerous times (you can probably tell by now that TPF's writing most of this post whilst Pan is busy twirling her thumbs and talking to her aunt). By the way, did you know that Pan is an auntie? Her cousin has a two and a half year old son called Gops (well, not really. It's a nickname). Gops loves his auntie Pan, but not his auntie Pan's friend, TPF (he can join the bloody club). In fact, Gops thinks TPF is auntie Pan's mummy. Which is very flattering to TPF. Really.

We shall do another one of these joint posts very soon to keep you all in touch with your uber-cool teenaged bloggers. You are advised to leave comments on both blogs, otherwise you may cause discontent and more bickering and we already do enough of that without your help.

Thank you and goodbye!

Condi's Playlist

2006-05-25T00:27:00.000+01:00

Have you ever asked yourself what a typical Condoleeza Rice iPod playlist looks like?

Neither have I.

Luckily, Bono has. Now I don't like Bono much (I don't like him at all, actually) but I'll give him credit for asking the important questions. Good job, Bono. These are the things I'd really like to ask if I came face to face with Condi.

It seems that Condi is fond of classical music. But look at that number two.

I almost dropped off my chair when I read that. No, really. Cream? That's just... that's... cool. You wouldn't expect Condi to be cool, would you? Maybe she is, I mean, I don't know her or anything, but she doesn't look very cool. She doesn't look like the kind of person who'd listen to Cream. Now Tony Head as Ripper listening to 'Tales of Brave Ulysses' is totally believable, but that's Tony Head. This is Condoleeza Rice we're talking about.

Can you see her bopping to the inspired 'Sunshine of Your Love' lyrics?

Neither can I.

By the way, you can totally tell that she wanted to put Cream at number one but she had to maintain some sort of composure, so she was forced to pretend to like Mozart more. Which is impossible. I mean, how can you possibly like Mozart more than Cream?

This article threw me into a fit of self-doubt, I must say. Who knew Condi was a kindred spirit? Seriously, she likes Cream! Am I supposed to like her now?

Well, I do.

ROCK ON, CONDI! YOU HAVE MY VOTE!

Even though I'm Turkish and I can't vote for your election. Pity, that.

Another thing that jumps to my attention is the beautifully vague number 7.

Condi: Hmm. Bono. Who's Bono again? You too? Oh, U2. Like the spy planes? We send those around. Sometimes they get shot down and summits collapse. Oh, you meant the band? There's a band called U2? Silly name. What, they're famous? Pah! Brahms is better. What's that? The Bono guy is editing this issue of The Independent? Oh my. I cannot possible forget to include one of his songs in my playlist. Trouble is, I don't know any of his songs. Maybe George knows some. I'll ask him. George, I need to put a U2 song in this list but I don't know any. What can I do?

George: Just be vague and say what they want to hear. That's always worked for me.

Condi: Well, actually...

George: Silence!

Condi: OK. People are stupid anyway. They'll believe it.

And so we have Condi pretending to be a U2 fan for the sake of appearances.

Condi, you are my hero. I love you even more now.

The Da Vinci Crap. Code. I meant Code.

2006-05-19T16:10:00.000+01:00

It's not that bad, actually. The movie, I mean. I haven't read the book. I will never read the book. I wouldn't touch the book with a ten foot pole. I don't know why ten feet and not twelve, or thirty-eight for that matter. But ten it is.

But I did see the movie.

Alas, your last bulwark against the onslaught of mass media hype, your remaining fortress of anti-bestsellerism, the final frontier of the war against so-called literature, in other words this blog, has fallen.

I have succumbed to the pressure. I have seen The Da Vinci Code. With a capital D. I was probably amongst the first few people in Milan to do so, in fact, as I watched the 2 o'clock showing. We even got cheap tickets. We being Pan and I. Yes, Pan was there too. Had you any doubt?

What, you think I am shamelessly procrastinating the moment in which I will have to reveal what I actually thought of the movie? Well spotted.

I liked it.

It wasn't that bad.

From here on, there shall be spoilers. Proceed at your own risk.

The first half was good. Reasonably paced, reasonably mysterious, reasonably reasonable. The self-flagellating albino monk was successfully creepy. Overblown music served to highlight moments of astounding revelation. Tom Hanks was kind of endearing in a slightly bloated, 'I used to be this great star when I made quality movies and movies with Meg Ryan but then I sort of, uh, wasn't anymore,' way. Audrey Tautou ruled, even though from Amelie to The Da Vinci Code is as big a cinematic quality drop as they make them. And the whole trasure hunt thing that worked so well in National Treasure worked well in this movie too.

Tom Hanks: A clue! Let us follow it!

Evil monk: KILL! KIIIIILLLLL! Flagellate.

Tom Hanks: ANOTHER CLUE! Let us follow it more!

Random characters: We are good! We are helping the heroes!

Tom Hanks: Great! [gets hit in the head numerous times]

Random characters: HA! GOTCHA!

Tom Hanks: You're evil? B-But...

Audience: Dude, you're the only one who bought it.

Tom Hanks: [mopes] But I fell in a well when I was little. So now I'm claustrophobic.

Audrey Tautou: A-HA! Let me heal you with my magical powers.

Audience: Um, is this a hint?

Audrey Tautou: No. By the way, my parents died when I was little.

Audience: Awwww.

Tom Hanks: No time for interesting backstory! I have discovered yet another clue! We must follow it at all costs and make sure to pointedly ignore the fact that an evil monk is after us and he's clearly better than us at various methods of violence, therefore it would make sense for us not to turn our backs on him, but you know what? What is an action movie without the action heroes doing exactly that?

Audience: Hear, hear!

Et cetera.

As you would expect, this got old after a while. Eventually, Ian McKellen, the quirky yet endearing cripple, came into the picture.

Ian McKellen: I am quirky yet endearing. Also, my connection to Tom Hanks is obscure. Oh, and I am a rich Englishman.

Tom Hanks: Hi. Help us. Also, we need someone to do the exposition.

Ian McKellen: Allow me to expose, then. The Holy Grail, yadda yadda yadda, Knights of the Templar, yadda yadda yadda, Mary Magdalene, yadda yadda yadda, in conclusion, Jesus was married and had children. This is the Church's uber-secret. Please try to ignore the fact that my explanation has been completely ineffectual in clearing up the question of who's after whom and why.

Audrey Tautou: But then it's not an explanation...

Tom Hanks: Whatever. Watch me as I pretend to disagree with Ian McKellen. Overlook the fact that my acting skills are less than convincing.

Audience: OK. But only because you used to make movies with Meg Ryan.

At this point, I gave up on understanding the plot. Mind you, it's probably just me. I'm not good at getting plots. Unless they're obvious.

Tom Hanks and Audrey Tautou: [after having numerous near-death experiences at the hands of the creepy monk and the police] Woah. We might have actually reached the end!

A clue: No you haven't!

Audrey Tautou: NO! NOT ANOTHER CLUE!

A clue: Geez, kidding.

Audience: OH THANK GOD!

Tom Hanks: Here we go, then-

Ian McKellen: A-HA! That's what you think!

Tom Hanks: Ian? What? You're supposed to be in mortal peril! More importantly, you're not supposed to be here!

Ian McKellen: WRONG! I AM EVIL! MUHAHAHHAUHA. And a pitiful excuse for a plot twist. Which is also evil.

Audrey Tautou: [sighs] This will never end, will it?

Audience: Sorry.

Eventually, the French police appeared out of nowhere and arrested Ian McKellen, which is a pity, because he was doing a great job acting slightly unhinged. Almost as cool as Magneto, in fact. And then, the big revelation.

Audrey Tautou: Uh, aside from displaying my lovely French accent and my above-average acting skills, what exactly was my purpose? Oh, right, I am related to the old chap who died at the beginning.

Tom Hanks: No you're not! You're related to JESUS!

Audrey Tautou: Well, you sure appear pretty calm for someone who's delivering momentous news. I don't believe you.

Tom Hanks: [tries harder] You are related to JESUS! You are the Holy Grail!

Ian McKellen: [from his prison cell] A-HA! You finally got it! But didn't you realise from the SUBTLE hints I threw in throughout the movie, such as but not limited to the famous saying 'We often don't see what's right in front of us' paired with a meaningful look towards Audrey? And her generosity towards a random heroin addict in a random park in Paris? And her magical healing powers? And the fact that she got way too much camera time for someone who was supposed to just help the hero?

Audience: Uh...

Tom Hanks: Oh my God, I am standing in the same room as Jesus' last living relative. Can't you see how shocked I am from my lack of expression? Oh my God, you are Jesus' descendant. Uh, wow?

Audience: How?

Ian McKellen: [from his prison cell] I AM EVIL! MUHAHAHHAUHA.

I still don't get why Ian McKellen was evil, though. It's not like he tried to kill anybody.

Anyway. Audrey Tautou is Jesus' great-great-great... something.

This was followed by moments of enlightenment on the beauty of faith, a chaste kiss on the forehead delivered by Tom Hanks to Audrey Tautou, and the random appearance of random people who are randomly assigned to protect Audrey Tautou because guess what? She's related to Jesus!

Why the outrage, I wonder? I'm sure the book made a decent thriller, bad writing aside. The movie made a decent thriller too, average acting aside. But two and a half hours of treasure hunting and inane plot twists sure aren't enough to destroy the Church. Especially as the movie takes so much care to be politically correct. I learned more about Opus Dei through an article on Time magazine than I did through the movie.

Besides, the final revelation is kind of ludicrous.

Oh well. I suppose it counts as a plot twist.

Well, that's all, folks. TPF has voluntarily spent money on The Da Vinci Code. You can now proceed to mock her. But seriously, it wasn't that bad. And hey, you can thank me for putting myself through the torture in your stead. Or hate me for revealing the twists. Whatever tickles your fancy.

PS: Despite the movie's title, there was very little about Leonardo and altogether too much on unintelligible plot points. Movie script writers would do well to remember that quality, not quantity, makes a movie decent. Twenty minutes of exposition will do nothing unless the exposition makes sense. Yes, I'm still bitter about the whole not understanding the plot thing.

Natalie Portman in 'Dude, where's my hair?'

2006-05-16T20:30:00.000+01:00

I'M BACK!

Ahem.

Exams are virtually over. I have the last two next week, but I don't really need to study. I mean, they're Italian exams and I kind of know Italian (that's what happens when you live in a country for 16 years) so studying won't really get me anywhere, but it will make me cranky and cut from my valuable bloghopping time! Which is why I'm not studying until Sunday evening. And that's that.

Moving on.

I read this a while on Overheard in New York and, well, how hot is Natalie Portman? No, seriously. Does she even fit on a scale of 1 to 10? And not only that, she's smart too. And rich. And she got to make out with Hayden Christensen! And she can act (she pulls off the British accent in V for Vendetta better than James Marsters, and that's saying something)!

As if that wasn't enough to prove the existence of a cosmic force of unfairness that governs our lives, Natalie Portman is also one of the select few people in the world who look good without hair.

A before/after to make the message clearer:

before:

after:

How is this fair, I ask you? if I shaved my head, I'd probably look like some kind of animal/vegetable. But if Natalie Portman shaves her head, she looks like a goddess! More so than she did before!

WHY? WHYYYY????? WHY HER AND NOT ME???

Um, apparently because the shape of her face is right. Go figure.

Other people who look good with overly short hair: David Beckham (who looks good in any hairdo, because he is a demi-god on earth, after all, and there's no denying that), Daniel Day-Lewis, Brad Pitt (need I explain?)...

None of them females.

Damn you, Natalie Portman, for managing to pull off the 'short-hair-for-movie' thing better than Demi Moore!

The movie is, of course, V for Vendetta which I watched a few weeks ago (a time I like to call 'ante-IB') at Pan's and since I knew that, at a certain point, Natalie Portman's hair was just going to go, I spent half the movie nagging Pan (who'd seen it before).

'Are they going to cut it now? Oh God, Pan, when are they going to cut it? Oh no, tell me it's not the next scene! How much till they cut her hair? Oh dear, it's going to be terrible, isn't it? Oh God, Pan, I'm scared! They can't cut her hair! That's... that's ebil!'

That's what I get for watching trailers. Half a movie ruined by the expectation of the hair-cutting.

This kind of reminds me of Along Came Polly. Trailers ruined that movie for me because all the funny stuff was in there (also, the movie was rather bad. That also ruined it). But then, some trailers don't make much of a difference, do they? I mean, I knew the ship was going to sink before I watched Titanic, but that didn't ruin the movie at all.

Yes, I admit it, I'm one of those lame-ass softies who cried during Titanic. Twice, in fact. Once, when the orchestra kept playing despite the imminent death by drowning. The second time when the old Kate Winslet chucked the necklace into the sea.

But apart from the movie-ruining tense anticipation of the awful moment when they were going to cut Natalie Portman's hair, I actually enjoyed V for Vendetta. Pan and I had to fight not to squee at the obvious 1984 references, and I had to fight tears (because I'm a romantic at heart) when she kissed V.

'He doesn't even feel it, you dolt. She's kissing the bloody mask!' said Pan.

'B-B-but... don't you see? He is the mask! He is the idea, and the man behind the idea! And she doesn't care that she's kissing plastic [but maybe it's porcelain] because she loves him! And I bet he totally feels the kiss anyway because she loves him, and he loves her, and they love each other and WHY DOESN'T ANYONE LOVE ME?'

'Oh, TPF, I'm sure your mother loves you.'

'HA! Yeah, right! She totally gave my broken foot the big brush-off!'

My foot is loads better, by the way.

In conclusion: V for Vendetta is a good movie. And Natalie Portman is hot.

Click on this link for a hilarious recap, but beware spoilers.

'I can't, my foot hurts...'

2006-04-27T18:11:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, I woke up and discovered that I was unable to walk properly because my right foot was hurting. A lot.

I brushed it off as possible residue of 'The Fall'.

Oh, yes, I am very much aware that The Fall happened on Friday night and yesterday was Wednesday, but you can't really blame me. I do not function well in the mornings.

It was most definitely not a good day to discover a mysterious injury that hindered basic motor skills. But by now, I'm used to things happening at bad times. In fifth grade, I got chicken pox a week before school photos were taken. I missed those, and a hugely entertaining trip to a dinosaur park. I'm still not over it. [They were plastic dinosaurs. But this was after Jurassic Park. The dinosaur fever was still very much on.]

Thankfully, I didn't miss anything important yesterday, but I did have to go to school to do some last minute history revision before IB exams start. So I limped all the way to the tram stop with my mother and when I got to school (late), I limped all the way up to the library, all the while noticing that my dear foot was getting progressively worse.

By the time the first part of the practise history paper our teacher had us doing was over, my right foot was twice the size of my left foot (OK, well, I'm exaggerating, but just a little) and it became painfully clear that the unidentified foot injury would not 'just go away', or at any rate not as fast as I would have wanted it to. Vicky, whom I thought until very recently was not acquainted with basic social skills, was surprisingly nice. She helped me up and down stairs and along numerous corridors. I think she too is a victim of the dreaded end-of-school fever that makes everyone nicer. We should give some of that to [insert name of desired politician/back-stabbing ex-best friend/horrid in-law].

I decided that I needed to go to hospital.

I took a taxi home (and felt rather pampered). Limping rather dramatically (but entirely justifiedly), I greeted my mother and brother, a pained expression marring my otherwise stunning and friendly features.

'Mother, I think I need the hospital,' I announced with a flourish. OK, more of a grimace (and, um, no, I don't really call her 'mother').

They had the good grace to look apprehensive.

'Is it your foot?' mum asked, coming over to give me a consolatory kiss.

'Yes,' I sighed, and sat down.

She went back to the computer.

Sensing that everyone's attention was no longer on me as it should have been, I staggered upright and spoke again:

'So, um, hospital?'

'Oh, yes, dear, but your brother and I have an appointment at five, I'll take you when we get back.'

If my foot hadn't been so terribly injured, I would have thrown a tantrum. Unfortunately, stamping my feet was out of the question, so I couldn't. I resorted to whining, and a healthy does of outraged sputtering.

'B-But... Mother! I am injured! My foot is broken! Surely you will not make me wait?'

My brother gave me a pat on the head. My mother laughed and called me 'nazli', a five-letter word that translates to something like 'awwww, endearingly spoilt little brat!'. Under normal circumstances, this is a cute little word that makes me pretend to be even more spoilt and five-year-old. However, these were not normal circumstances. I was in terrible pain, and nobody cared!

I called Pan to bitch to her about how unloved I was, et cetera. My mum gave me a cup of tea and laughed at the death-glare I shot her, so I resorted to annoying Pan further and watching Gilmore Girls reruns, as well as eating industrial amounts of Pan di Stelle. I even took a shower, fully expecting my whole leg to be put in a cast very soon and thus wanting my leg to be clean before having to be stuck in unbreakable material for a month. Of course, I didn't stop to think that, given the precarious state of my poor foot, I could have fallen and broken something else. Hey, teenagers are supposed to not think of consequences.

Eventually, my mum got back home and my brother took us to the hospital. Having dislocated several fingers and even broken one on occasion, I'd been to this particular hospital several times and was therefore fully aware of the wait before me. Which was made even worse by the prospect of missing a crucial football match: Barcelona-AC Milan, the second leg of the Champions League semifinal. I think you can guess what team I support.

I was in pain and my mother was having one of those days where she particularly enjoys mocking my pain and laughing at me (not with me, I assure you) when things got even worse. A girl about my age hopped in with her father and sat right next to me.

The dreaded waiting room conversation began.

I could tell without even looking at her that she was one of those ditzy italians that I... dislike. She began talking and all my suspicions were confirmed.

A few snippets of our interactions, presented here purely for your enjoyment:

Her: So, what language were you speaking earlier?
Me: Turkish.
Her: Oh, really? Why? [OH MY GOD, JUST HOW MANY BRAIN CELLS DO YOU OWN?]
Me: Um, because I'm Turkish.
Her: But you don't look Turkish. And neither does your mum.
Me: Actually, she looks quite Turkish [she really does. The girl was expecting us to look Arabic]. As for me... well, my dad's blond.
Her: Oh! Cool!

Her: So, Turkish, huh?
Me: Yep.
Her: I've been to Morocco.
Me: Really?

Her: Um, do you know a certain A. F.?
Me: Yes, I do. Wait, describe her, there might be someone else with the same name.
Her: Oh, you know, quite pretty, long bushy hair, average height...
Me: Yeah, I know her.
Her: Isn't she such a bitch?

It was really a pity that my name was called and I had to be torn away from the riveting conversation.

As usual, the doctor attempted to guess my nationality instead of trying to diagnose the nature of my injury. He thought I was Dutch. Then he thought I was Norwegian, and finally Swedish. At that point, my mother decided to end the pain and tell him that we're Turkish.

Doctor: Turkish? Oh, really? I've been to Istanbul!

I don't give a flying fuck where you've been, imbecile, just look at my foot!

But noooo, of course that's too much to ask, isn't it?

Doctor: I went to Turkey in 1980, blah blah blah. It was really beautiful, we went to the Black Sea, blah blah blah.
Mum [deciding to become an instrument of the Devil]: Well, next time you should try the Mediterranean coast!
Doctor: Oh, yes, Antalya, right?
Mum: Yes, it's very beautiful.

I zoned out, concentrating on my inner ear and listening to the rather painful pulsations of my foot.

Another fifteen minutes later, I got called back for an X-ray. It was uneventful, except for the sheet of lead they placed on my tummy to keep my uterus safe. Even though the lead they use is too thin to block even half of the rays emitted. Sometimes, I wish I hadn't taken physics. OK, I wish every day that I hadn't taken physics.

It got so late that the football match started. There was a TV in the waiting room perched very high up. I went blind trying to follow the game and my mum ignored me in favour of reading Jude the Obscure, which I made her read, by the way. She's at the part where Little Father Time does that unpleasant thing that he does (I'm really trying to avoid those pesky spoilers, you see) and she was so engrossed in her reading that she didn't even hear when they called my name. Being the responsible person that I am, I was of course paying full attention to the announcement, and limped all the way to the doctor's room.

The verdict?

There is nothing wrong with my foot. It's just a bad 'contusione', i.e. I got hit very hard, but nothing's broken.

Me: Could it be something muscular? Could I have pulled a... foot muscle?
Doctor [sporting a supercilious look]: No, there is nothing wrong with your foot. Go home and put ice on it.

Well thank you, Mr. I-know-better-than-you-because-I-actually-have-a-degree-and-I've-been-to-Turkey-so-that-automatically-makes-me-culturally-aware.

I went home to watch the second half of the football match, feeling very much let down about the anticlimactic end to three hours in hospital and an unhealthy amount of overdramatized complaining.

My foot was better this morning, though still far from healed. And guess what happens at midday? My dear brother asks me to cook, but it's okay if you don't, really, you can say no if your foot's not well, really, I'm serious, I can cook if you're not feeling up to it, I'm just asking because I like asking random things to my only sibling.

HA! The nerve!

So I cooked.

I am so not washing the dishes tonight.

Out and About again

2006-04-22T19:02:00.000+01:00

As Pan has so aptly put it, this academic year has been the year of the party.

In other words, it's been the year where we've all pretended to care about people we don't care about, doing our best not to buy the cheapest presents we can (because these people are turning eighteen after all, and surely a pair of Accessorize earrings aren't all that appropriate?) and generally keeping up appearances and wearing skirts all for the sake of a little dancing and a lot of alcohol.

OK, not that much alcohol.

As usual, the gift-buying part of the pre-party preparations was assigned to me. Pan seems to be harboring the delusion that I am a pushover and she's awfully keen to order me around and find excuses not to come along to look for decent presents even though we're sharing them, so the whole point should be sharing the buying process too, shouldn't it? Because buying presents for people you don't like and/or care much about is one of the hardest things in the world, right? But nooo, I have to go around and be all decisive, and get tempted by random T-shirts at Zara, all because someone is too lazy to get her ass off the couch and help, for a change.

End of rant.

I bought bags. When in doubt, buy bags. Women love bags. I even bought myself a bag in the process. It's beautiful. A weird greyish sort of colour with a weird pattern on it that some would call gran-like but which I call sophisticated.

But I digest.

Pan and I ended up walking to the party. It was just a twenty-minute walk, which is not a big deal if you're wearing normal shoes, but we clearly weren't wearing normal shoes. It was rather painful. My feet were already hurting before I even got to the dancefloor, and that's never a good sign.

Eventually, we made it to the battlefield. Smiles and ostentation of good feeling abounded. We gave our gifts to the birthday girls (both rather vapid and shallow creatures) and began socializing as we waited for the disco to open. Once again, I willingly interacted with Mole, that bitch, and actually ended up having fun. Somewhere, a pig has learned to fly.

I'm buying myself a T-shirt that says: 'Hipocrysy sucks, and I hate spelling mistakes.'

The party was weird. Most people seemed to be hovering between listening to crappy music inside the club with a drink, and milling about outside the club without a drink. I myself was rather torn between the two alternatives, which is a clear indication that the music must have been beyond bad.

Seriously, I'm not that much of a drinker. I'm just trying to sound cool. Really.

I asked the bartender to add alcohol to my mojito. Then, I asked her to make my sex on the beach strong. Sex on the beach is supposed to be fruity, not strong. She gave me a look. I looked back.

I got tipsy.

I told Mike and Jude that they were looking sexy. I had yet more friendly interactions with Mole. I stopped caring about upcoming examinations that will decide my future. I complimented someone's sister on her exceedingly skimpy outfit without managing to mask my giggling. I learned that L, one of the birthday girls, paid 'only' 40 Euros for the skirt she'd bought from Zara and decided to compensate by buying and wearing a 150 Euro Burberry shirt. I watched and cheered as Micky flirted shamelessly with her longtime crush. I had the following conversation with an alarming number of people (and multiple times with Mags, whom by now you know as 'drug addict extraordinaire'):

'Hai studiato economics?'
[Did you study economics?]

'No!'
[No!]

Manic laughter.
[Manic laughter.]

And, last but not least, I fell.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I fell. I tripped. I made a fool of myself in a semi-drunken haze.

Except that I didn't fall because I was drunk. If that had been the case, I would have mercifully forgotten about the whole incident, but alas, I was merely tipsy, hence the rather embarrassing memories.

I was going out with Micky and Pan for a walk and for some random reason, I decided to dance as I walked out. Somebody called my name. I turned around, grinned and then danced some more.

What exactly happened next remains a mystery, but this is what I have managed to surmise up to now. I took a step back, tripped on a white leather couch and fell flat on my face.

Well, almost. I did manage to break the fall. My face made no contact whatsoever with floor (I mean, ewww!). I was not in any way injured. I sprang right back up. I resumed the dancing. I skipped all the way up the stairs and out the club.

I was amused. Now I'm just embarrassed. No, that's a lie, I'm still amused.

I got home at three, took ages to fall asleep (because I am, among other things, an insomniac) and woke up at seven. I fell back asleep and woke up at one, which was definitely a more decent time. I am now sore in all sorts of places, including but not limited to: my neck, a few vertebrae, my jaw (?), my left wrist, my ankles and achille's tendons, my disjointed ribs (I have disjointed ribs. More on that some other time) and my right hipbone which, incidentally, was the only part of my body that made contact with the floor during 'The Fall'.

Sigh. I had fun. This is two outings in a row now that I actually have fun. What is wrong with the world?

Mr. Squirrel in 'Dude, where's my tree?'

2006-04-20T12:23:00.000+01:00

I like football. I like squirrels. I love football and squirrels together.

You're thinking: 'She's insane.' Or perhaps, 'I need to pee,' in which case go pee, please.

But I am not insane. There I was yesterday evening, pretending to study the Russian revolution, but actually watching a Champions League semifinal when an adorable little thing trots onto the football pitch.

Now being as I am blessed with not one, but two X chromosomes (and I will never thank Mother Nature enough for that), I too succumb to the mushy female stereotype and absolutely adore anything that's small and fluffy.

Squirrels are leaders in that category.

So I spent a good five minutes 'aaawww'ing and squealing uncharacteristically until the little bundle of fluff left the pitch.

Some time later, he came back and I got, if possible, even mushier.

There are some lessons to be learned from this episode:
1) Squirrels are more interesting than sweaty football players (except for a select few; Shevchenko comes to mind)
2) Never try to study the Russian revolution whilst watching a football match
3) A squirrel on a football pitch is cuter than a squirrel on a tree

Now I could add an extra paragraph on how number three is true because it's unusual to see a squirrel on a football pitch, and we are attracted to what's unusual, etc. But I can't. I need to go study the Russian revolution.

*The photograph is shamelessly ripped from this article. One day, I will post photos of 'Al, the Amazing Albino Squirrel', photos I took in the US but which I'm too lazy to look for at this time. Hey, I told you I'm a procrastinator.

The Hours

2006-04-15T17:24:00.000+01:00

I finished reading The Hours the other day instead of some much-needed studying. I didn't like it.

The movie adaptation of the novel is one of my all-time favourite films. I've seen it four or five times, which is a lot considering that The Hours is neither Mean Girls nor Ghostbusters, meaning that it's hardly the material for amusement. So yes, I really loved the movie, which is why I decided to read the book. Besides, I thought, it won the Pulitzer; it must be good, right? Right?

Wrong.

If I'm picking up a book that won a prize, I'm expecting something other than a good plot and deep philosophical reflection, thank you very much. The movie had all that in anyway. What I'm expecting from the book is style, well-crafted language, interesting parallels, inventive metaphors and imagery. I'm not necessarily looking for avant-garde literary experimentation (which I happen to dislike), but a semblance of competence would go a long way.

And what do I get? 226 pages of present tense. I mean, seriously, Mr. Cunningham, there's a reason if 99% of the world's novels are written using some form of the past tense! There's a whole bloody tense invented solely for use in storytelling (well, there is in French and Italian)! USE IT!

But noooo, you have to do your best to irritate me in all possible ways, just because the present tense is effective.

Newsflash, berk, it's only effective for ONE PAGE. Or two, if you really must.

Oh, and since the only way to win prizes is to do something unusual, you go and make every single character gay, or at the very least bisexual. Which is perfectly fine when Virginia Woolf does it, because guess what? SHE CAN WRITE.

And of course, your pressing need to be cool and original, because that's what the in crowd does nowadays, comes to the fore in some rather interesting decriptive passages which do nothing for the reader (me) but incense her further. Because you thought it might be amusing to write stuff that DOESN'T MAKE SENSE.

Example: 'Laura is at once comforted and unnerved.'

Now, I understand that you desperately want to win the Pulitzer, but there's something called common sense. You simply cannot be both comforted and unnerved at the same time. The two terms are, by definition, mutually exclusive. It's not like being happy and sad at the same time, or, taking non-literal meanings into account, clean and dirty. No, this is like suggesting that it might be possible to be calm and nervous, or lost and found, all at the same time.

IT'S IMPOSSIBLE!

I don't know, were you going for effect? It just made me laugh. And the worst part is, the rest of the novel is that kind of thing over and over and over again. In the present tense.

You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to write a one-paragraph 'novel' and get it published and win the Pulitzer. You, my dearest readers, are getting a sneak preview. You have no idea how lucky you are to be given this once-in-a-lifetime opportuniy. Here goes:

TPF walks out of her trendy loft in New York City [because all cool novels are set in New York, didn't you know? You try setting one in Stratford-Upon-Avon, see how many Pulitzers that gets you!] and goes to buy flowers just like Mrs. Dalloway did in that old book, and it's a great idea to have three parallel stories going on like that, I like the idea. Suddenly, TPF notices a beautiful Golden Retriever walking ahead and feels an immediate attraction towards it because if she wants to win the Pulitzer, she must be attracted to dogs as well as men, women, children and priests. So TPF follows the dog and thinks of her life, here in NYC, and decides that it's definitely worth living. She decides to buy a hot dog, because dogs are HOT. She bites it and realizes that it's both hot and cold (don't ask, she has weird nerve endings). She walks back home briskly, yet at the same time slowly, and decides that she loves life. But she hates it, too.

Well, I'm not quite happy with that first draft, I'll have to tweak it a bit, but what do you think? Do I have a chance?

OK, I'll stop being mean now. With that spirit, I shall conclude this post by being nice about Veronica Mars, that weird TV show they've started airing in Italy with the main character who is anything but conventional. I mean, she got drugged and raped at a party! It's risky. I like it.

PS: More about Mr. Cunningham? Read this interview. It's quite interesting, actually.

(Dawning of A) New Era

2006-04-13T10:18:00.001+01:00

School is over and I'm not sure how I feel.

Tuesday was the last day. Pan, Marry and I went to the supermarket in the middle of the day (and you can tell it's the last day of school when no-one even stops you to ask you where the hell you think you're going) and bought two bottles of quality wine, one red and one white, just to make sure everybody would get something they liked. How nice of us, don't you think? You still owe me three Euros, Pan.

We got back and very inconspicuously went looking for a bottle opener whilst dodging already tipsy classmates. Eventually, I decided to steal the staff bottle opener. Well, 'steal' is not the appropriate word as it implies stealth. All I did was walk into the staff room and ask them if they had a bottle opener we could borrow. The business teacher pointed me in the right direction whilst my history teacher gave me a suspicious look and asked me what I was up to. I gave her my best innocent and dazzling smile and said: 'Nothing!' She rolled her eyes and pretended she hadn't seen me.

Ah, the joys of being a nerd!

We started drinking. Pan and I got quite tipsy and decided to donate the remaining wine to the boys so as to remove the temptation. I think that's the best decision we took that day. As you have already heard before, a drunk Pan is a spectacle to witness (or not, depending on your point of view).

All this went on while our mature boys tied skinny freshmen to the basketball hoop or to the net of the goal. The most disturbing part was when one of the victims said: 'Do you want me to sit up a little?' I mean, seriously, was he trying to make it easier for them to tie him up? Because that's just weird.

Eventually, the tipsiness wore off and I started randomly crying. The thing is, I rarely cry for serious things. I cry for movies and very rarely for books (OK, that only happened twice), and I always cry in cemetaries, but I don't cry when people die. When other people cry, that usually makes me get all teary-eyed too, but it never turns into a fully-fledged weep-a-thon. However, once I do start crying, I can't stop.

So there I was, crying intermittently for an hour, and I don't exactly know why.

The thing is, I really hate my school and I hate the people in it. Well, some of the people in it. But in this last week or so, all the hate has been removed to be replaced with this strange tenderness that is so unlike me. It's like all of a sudden, all the bad memories have disappeared and I suddenly love everybody, even Mole, that bitch. Seriously, I found myself randomly hugging Mole, and my hatred for Mole is legendary. Yet, all I can think of is that deep down, she's a nice person, and so are Queen Slut, hAirhead, Alternative Junkie etc. I love them all and I'm never going to see them again, if I can help it.

My mum says it's because everybody's feeling sad and consequently, they're all being nicer, which ends up making it much easier for me to like them. I think that's probably true, and I just wish they could have been nice for all this time rather than just for the last week of school. Oh well, you can't have everything in life, can you?

Eventually, I stopped crying and went home.

That night, we went out to this very popular pub-like place near the centre. I met up with Pan and was late as usual (I'm still feeling horrible about that, Pan). We took the tram and got there to find that the atmosphere was not pleasant at all. And the idiots were sitting outside even though it was freezing cold! Pan, Marry, Harry, Micky, Vintage-Girl, Stick Insect, Alt. Junkie, Bad Hair Year and I all sat inside to be later joined by Mole, of all people. The night looked like it was going to be awfully dull, so a group of us decided to go for a walk. When we got back, the place couldn't have been more different. Everyone was talking to everyone else, laughing, drinking, flirting with random Irish guys met that night, reminiscing about old times and hilarious school trips... Pan and I even shared a cigarette (and we don't smoke. No, we weren't trying to be cool. We don't have to try, you know. We were born cool)!

Mags, drug addict extraordinaire, was strangely emotional. Or perhaps she was just high. Either way, she looked like she was about to cry, but she never did. Meanwhile, Mel, Mole and Vicky sat with the Irish guys and got themselved numerous free drinks. Pan and I took advantage of the opportunity ourselves and ended up drinking free beer. We also dared Vintage Girl to make out with the cutest of the Irish guys. She did. We owe her 10 Euros.

Eventually, I-I-N, our outrageously young economics teacher, arrived. We all flirted shamelessly with him and told him that when he first arrived (he's a new teacher) we all thought he was really hot. We ended up giving him a group hug and I even kissed him on the cheek and then proceeded to rub it in Vicky's face (Vicky's notoriously in love with I-I-N). Contrarily to what you might think, this did not result in death glares, but in more laughter and more unexpected love and tender feelings.

And then, just like that, it was time to go home. So we went home. In my thirteen years at this school, I don't think I ever had this much fun on a night out. And if it doesn't sound fun from my post, that's because it's just so hard to explain how it was to people who weren't there. Or perhaps it was only fun because it was the last day of school and everything was positively swimming in a sea of nostalgia and goodwill.

Yes, that must be it.

I'm sad. I haven't even started studying yet and exams are in three weeks. I just feel so weird. Thank God I don't actually like this school, otherwise I'd be awfully depressed right now.

The sad tale of Silvio Berlusconi, the man who just wouldn't lose

2006-04-10T23:21:00.000+01:00

You might be aware that elections have been taking place in Italy for the last two days. Since Italy has become little more than a boot shaped blot on the world map these days, you probably don't know much about its political life. Here's a quick recap.

There are two major coalitions, centre-left and centre-right. The right has been in power for the last five years. It contains a pseudo-fascist party and a separatist party that wishes for Northern Italy to become independent. It is led my media magnate Silvio Berlusconi. The left, containing everything from pro-church parties to communists is led by a professor of something or other, Romano Prodi. Up to a few weeks before voting began, surveys showed the left as being way ahead. Then, the right began its slow climb back up the ladder until the two sides seemed to be more or less equally balanced.

The last votes are being counted right now, and it appears that it's a draw, for senate and the 'Camera dei Deputati' (corresponding more or less equally to the two houses of Congress in the US).

I am not very happy about this. Correction. I am kinda furious.

And not just because the left didn't win, but because of how this last week and a half has been. Berlusconi obviously realised that should he lose, he'd go straight to prison (the man must be the only Prime Minister in the world who owns half the country's main televisions and still goes around complaining that the media is against him. Aw, poor baby! Moreover, he has clearly passed far too many laws to benefit himself and his best mates. Ah, the joys of moral corruption!).

Uncomfortable with the prospect of abandoning a life of luxury to end up behind bars, and perhaps having nostalgia trips over the good ole' times, Mr. Berlusconi indulged in a little McCarthyism right here in Italy. The extremely funny and equally pathetic culmination of this was when he declared that in Mao's time, the Chinese Communists boiled babies to use them as fertilizer.

How can this person be taken seriously?

Other little gem, a couple of days before voting began. Some minister goes on TV and declares that some planned terrorist attacks in Milan have recently been thwarted.

Hmm. I wonder if the timing of this declaration has anything to do with elections...

Finally: Berlusconi takes the stage at some talk show and solemnly declares that all those who will vote for the left are 'coglioni'. 'Coglione' means testicle. It is a rather strong insult (need I remind you that this man is the Prime Minister?).

People who are scared vote for the right. Especially if the right has spent the last few weeks drumming into their heads that the left coalition, containing two communist parties, is in fact the spawn of the devil and, should it win, anti-globalisationists, anarchists, socialists, communists and other similarly evil people will come together to destroy Italy, subjugating the indivudual to the crushing power of the state.

Yeah.

Somebody should tell these people that the Cold War is over.

Well, it turns out Berlusconi outsmarted us all. However outrageous his antics might be, he's made it. The right has not lost. In fact, it's almost winning. And all because a couple million idiots have been shaken into voting by Italy's very own red scare.

Every cloud has a silver lining. This whole thing is making me mad enough not to be too preoccupied with the fact that tomorrow is my very last day of school. Berlusconi should win more often. It would make all our troubles seem petty in comparison to Italy spending another five years governed by creeps and criminals.

To think I was planning to gloat over a crushing victory! Alas, my dreams have been shattered. And you, Harry, can stop celebrating. You didn't technically win, you know. You just didn't lose so bad.

Hmph.

PS: This post is not in any way intended to generate discussion on the evils of communism. Should you think of entertaining us all with a comment on how lucky Italy is that the evil reds have not won, please think again and don't comment. Thank you. [Yes, I'm very touchy about this issue. What can I say, I'm a bad loser. And no, I don't tolerate other people's opinions, unless they're the same as mine, of course.]

[EDIT: The left won. Hurrah!]

'I can find only three words to describe the female sex. None of which are worth expressing.'

2006-04-07T22:31:00.000+01:00

I saw Orlando yesterday and absolutely loved it.

Orlando is one of my favourite books of all time. I seriously adore that book, it's so much fun but so deep at the same time. So many issues explored with such light-hearted flair! (Please use your imagination to insert other words of praise here.)

Alas, movie adaptations often go wrong. The House of the Spirits, anyone? Not that the book was a literary masterpiece, but it sure could've made an excellent movie.

It didn't.

The movie version of The House of the Spirits is crap. Don't watch it. Please, trust me. It's really really bad.

But on to more interesting matters.

Somehow, they (and by they I mean all those random people involved in making movies) managed not to mess Orlando up at all. I mean, seriously, the going wrong potential was immense! First off, who were they going to cast for the lead role? It's not an easy pick, considering that Orlando changes sex in the middle of the novel (and therefore, of the movie). Also, how were they going to handle the seriousness of the gender issues without glossing over them? And what about the period setting? And how would they adapt a novel with such an intrusive narrator to the screen where the narrative voice device is often cumbersome and results in an interfering annoyance?

First things first. They cast Tilda Swinton as Orlando. What can I say? She's amazing. Slightly androgynous, a great actress, and the final scene of the movie (which I don't remember happening in the book, but hey, artistic license) is beautiful. She's leaning against a tree, watching her daughter run around, and she cries a little. Wow.

Her falling in love with Princess Sasha is perfectly believable. Mind you, they cast Sasha perfectly too. I almost fell in love with her myself.

The play on gender roles was handled surprisingly well, and not shoved aside in favour of sentimental drivel (making a man play Queen Elizabeth was a magnificent touch). Of course, a lot of the content must be credited to Virginia Woolf, but that doesn't mean that the filmmakers shouldn't be praised. The 'waking up as a female' on-screen obviously has a much greater impact on the audience than the on-paper version has on the reader. That's mostly because cinema has a visual impact rather than a simply imaginary one, so it's bound to be effective, but again, it could have been hugely messed up.

Overall, the movie does a great job of conveying the message that essentially, men and women are the same people... just a different sex.

Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus my ass!

The costume people were just as good as the casting people (mind you, it's not like I've ever seen Elizabethan clothing first hand, but I have a vague idea of how it's supposed to look). One of Orlando's dresses plunged me into temporary daydream mode where I imagined myself wearing it and gliding around like a princess. Then came a hilarious scene where Orlando, wearing her huge, overly wide dress, had to make her way through a room filled with sheet-covered furniture. She had to turn sideways and make impossible maneuvres and I'm sure there was some symbolic significance to that (women have it much harder than men?) but I was too busy thanking the god of fabrics for inventing jeans.

And finally, the narrator. Well, there were some occasional voice-overs that came over as witty and interesting, rather than irritating. Also, Orlando occasionally looked straight at the camera and shared a private aside with the audience, an intelligent method to get the themes and messages across.

In short, I loved this movie. But you can probably tell that, can't you?

I leave you with some quotes. Read them, they're funny.

PS: I think you'd love this movie, frankengirl.

An excuse to show off a beautiful photograph

2006-04-04T14:17:00.000+01:00

Inspired by Pooper's recent 'essay', I decided to do my very own childhood post. Expect it to be rather biased. Oh, and it might gloss over some unpleasant details, but that's probably because of selective memory removal rather than voluntary omission.

When I was a young thing, I was a tomboy. I dressed like a little boy. I played football (meaning soccer) with the boys, and I was a very good goalkeeper, I'll have you know. The only Barbie doll I ever owned was a birthday present from someone who obviously didn't know me very well. To this day, that Barbie remains gathering dust somewhere, still inside the box she came with.

I was an avid Power Rangers fan until the day my brother told me it was sad. I stopped watching the show immediately (peer pressure much?).

I found out that Father Christmas was a myth at age two. In first grade, I told my whole schoolbus (or anyone who would listen) that he didn't exist. I think somebody cried. I was very sorry about that but felt that everybody had a right to know the truth.

My parents sent me to an italian kidergarten to make sure I learned the language. I lasted a week. Then, I refused to go to school for three months because in fact I didn't know the language and nobody would speak to me. After three months of effectively missing kindergarten for no reason, my mother schemed and strategised and found a way to trick me into going back.

I was obsessed with the anime version of Sailor Moon, so obsessed that one night, when there was supposed to be a very important episode, I refused to go out for pizza with my parents. It was so worth it.

My second grade teacher used to make us all read individually. One day, I was reading and she was listening and I came across a word that was slightly harder than all the other words in the book. I'd heard the word before because I used to read a lot, but somehow, I thought I wasn't supposed to know it. So I pretended to struggle (and I think I actually stuttered for effect) so she wouldn't think I was trying to show off.

I was Frosty the Snowman in a winter show.

Once, my numerous cousins and I were visiting Istanbul. At the end of the day, we got home to my aunt's house only to discover that we'd forgotten the keys and my aunt wasn't home yet. This would have been all well and good were it not for my desperate need to pee. I ended up peeing in the park in front of the house and my cousin, that asshat, took a photograph. I still have it and it's embarrassing, so no, I'm not posting it.

My favourite book when I was little was Watership Down, by Richard Adams. I remember borrowing it from the school library and loving every bit of it. However, I was at the time unaware that the word 'down' meant 'hill' as well as the opposite of 'up'. That's why I spent the whole book wondering how rabbits could go up Watership Down.

I'll be going to university in six months' time and I can hardly believe I was ever even a child.

The kid in the photo with the striped hat is me. I look nothing like that now. For starters, now you can actually tell I'm female. Anyways, I think it's the cutest photo ever, so go ahead and tell me how cute it is. Thank you.

When did the bun get into the oven?

2006-03-29T16:07:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, I found out something which will probably traumatize me for life (well, OK, I'm over it already, but I like being a drama queen). Apparently, a girl in my school who's two years younger than me is pregnant.

The first time I heard the rumour I was all about being flippantly dismissive. Then, I heard it from someone else. Finally, when the third person, who'd heard it from a reliable source, told me, I was convinced. I immediately thought of Gilmore Girls.

The pop culture likeness didn't prepare me for the next part of the story which is, if possible, even more shocking. The girl is seven months pregnant. The baby's due in June. Her mum only found out two weeks ago.

Now this led me to reflect on two main points.

1) The girl had to tell her mother that she was pregnant. How can a mother not realize that her daughter is pregnant? And seven months along at that?

2) I never noticed until I was told.

For some reason, number two seems more important to me (perhaps because it's actually about me). I just couldn't believe that I'd never noticed there was a pregnant girl in my school. This would not be a big deal if my school was big or something, but it really isn't. You see the same faces all day, every day.

I'm not usually inclined to brooding, but I did this time. I mean, seriously, I'm a nice person! I care about other people! Do I really pass by people without looking at them properly?

Apparently, I do.

I watched Collateral the other day. During the rare ten-second intervals when I managed to tear my eyes away from the hotness of a grey-haired Tom Cruise, I actually thought about what the movie was saying. One of the messages was that we are all essentially alone, especially in big cities like LA (where the movie is set). The message was exemplified by the story of how some guy died on the subway and nobody noticed for six hours even though people kept sitting in the seat next to his.

For some reason, I immediately connected this to the pregnancy issue. It's the same thing, isn't it? You look, but you never see unless it's about you. We're all horrible, selfish people.

Mind you, I felt slightly less guilty today because I saw the girl smoking outside school.

Can't you smell that smell?

2006-03-23T23:14:00.000Z

'And suddenly the memory returns. The taste was that of the little crumb of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before church-time), when I went to say good day to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the interval, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks’ windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the forms of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.' *

You know how they always say, the most powerful tool for evoking memories is the sense of smell. Well, I agree. And so does Proust.

If I believed in past lives and reincarnations, I'd be positive that I was a dog in my past life. A dog or some other four-legged mammal with extraordinary olfactory prowess. In fact, I seem to be able to smell (and taste) things much better than most of the people I know. This occasionally results in weirdness; I can't drink milk unless it's really fresh. I can tell when it's one day before the expiry date. I can't stand cheese that's not uber-fresh either. And don't get me started on that thing they call gorgonzola. To willingly eat mould seems abominable to me.

I sincerely hope you skipped that uninteresting paragraph on my eating habits.

As I was saying, smells can evoke memories in a way that sight and sound can't. Proust seems to have a theory on that: when you smell something familiar, you get an emotional reaction as well as a physical recognition of something that's filed away in your brain. That's why it ends up being much more powerful than anything else.

A few days ago, we went on a family road trip to the Lago d'Orta, a tiny lake in Northern Italy. There was a monastery on an island in the middle of the lake. In Turkish, 'orta' means middle, so there was some subdued merriment at the fact that there was an island in the middle of a lake called middle. OK, fine, you had to be there. We didn't actually go on the island, but I took a lovely little photo which you can see below.

We ate at a restaurant on the lake. It was a rather 'fancy' establishment, I must say. The menu was very weird and the ambiance very refined. I ended up having something very unusual: rice with something sweet in it (probably blackberry, as the thing was black), surrounded by a sauce made out of saffron and zucchini, with shrimp wrapped up in ham.

No, I am not joking. That is exactly what I had.

It tasted surprisingly nice, although the ham sort of killed the shrimp. In a metaphorical sense, of course. The shrimp was already dead.

But I digress.

As in all restaurants, there were napkins next to the plates. As soon as I picked mine up, I must have inhaled whilst wiping my mouth because my nostrils were suddenly filled with a more than familiar smell. I stopped, completely shocked. I inhaled again, and there it was, unmistakably familiar. I spent five minutes sniffing like an idiot because I really couldn't place the smell. All I knew was that I really liked it, that I'd definitely smelt it before and that it made me feel a weird mixture of happiness and sadness.

Finally, I realised that the napkin smelled exactly like the washing powder my gran used.

*Marcel Proust - Swann's Way

It seeps...

2006-03-19T19:14:00.000Z

Remember this post? Well, I present you with TPF's newest intermediate record: 28 seconds. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that's a three second improvement.

Unfortunately, a new Expert record remains elusive, but I know I shall succeed one day. How can I be so sure, you ask? Ah, well, that can be attributed to a rather uncomfortable incident that befell me this week. To put it bluntly, a pigeon pooed (or pood? Or pooped? OK, fine, excreted) on my head.

Now if you knew me, or if you were perspicacious enough to notice the subtle hints offerred on this blog, you'd know that I am absolutely and completely obsessed with cleanliness. To an unhealthy degree, I admit it. Thus, bird poo on my head is the type of thing that is enough to drive me into a fit of hysterics.

It did. I hyperventilated. I hid behind a tree for no rational reason. I squealed. I panicked. I jumped about taking no action whatsoever. I swear I could feel it seeping into my skull.

Luckily, Harry, Micky, Pan and Marry were all present. I can safely say that they saved my life, especially Marry, who is endowed with a sense of practicality that I must say I envy. Harry spent most of the time laughing at me (I still resent that, you bitch!) but she also helped with the whole tissue bringing and calming down parts of the operation. Micky wore a faint look of disgust on her face but was equally helpful. Pan laughed until we reminded her of the vintage skirt incident. A few minutes later, my hair was blissfully clear of that horrid, horrid substance.

During the cleaning operation itself, one of the more idiotic members of my year passed by and noticed that four people were picking at my head.

'Have you got head lice?' she asked, thinking that she was being extraordinarily funny.

'Yes! Want some?' I yelled. Freaking idiot.

And what exactly is the point of this story, you ask? Well, you know how they say that if a bird does its business (help me, I'm running out of euphemisms here) on your head, it's supposed to bring luck. I used to think that was just a way to make people feel better about the whole disgusting ordeal, but I stand corrected. A day later, I broke my minesweeper record in the physics lab. In fact, we do anything but physics in that classroom. Our incompetent teacher seems oblivious to the fact that IBs are in a month and we still haven't finished the syllabus, so she spends half the time making useless photocopies and cracking dirty jokes that are hardly appropriate. I'm the only girl in the class so I have to endure a bunch of goons laughing at statements such as 'Imagine the planets as balls,' and 'Uranus is the seventh planet from the sun.'

Still, I can hardly complain. I did break my intermediate record after all, and the pigeon poo luck might extend to making me get a nice 7 in my physics IB in spite of the abysmal teaching. Yay!

'And I heard 'em say, nothing's ever promised tomorrow, today...'

2006-03-12T17:55:00.000Z

Yesterday, I attended my very first church wedding.

Tardiness runs in the family; my mother insisted on tidying the house up before we left, so we ended up being almost late. And people wonder why I'm always late to school. Anyways, my dad was fuming, my mum was trying to shrug it all off and make my dad laugh (he sulked throughout the car ride), I sat back and enjoyed the scenery, refusing to get worked up until it was 100% sure that we were going to be late.

Thankfully, my brother is a fast driver. We ended up getting there early. Which proves my theory that you shouldn't be worried about being late until you're actually late. (My mum, who's reading this over my shoulder, suggests a Turkish proverb: 'Dereyi gormeden paçalarini sivama', meaning 'Don't roll up your trouser hems until you see the river.' OK, it sounds better in Turkish.)

The time-honoured tradition of crappily dressed bridesmaids was respected. The bridesmaid was dressed crappily. The bridal gown was OK. I, on the other hand, was wearing a sexy corset that, among other things, made me feel like someone out of Jane Austen novel. I swear, I could hardly breathe. I even refused to tie my seatbelt in the car, to the annoyance of my mother.

The ceremony (or service, or lecture, I'm not quite sure how to call it. I'm not exactly well-versed in Christian terminology) was rather long. I struggled not to laugh as the priest basically told the couple that it was God that had chosen them to get together. Pfft. Whatever. I think I might have smirked on occasion, and I'm pretty sure the priest spotted me; in fact, my brother and I were seated at the front row. Which is rather weird, because we aren't even related to the bride, we're 'just' family friends.

Now weddings are, by definition, an occasion to flirt and eat shamelessly. Unfortunately, due to the age average being approximately thirty, I was unable to flirt. That doesn't mean I didn't ogle, though. Mr. Hot Waiter provided ample opportunity for furtive glances and not-so-furtive drooling. At a certain point, I told my dear brother: 'Gosh, that waiter is hot.' He pointed out to me that it was the fourth time I was telling him.

I think I made up for the lack of direct flirtage by eating. A lot. The food was surprisingly good, and who am I to pass up on the chance to enjoy a good meal?

Of course, there was plenty of free alcohol also. Which resulted in me drinking. A lot. Just wine, mind you, but quite a lot of it all the same. What can I say, I just love wine! Besides, I was seated at a table with loads of people I'd never met. The only recognisable face was my brother's, and that of a guy who looked a lot like the ugly version of an Italian football player, Del Piero. A little wine helped to get some inane conversion going. It was also vital in ensuring my continuing mental stability by distracting me from the effusions of the couple seated next to me. The man kept running his hand along the woman's leg, she kept kissing his neck, and this was all rather inappropriate, considering that I am underage. Thank God for wine.

Speaking of, I had indulged in another great bout of wine-drinking the night before. My brother bought a bottle of red wine for dinner. My mother, who doesn't really mix well with alcohol, drank a glass. The rest was shared between the two of us, resulting in me washing the dishes in a state of giddy happiness and watching a serious political debate between Diliberto and Berlusconi on TV (I would enlighten you on Italian politics, but it's not half as fun to write about as my wonderful life) and laughing at the most inappropriate times.

Back to the wedding. It dragged on for hours. At the end of it all, I was pretty much in 'Fire bad, tree pretty' mode. Eating and celebrating the union of two souls is fun for a while, but seriously, there's only so much one can take, especially if one is wearing a tight corset and feeling exceedingly sleepy. My poor brother had to endure my constant whinging on those two issues, and he had to drive us all home. I really don't know how he did it. He must be Clark Kent's third cousin twice removed. Whatever that means.

My dear brother and I have had a really nice time together these past few days. On Wednesday night, he took me to watch a Champions League match, AC Milan v. Bayern Munich. I hadn't been to the stadium for ages, and it was breathtaking, especially as it was completely full. As usual, we were almost late because I took ages to get ready. The tram ride lasted an hour instead of the usual twenty minutes, but that's normal for a football night. I was squashed against the ticket stamper with drunk Germans singing and smelling and stamping their feet. It was rather uncomfortable, but definitely worth it. In the end, we were ten minutes early, Milan won 4-1, I screamed like a maniac at every goal and occasionally even swore in a very un-ladylike manner. It was great stress relief.

The week before that, we went to a Kanye West concert. I kept thinking throughout that I should have gone to the Deep Purple concert (which was on the same day), but Kanye was cool all the same. Mind you, we're not exactly huge fans, but I absolutely love 'Gold Digger', as much as I love 'Highway Star', in fact, and I really wanted to see the live rendition. Besides, as Pan quite eloquently put it, 'but they're old,' referring, of course, to the aged members of Deep Purple.

Unluckily, I didn't exactly see much. Being as I am of a relatively short stature, I spent 80% of my time trying to look past the impeding obstacle of a random creep's bald head. OK, fine, he wasn't a creep, but I consider myself justified in insulting him, as he practically ruined my concert experience. My brother suggested I stand on his toes (yes, he really is a sweetheart, isn't he?) but even that didn't work. I spent a good two hours craning my neck. Some diversion was provided in the form of two males playing tug-o-war over a sweaty towel Kanye threw at the crowd. This happened right next to me. In fact, I was shoved around quite a bit, but the scene was just so funny that I didn't even mind. Two full-grown men fighting over Kanye West's sweaty towel is definitely not something you see every day.

And that's all for now. The Kanye photo you see above was obviously taken by my brother, who is not so tall himself, but definitely towers above me. Replies from american universities are due at the end of this month, but I'm strangely relaxed about the whole affair. There's Juventus-Milan tonight, and I can't wait to watch that. And I'm listening to Backstreet Boys. Good times!

Out and About

2006-03-05T09:21:00.000Z

Went out last night.

It was me, Pan, Harry, Micky, Jude, Mike, Juice and, for the first and probably last time on this blog (drumroll), Phil and Andrea. First stop: a restaurant named Speakeasy. In case you're interested, speakeasies were places where alcohol was sold during the Prohibition era, i.e. illegally.

Wow. It's amazing how nerdy my inner nerd is.

Anyway, this Speakeasy is basically a tex-mex place with fajitas and lamb chops and guacamole and all that kind of stuff. It also isn't very cheap. OK, litotes. It's overly expensive. (Um, yeah, the credit for that fancy 'litotes' word belongs to Harry, who mentioned it yesterday during a very nerdy conversation.)

We eat, we drink, Mike is annoying, Jude tells us more about his recent break-up with Pocahontas, Micky is her usual bothersome self (we love you, Micky!) and we end up paying 25 Euros each. This is what happens when you let Andrea organize things.

We take ages to decide what to do next. A few people want to go to the cinema. The rest want to go for drinks, but as often happens, the minority is very loud and very annoying, so even if most people clearly want to go for drinks, we end up milling about for ages, unable to decide on a course of action. Well, I was totally firm in my drinks decision, and not because I'm a drunkard but because poor Pan's parents wouldn't let her go to the cinema because she would have been home much too late. Besides, a drunk Pan can yield very interesting results; innocent vintage skirts tend to get caught in the crossfire.

In the end, Mike and Phil leave, the big idiots. Jude had left a few minutes earlier, traumatised by the uber-expensive restaurant bill. The remaining six head out for God knows where. Honestly, I had no idea where I was; I'm not very good with directions. I lied. I'm abysmal at directions. If directions were an IB subject, I'd get a 1.

We let Andrea lead us. Juice and Micky share Juice's cool new iPod nano. It's rather pretty, but I like my iPod more. He's called Bob. He's one of the older iPods, without the annoying clicker wheel that I hate. The earphones are falling apart, the battery life is ridiculously short, but I wouldn't change Bob for the world. OK, maybe for a video iPod.

After traipsing around Milan for half an hour, and it's a good thing the weather's finally turning and it's no longer freezing cold, we reach a lounge bar named Sid (OK, not really, but I'm obsessed with anonymity, so bear with me). We go in, we sit down, the waitress comes and we find out she's a real bitch. There's six of us, right? Five of us order drinks (absurdly expensive drinks, I should add). Harry, who's still on that pesky diet of hers, doesn't order anything. Well, the kind waitress makes a sour face and tells us: 'La consumazione è obbligatoria,' meaning that Harry too has to get something. So we tell her that Harry needs a minute to decide, so she leaves, telling us she won't tell the barman our orders until Harry gets something too.

Harry, stubborn as she is, refuses to buy anything. Micky is about to snap at her. I was rather hoping she wouldn't, and she didn't, thank goodness. We call the waitress back and tell her, quote: 'Ma scusi, siamo in sei, e cinque prendono qualcosa da bere. Non mi sembra un problema se qualcuno non vuole niente.'

Translation: 'Excuse me, but there's six of us, and five of us are getting something to drink. It's not that big a deal if one of us doesn't.'

She replies, quote: 'Si, ma mi sembra molto chiaro dal menu che la consumazione sia obbligatoria.'

Translation: 'Yes, but it seems to me that it is very clear from the menu that you must all get something.'

And still we refuse to give in, at which point she leaves looking mighty peeved and takes way too long to bring us our drinks. I'm pretty sure she spat in them, but I'd rather not think of that right now.

The night seems to be winding down when, lo and behold, who should walk past us but Vicky, Mel and Mags, drug addict extraordinaire? We rise and greet them. Mags is exceedingly tipsy. Mel and Vicky are on the right track. It turns out Mel's sister is having her sixteenth birthday party on the second floor of that same Sid we're sitting at! Now Milan is pretty big place and it's quite a huge coincidence for something like this to happen, hence the moderate excitement.

We talk. Evil waitress eyes us suspiciously. Mags goes out for a cigarette (because she's so cool). Pan and I leave Micky and the rest to converse with Mel and Vicky. We follow Mags outside. She's out there smoking with one of Mel's sister's friends. We completely ignore him. Mags offers me a cigarette, which I decline. She then offers one to Pan. An exclusive extract of that little exchange is right here:

Mags: Pan, would you like a cigarette?
Pan: No, thanks.
Mags: Do you smoke?
Pan: [hesitates for a moment] Um, not today.

I'm sorry, Pan, but I shall mock you forever for that little reply. 'Not today'- muaahhahaha!

We go back in. Micky leaves. Eventually, Harry, Pan and I decide to leave as well. A taxi is called. Andrea and I go upstairs to say bye to our decadent, bohemian friends. Mags is reclining on a sofa, laughing at the ceiling. As I say goodbye to her, she whispers in my ear: 'TPF, I have to tell you a secret: Mel's top is torn right under her breasts!' More senseless laughter.

I look at Mel's top. It is indeed torn right under her breasts. I tell Mags to tell her, and Mags replies: 'She knows!' More laughter. (Note: Mel isn't exactly known for her brains.)

Unable to stand anymore of this drunk opulence, I leave. Harry, Pan and I board the taxi. I get dropped home first because my mum tends to get paranoid if I come home alone late. What time did you get home, are you asking? Midnight. Sorry, were you expecting two in the morning or something? You're on the wrong blog, then. I'm a nerd. I don't do those things.

Total spent: 42 Euros: a record.

PS: Being as it is carnival here, I got sprayed with shaving cream on the way to the restaurant. My poor hair was hit, as was my favourite jacket. 'Stronzo!' I yelled after the offender. He just laughed and ran off. What an asshole.

Caring about Africa

2006-02-28T20:23:00.000Z

I'm back after a conspicuously long absence. There truly are no excuses for my behaviour. Forgive me, throngs of addicted readers. I hope the abstinence wasn't too hard to bear.

I watched The Constant Gardener last week. It was quite good. The story was engaging, the drama was well-orchestrated, Ralph Fiennes was hot and there were some truly exceptional supporting character performances, including but not limited to Rachel Weisz, who absolutely rocks, by the way.

But there's a but.

It was a good movie, but it wasn't a great movie, and I can't for the life of me figure out why. OK, well, I think I have figured it out now, but at the time, I was a little bewildered, as I could see no obvious flaws in the film's structure, cinematography, acting, storyline et cetera. Yet, the movie ended with me feeling like I'd spend a decent 2 hours watching a decent movie. And nothing more.

I think I finally figured out what went wrong; I did.

A short, quasi spoiler-free, aside: the movie is about evil pharmaceutical companies testing evil drugs with terrible side-effects on the unwitting population of Kenya. Ralph Fiennes plays a British diplomat who is determined to get to the bottom of this all because, um, something bad happens. I won't tell you what out of the goodness of my heart (but you'll find out ten minutes into the movie anyway).

Being a movie about drugs in Africa, there is ample opportunity for the audience (in this case, me) to be presented with a sliver of the continent. Kenya is the focus of the action. I saw mothers with AIDS, babies with AIDS, pretty much everyone with AIDS. I saw starving infants. I saw evil corporations distributing medicine that does more harm than it does good. I saw Rachel Weisz and various other brave knights (in the contemporary sense, of course) toiling and investigating and getting to the bottom of things. And I saw people who are exactly like me dying and suffering and generally having a terrible time just because they happen to be African.

This should have made for a great movie. The love story superimposed on this background should have pulled at my heartstrings, should have made me cry, should have made me care. But guess what? None of that happened. The movie ended and all I felt was a slight discomfort, a slight sense of unease. I didn't cry. In fact, my mood was exactly the same as it had been before the film.

Now I know myself pretty well, and I know that I'm not one of those ditzy idiots who care little about anything but nail polish. I watch the news, I read newspapers, I have strong political views, I get mad and passionate about things, I am not so entirely self-absorbed that I live in my own little world where everything is beautiful and everyone is happy. In short, I am aware, and I care (the rhyming is unintentional).

So when The Constant Gardener failed to make me respond to what it was depicting, I initially thought there was something wrong with it. But then I realised that what was wrong was only to do with myself.

You see, at the root of my strange apathy (because that's the best word to describe it) is a sense of helplessness. For a long time, I watched the news and I thought 'The world sucks.' I looked on the internet and I thought 'The world sucks.' This went on for a while until one day, I watched The Constant Gardener and I thought 'The world sucks and there's nothing I can do about it.'

And that's where I stop caring. Because it's too much. How am I supposed to deal with famine and AIDS and civil war and religious persecution and corporate evil and boy soldiers addicted to heroine and gang-raped women and malaria and have I mentioned civil war?

It sounds selfish and cowardly, but I stopped caring because I felt insignificant. Not in a teen- angsty 'nobody cares' way, but in a 'people are dying all over the place and here I am, unable to do anything much but get worried and organize cake sales'.

So I watched The Constant Gardener and felt absolutely nothing at all except a nagging guilty feeling that I should have felt something.

The Constant Gardener is a good movie, but I doubt I'll remember it when I'm senile and arthritic. And that's completely my fault. It's a good thing that there's people who continue caring about the big problems, otherwise we wouldn't even know they existed (and I blame the ruling classes for that; they're not interested in any country unless it's got oil, and if they're not interested, the media's not interested).

Poor reader! You were expecting a proper review, weren't you? And instead you got a whole load of me. Oh well. This is my blog after all...

Munich

2006-02-18T13:33:00.000Z

Yesterday, I watched Steven Spielberg's Munich. A synopsis for you: a group of Palestinian terrorists kills a group of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics. The Israeli secret service, the Mossad, sends a group to kill those responsible for the massacre.

I shall go mainstream and say that I really liked the movie. I was expecting some politically charged piece of propaganda about how good Israel is and how evil the Palestinians are, even though I'd read reviews praising Munich as fairly objective and more human in approach. Still, being the eternal sceptic that I am, I had trouble believing this. I was thus very pleasantly surprised when Munich lived up to the positive reviews.

The acting was great. Pan and I spent a good part of the movie drooling over Eric Bana's perfectly toned physique. I also fell in love with the French informant, played by a certain Mathieu Amalric (see photo). Pan and I also engaged in the overly distracting activity of trying to remember where we'd seen certain familiar-looking faces before. To our eternal shame, we did not recognize Geoffrey Rush. I still don't know how that happened. Only when we saw his name at the end credits did we finally manage to get rid of that nagging feeling. Oh, and 'the blond guy', as we referred to him during the movie, is the new James Bond. Again, we were really embarrassed at our inability to recognize him.

OK, I know, famous and hot doesn't necessarily make the acting any good, but in this case, it all worked very well. Eric Bana crying was truly heartbreaking and definitely not overdone. Unfortunately, the movie was dubbed, as all movies are in Italy, but the Italian voice actors were surprisingly good this time. I really don't know what could possibly have happened to make them competent.

Now to more serious matters. I don't know how Spielberg did it, but the whole tragic storyline was populated by genuinely human characters. No-one was a killing machine, not even over-zealous blond guy. Skip the rest of this paragraph if you don't want spoilers, but it's not a major spoiler, so you might as well read it. Well, there's this scene where Avner (Bana) is on the balcony of his hotel room, having a conversation with one of the men his team has to kill. Shortly after the conversation, the man goes to bed, and Avner has to switch off the light in his room so that his team can detonate the bomb they've placed under the man's bed. Now Avner has just talked to this guy, who's turned out to be polite, and nice, and decent. How can he just switch off that light and kill him without second thought? It's a beautiful scene, one where the humanity of both men is so strikingly obvious that it's really terrible to watch Avner having to make that decision, and even worse to think of how he'll feel about it later (the other man gets blown to pieces, which is rather gruesome, and sort of makes you forget to feel sorry for him in your attempts not to feel sick).

I also loved Mathieu Kassovitz as the toymaker turned, er, bombmaker. The humanity of that character too was beautifully protrayed, as was that of Palestinian terrorist Ali, played by Omar Metwally, whose justifications for his actions seem to be as valid as Avner's. That's where the film manages to be balanced. You get human beings telling each other their motivations, ignoring the fact that their reasoning might be flawed, because it's the feeling that's important. The movie never really answers the questions that one would expect it to answer, but instead focuses on the human tragedy of it all.

Now to the violence. There were very few instances in which I thought Spielberg would have done better to tone it down a bit (man hanging off ceiling fan, anyone?). Apart from that particular incident, I thought the rest was all meaningful. I guess we have to see what really happens in the world if we want to understand what state it's in. But then, does seeing to much violence reverse that effect and make us less sensitive to it? I'm not sure what the answer to that is, but anyway, I thought the violence in Munich was needed, if not essential.

For example, I thought the juxtaposition of the last sex scene with the airport terrorist killing scene was a masterpiece. It sort of reminded me of A History of Violence, where the two sex scenes are completely different, and you really understand how the characters have evolved.

One last point. Munich could have been shorter, like ten-fifteen minutes shorter. In that respect, it sort of reminded me of the ending of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King which was so over-long that I could almost see Peter Jackson crying over the end of his huge project and saying: 'Just one more scene! Please! Waaah!' Of course, you might not agree with that. Suit yourself.

All in all, it was a positive experience. We saw the 22:15 screening, which meant that we got out at one in the morning, all bleary-eyed and tired. Poor Harry was expecting, quote, 'a nice, historical movie,' but got a traumatizing gore-fest that actually happened in real life. Marry, poor thing, was so tired she almost fell asleep. Random Italian woman made us move seats and went on about it for ten minutes. But really, Munich was really good.

A Single's Guide to St. Valentine's Day (or, How to Get Through the Most Depressing Day of the Year)

2006-02-14T18:47:00.000Z

It’s St. Valentine’s Day! Blind, naked, pink-cheeked babies are flying around, shooting fake plastic arrows and generally dispensing love left and right. For some yet to be discovered reason, the arrows always seem to miss me, and every year I'm left entirely alone to wallow in self pity, wandering what on Earth I could have possibly done to deserve such unbearable loneliness.

Sniff.

So what to do to get through this depressing day without jumping off a cliff? Drown my sorrows in Nutella and booze? No, that would make me fat. Hook up with the first person I meet on the street? No, that would be unhealthy. Pretend it’s just any other day of the year? Yeah, like that’s possible with all the pink and roses and various mushy love items fluttering about.

What can I say? I'm single. And you know what the worst part is? I really, really, really wish I wasn't.

Double-sniff.

I won't lie to you. I adore the concept of St. Valentine's Day. Yes, it is a manufactured holiday to sell cards and chocolate and flowers, etc., but what the hell, I'd be really happy to receive cards and chocolate and flowers, even if it meant funding evil corporations.

I could try to pretend I didn't care, but would you believe me? I wouldn't believe myself!

But I guess tomorrow's just another day... oh, wait, isn't tomorrow singles' day? Squeeee!

Anyway, here's some personal tips to get through today (even though today's almost over, at least it is here in Europe... but honestly, I couldn't bring myself to do this any earlier. I was busy watching crappy movies on cable TV...):

1) Listen to feel-good songs, eg.

'Beautiful', by Christina Aguilera. I know, I know, Christina Aguilera is rather lame, but the lyrics to this song are truly uplifting: 'you are beautifuuullll, no matter what they saaaaay, words can't bring youuuu dooooowwwwn!' I couldn't agree more. So yeah, lsiten to Christina, but don't watch the video, it's full of ugly people. Which I guess is the whole point of the song... (on an unrelated note, how crappy must it be to get cast for a role in a video where everybody's ugly? It's like, you're ugly, we want you!)
'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun', by Cindy Lauper. Who wants smelly, fat, bald men? Girls just wanna have fun! Like, totally!
'Single', by Natasha Bedingfield. This is self-explanatory, really. An ode to all the lonely hearts of the world. You don't need to be paired up in order to be happy! Even though Natasha ruined the whole 'independent woman' image with her next song, where she basically professed her undying love to unidentified cute male who walked about in her video. Whatever.
'Everybody Hurts', by R.E.M. You are not alone in your pain. Everybody hurts sometimes! (NOTE: It is not advisable for you to try to sing along. Especially if you're tone deaf, *cough*Panacea*cough*)
What is a song list without Britney? Hmmm, what to pick amongst the shining gems of her repertoire? A-ha! Of course! 'Outrageous'! (don't ask... it's one of her lesser known singles. In fact, I only know it because Micky actually owns the CD. OK, fine, I admit it; I have 'Outrageous' on my iPod. So what? Is it a crime to like Britney? You have a problem with that? Huh?) This amazingly well-written and stupendously performed Brtiney song is basically on the same shallow note of the rest of her opus. However, it does not talk about mushy teen love, but about, um, shopping, and Britney's 'sex-drive'. Yeah. Whatever it is that you, virtual reader, are thinking, I agree. Unless you're a 50-year-old pervert who ogles Britney's cleavage at every occasion. In that case, I'm not thinking what you're thinking. Sorry.
'I Hate You So Much Right Now', by Kelis. Because you have to understand that men are bastards who cheat on you, and they should all be emasculated because they do not deserve anything but pain and the contempt of the entire female population. Besides, we could totally reproduce without them. Just give science some time. Evil men!

2) Putting these songs on loop will hopefully put you in the right mood to appreciate just how good it is to be single. Every cloud has a silver lining! First off, there won’t be any of those pesky anniversary and birthday dates to remember. Also, you won’t have to worry about him cheating on you. You won’t be jealous of random females he happens to look at when you’re out. You certainly won’t get pregnant (unless you’re the Virgin Mary). You won’t have to pretend to like the crappy music he listens to. You will live longer (all spinsters live to the ripe old age of 112. Didn’t you know?) And, last but not least, you will not be forced to watch 'The Fast and the Furious' instead of 'How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days' (not that the latter movie is any good. But seriously, anything is better than an hour and a half of car races with implausible stunts).

3) Pamper yourself. A good idea is to send yourself roses or buy yourself Ferrero Rocher, but make sure nobody know it was you, otherwise you'll look more pathetic than you already are. If someone asks you who sent the flowers, try to look embarrassed, make yourself blush and say, in whispered tones: ‘I don’t know! I found them in my locker this morning, but I really don’t know who put them there. But isn’t it cool that I have a secret admirer?’ Make sure the person you tell this to is one of those people who are certain to spread the news throughout the school/office/kennel faster than you can say ‘secret’. This will make everyone, including yourself, think that you’re not single, and really, isn’t that what you want?

And that's all there is to it, folks. If you're still miserable, I suggest going to bed early. Which is what I'm going to do tonight.

A battle of wills

2006-02-10T17:50:00.000Z

Three days ago, I declared war on the Nutella jar.

It's a pitched battle, I can tell you. All's fair in love and war, as they say, and Nutella, despite being an inanimate object, seems to knows this. There's no other way to explain the low pitched vibrations it sends my way, and that only I can hear. They're definitely below the human hearing threshold, but somehow, the evil chocolate-y goodness has found a way around physics.

Damn you, Nutella!

Day 1:
The Poodle's Friend 1, Nutella 0.5

Well, I had a little chat with my assistants Col. Brain and Sgt. Tongue yesterday. The plan was very clear. I told Col. Brain to take the troops away from Brodmann area 2, where they were at risk of ambush from enemy forces. Sgt. Tongue was instructed to keep his detachment sedated; I didn't want any Nutella-drunk soldier defecting to the other side.

These brilliant tactics led to a scintillating success for the forces of good in yesterday's battle. Only one spoonful was lost to the enemy, instead of the usual eight, and the troops celebrated with...um...cereal. Oh well.

Day 2:
The Poodle's Friend 1, Nutella 413.5

After a brisk pep talk to the troops, I entered the battlefield, fully prepared to continue the fight to the last nerve cell, should that be necessary. But the entirely unfair methods used by the enemy (subliminal messaging, propagandistic pamphlets, promised tastiness et cetera) proved too effective to beat.

Certain defectors also stirred agitation within the ranks. A small minority held on to their belief that the enemy sucks. The vast majority, however, started arguing that Nutella isn't that bad after all, even when you're not hungry. And really, the whole idea that chocolate makes you get pimples is an urban myth...

Needless to say, the majority won. The troops went completely crazy, and the enemy triumphed.

Day 3: Peace talks

The spectacular defeat in the First-And-Only Nutella War resulted in a humiliating peace settlement whereby General Nut, commander of the victorious forces, made Mr. Roger, representative of the defeated powers, sign an agreement to continue with the usual rhythm of Nutella consumption. Public opinion in The Poodle's Friend Land was shocked, but didn't know what to make of it; could eating more Nutella really be considered a defeat?

A Streetcar Named...Fourteen?

2006-02-06T18:38:00.000Z

Don't you just hate kids on public transport?

I was sitting on tram number 14 this morning, making my way to school, late as usual, when a woman with a 5 year-old child gets on. Normally, this sort of thing doesn't bother me. I'm usually too busy hoping the tram will somehow get through the big traffic jam in five minutes instead of fifteen, so that I might be able to get through without being marked late.

Alas, today was obviously a lost cause, so I was resigned to tardiness yet again. At least I was enjoying one of those overly long Yes songs (the one I was listening to at that time was a twenty-minute version of 'Close to the Edge') so I was pretty relaxed.

And what happens? 5 year-old idiot child sits right behind me.

Not only that, it clings on to the metal bar attached to the back of my seat.

Not only that, a single, priceless, beautiful strand of my ash-blonde hair gets tangled in the idiot child's fat, grubby little paws.

There I am, rooted to the spot, too scared to turn around lest I should discover a deposit of snot all over the thing's face, but too uncomfortable and annoyed not to do anything. Now you might think a single hair is not that big a deal, but see, if I had even moved so much as a fraction of a centimetre, there would have been immeasurable pain.

With all the nonchalance I could muster (which isn't much, I'm afraid) I very, very slowly leaned forward. After a few tense seconds, I finally felt my dear little lock come free of the clutch of that evil thing. I was saved!

Well, not so much. My brain spent the next three minutes conjuring images of drooling children, their fingers in their mouths, saliva all over the place... I shudder to think of it now, imagine then! It took quite a while to absorb the shock of having some kid's saliva on my hair.

Ew.

Eventually, I mustered enough courage to turn around. The kid was a girl. She was making those random sounds that kids like to make.

How eternally grateful I was when the mother finally pulled her away; their stop had obviously come.

'Close to the Edge' was still not over, and it inevitably brought back horrendous memories of fat, wet, sticky fingers, and imprisoned hair. I changed to 'Sweet Home Alabama', and that made me feel better.

Oh, and I was late to school.

5 things meme

2006-02-02T19:51:00.000Z

Here I am pretending I actually knew what a meme was before today.
Yes, I'm comparatively new to this whole blogging thing. Thanks to FrankenGirl for the tag.

Instructions: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot.

1) Kiss My Mike
2) Ultimate Writer
3) Golgotha_Tramp
4) FrankenGirl
5) The Poodle's Friend

Select 5 people to tag (hmmm, shall we make it one for now? I don't think I know enough people. Sniff.)

1) Panacea

Ah, to the good bits...

What were you doing 10 years ago?
Collecting stickers. It was a whole fad thing. You know how those things go.

What were you doing 1 year ago?
Thinking the IB was hard. I should have known better. It got harder.

Five snacks you enjoy:
1) Reese's peanut butter cups - discovered them two summers ago in the US. Thank God we don't get them in Italy, or I'd be a rolling ball of fat.
2) Twix
3) Nutella, spoonfuls of
4) Toblerone
5) Chocolate and yoghurt flavoured ice cream

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
1) Going Through the Motions (from the Buffy musical episode) - Joss is God.
2) Thank You For the Music (ABBA) - see this post.
3) Every You, Every Me (Placebo) - 'Cruel Intentions' was the first teen-flick I ever saw, and it started with this song, which was ever so cool!
4) Sansin Bol Olsun (Hande Yener) - Turkish pop, guys!
5) Open Your Eyes (Yes)

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1) Set up a personalized T-shirt shop
2) Write and produce movies adapted from my favourite books and plays
3) Produce a Buffy feature film with Sarah Michelle Gellar
4) Buy my school and make it decent
5) Buy various houses in cool locations

Five bad habits:
1) Washing my hands way too often
2) Not walking with my back straight
3) Never washing the dishes without prompt (read: without my mother yelling at me)
4) Constantly failing to update my fics (yes, even with Panacea's constant nagging)
5) A compulsion to eat Nutella like a rabid...something or other. I can't stop myself if I know it's there on the shelf.

Five things you like doing:
1) Washing my hands way too often
2) Eating Nutella (have I mentioned this before? I like Nutella)
3) Watching random Buffy episodes
4) Buying random CDs at fnac club member sales
5) Eating lamb (funny...there's a lot of eating in my life)

Five things you would never wear again:
1) My old glasses. The new ones make me look so much sexier
2) Loose pyjamas. They're really uncomfortable
3) A crimson velvet dress my mum forced me to wear when I was 10
4) Girly headbands
5) Frilly blouses

Five favorite toys:
1) My Buffy DVD set
2) Moses Jr. (beloved computer)
3) My calculator, and games therein
4) A stuffed dog named 'Mr. Roger'
5) Minesweeper

Of course, five is hardly enough for any of these categories. Let your imagination run wild.

The word is as powerful as the sword...

2006-01-31T19:05:00.000Z

Sometimes, literature can make you stop and stare at the page, a 'whoosh' of excitement filling your ears, thrill and goosebumps all over the place, a sudden inability to breathe, and the words 'Oh. My. God.' running through your head. Repeatedly.

Ever had that feeling? I have. Multiple times.

When this occurs, the cause is mostly to do with plot. It is either an incredible twist, or something that suddenly alters the tone of the work, something that makes you think 'things will never be the same again', or an idea that is so amazing that you remain shell-shocked, and need a few deep breaths to get back to normal.

And now, a few example of scenes that cause me to react exactly this way. Please skip what you haven't read if you don't want to be spoiled.

I want to start with a passage from the last chapter of The Subtle Knife, the second book in the His Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman. Mrs. Coulter is, to put it mildly, interrogating the witch Lena Feldt as to the the whereabouts of her daughter Lyra. Here's the passage:

'"And now tell me this. You witches know something about the child Lyra. I nearly learned it from one of your sisters, but she died before I could complete the torture. Well, there is no one to save you now. Tell me the truth about my daughter."
Lena Feldt gasped: "She will be the mother - she will be life - mother - she will disobey - she will -"
"Name her! You are saying everything but the most important thing! Name her!" cried Mrs. Coulter.
"Eve! Mother of all! Eve, again! Mother Eve!" stammered Lena Feldt, sobbing.
"Ah," said Mrs. Coulter.
And she breathed a great sigh, as if the purpose of her life was clear to her at last.'

I remember reading that page three more times, open-mouthed. The concept of Lyra as Eve, the importance of naming her, Mrs. Coulter sighing... Masterful.

The next scene is from Thomas Hardy's Tess of the D'Urbervilles. I will spare you the fangirl's gushing over Hardy; my friends are the usual audience to that. But please allow me to rave over this particular scene: it is chapter 56, from 'Fulfilment', and the householder Mrs. Brooks observes a red stain on the ceiling getting gradually larger. It's blood, as she soon understands. As we understand, Tess has murdered Alec Stoke-D'Urberville. He appears to be bleeding on the carpet. Chilling.

In Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, all semblance of security is snatched away in one little line. Winston and Julia are lying in bed, after having had sex for the umpteenth time (go them! At least they get some). Winston is brooding about how there might yet be hope for the future generations. 'You were the dead; theirs was the future,' he thinks. Poor Winston!

'"We are the dead," he said.
"We are the dead," echoed Julia dutifully.
"You are the dead," said an iron voice behind them.

Oops. Busted. And, oh, shit.

Wimpy, whinging Jonathan Harker witnesses this scene in Count Dracula's castle.

'[...] I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down, with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just like a lizard moves along a wall.
What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me; I am in fear - awful fear - and there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of...'

Wow. Guess what, Jonathan? We are in awful fear too. [Incidentally, this is just about the only scene that looked good in the movie adaptation of Dracula. The rest was pretty much ruined by Keanu Reeves trying to act.]

The next scene is, believe it or not, from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, my second-favourite HP book after Goblet of Fire. Harry follows the disembodied voice of the basilisk, and is led to the petrified form of Mrs. Norris, and the creepy, cryptic message on the wall: 'THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.' It's such an incredibly tense moment, so eerie and mysterious. What's the Chamber of Secrets? Who's the heir? Who are its enemies? I'm still amazed at how chilling two short sentences can be.

And last but most definitely not least, this paragraph from Thackeray's Vanity Fair, chapter 32, 'In which Jos takes Flight, and the War is brought to a Close':

'No more firing was heard at Brussels - the pursuit rolled miles away. Darkness came down on the field and city; and Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart.'

This is the most effective chapter ending I have ever come across. I don't think I was able to turn the page for a long time after reading that.

The list is officially over. But isn't it amazing how words printed on a piece of paper can make your blood go cold?

Of adorable villains

2006-01-30T22:16:00.000Z

I dedicate today's post to Monsieur Homais, self-proclaimed ruler of Yonville, king of the jungle, chauvinist extraordinaire, and funniest villain ever.

Many people hate Homais. It's not hard to see why. He absolutely rules over Yonville. He is so annoyingly pompous and intrusive that sometimes, you just want to smack him. He gets his much coveted Legion of Honour (and has sex with his wife) while the poor heroine dies a painful death. He destroys his enemies mercilessly. He is, in short, a royal prick that never, ever gets caught.

But what would Madame Bovary be without Homais?

Repetitive and uninteresting drivel? Maybe not, but it would certainly lose most of the humour that provides essential comic relief in a human tragedy that is, on occasion, awfully depressing.

Scenario: Charles Bovary decides to operate on Hippolyte's club-foot. Considering Charles' incompetence, the operation predictably goes wrong. Hippolyte's leg gets infected, and erupts with vividly described pus. Emma is distraught at her husband's sheer mediocrity. Hippolyte is dying. Homais rushes to the scene and says: 'What can have happened to our fascinating taliped?'

Fascinating taliped? How can you read that and keep a straight face? A pat on the back to you, Monsieur Homais, for being just so inappropriately hilarious.

Of the caricatures that populate Yonville, Homais is perhaps the most significant. As a declaredly progressive member of society, he is really no different than the next bourgeois; narrow-minded, mean-spirited, materialist to the end, he epitomizes the very spirit that Emma battles against for so long. Emma, who wants to escape the confines of her provincial existence, is balanced by Homais the pharmacist, who thrives on that existence. He wins, in the end, and we hate him for it.

Or at least we're supposed to hate him for it. Personally, I love him. Besides, I'd rather be Homais and get a nice Legion of Honour than be Emma, and die of arsenic poisoning. Wouldn't you?

Of obsessive gaming

2006-01-29T12:06:00.000Z

Last week, I accidentally cancelled all my minesweeper records. Being as I am completely obsessed with minesweeper, that was nothing short of tragedy for me. Luckily, I'd screencapped my latest expert record, otherwise I would have probably ended up tearing my hair out. No, seriously.

I'm particularly proud of this record, as it went from 99 to 95 to 92 in around a week. The whole screencapping was done just to convince Panacea, who refused to believe I'd managed to beat JK Rowling. I was briefly hyper about my new amazing record, but then I saw this site, and was traumatised. Apparently, I suck. Sniff.

Oh well. I am only seventeen after all. I know I'll make it eventually!

In case you're interested, my beginners record is five seconds, and my intermediate is thirty-one. Incidentally, that particular intermediate record was what caused me to delete my scores. I was so excited that I accidentally clicked the 'cancel all scores' tab. I know, I still can't believe it either.

Should I manage to improve my times, you will be informed.
Now I'm off to do my maths homework.

PS: If you have no idea what minesweeper is, I suggest you give it a go (but read the instructions first). It's excellent brain training.

Kings and Queens of pop

2006-01-28T13:12:00.000Z

For post number three, I thought I'd write an album review. The album in question is ABBA Gold, a Christmas gift from Panacea, who got sick of listening to my personal rendition of Dancing Queen over and over again.
So here goes.

Overall, this is a great album. Being a greatest hits compilation, it's devoid of below par filler that usually accompanies all albums. Consequently, you'll find you won't have to skip anything, or cringe at a particularly unoriginal tune. The only song that I can think of that's missing is Honey Honey, but that's a small loss compared to what you can find here.

'Dancing Queen', first song on the album, is amazing. For some reason, it makes me want to cry every time I listen to it (although in the interests of personal dignity, I usually refrain from doing so). Oh, and it starts with the chorus, which is unusual and quite nice. In any case, the vocals sound unbelievably good, almost sad (which I guess is why they make me want to cry).
Really, the perfect-pop-song-that-everybody-knows status for 'Dancing Queen' is not accidental.

Then we have 'Knowing Me, Knowing You', which has a lovely 'a-haaa' every minute or so. The lyrics are (surprisingly) interesting, and I could probably relate if I'd ever been in a serious relationship (or any at all, for that matter. Alas, I am a lonely heart).

'Take a Chance on Me' is one of those cool ABBA songs where the two men in the group (Bjorn and Benny, that is) make a huge contribution to the singing with a relentless 'take a chance, take a chance' that accompanies the first thirty or so seconds of the song. Their voices almost sound like maracas, which is a strange comparison to make, I guess.

'Mamma Mia' - uber-famous. The title is an Italian exclamation, and even I, single-extraordinaire, can relate. How many times have we thought 'my, my, how can I resist you?' My obsession with Mike is a perfect example. But that's for another day.

This track is followed by my personal favourite, 'Lay All Your Love on Me' - you can dance to this, you can brood to it, you can sing to it, you can do just about anything to it. The tune is so catchy it's almost painful, the drums (even though I'm not sure they're real drums) provide a great background to the beautiful, almost churchlike vocals. The lyrics are great - obsessing over a new relationship is universal, and what is more, they seem to have managed to make everything rhyme, so that it sounds even better. In conclusion, this is one good song.

'Super Trouper' is also good. I especially like the 'supah-pah, troupah-pah' bits sung by the men. The music is pleasant enough, soothing I think best describes it. This is followed by 'I Have a Dream', which seems to be the odd one out, really, as it lacks the exceedingly catchy tunes of the other songs. However, once you listen to it enough times (and believe me, I have), the rousing lyrics, and Frida's beautiful voice, become addictive.

'The Winner Takes It All' is just depressing. Unfortunately, it's also true. The winner really does take it all. I guess the only way to go is to be the winner. The saddest verses?

'But tell me does she kiss

Like I used to kiss you?

Does it feel the same

When she calls your name?'

Waaaahhh!

'Money, Money, Money' is another of my favourites. The tune at the beginning is almost playful, as is the rest of the song, which, predictably, is about money. I think they've used cymbals somewhere in there, but I can't quite tell. Really, I'm just pretending here.

The opening of 'SOS' sets the tone for the rest of the track. This is one depressing song. But, as ABBA always do, there is a chorus that, music-wise, is slightly more light-hearted. Which is definitely of the good. And then comes another of my favourites: 'Chiquitita'. The first time you listen to this, you're like 'o-kaay'. It really doesn't stick in your head, and neither does it seem to have a recognisable tune. The chorus starts more than a minute and a half into it. It's a slow song, and it's also a long song. But, just like 'I Have a Dream', it improves with successive listenings.

There are no words to describe 'Fernando'. It's just, wow. One thing though - the first Heidi-like minute or so could have been a little shorter. But i guess that sets the atmosphere. 'Voulez-Vous' is quite good, although not as remarkable as some other tracks. It is really the ultimate pop song, and very eighties, I think (it was released in 1979). The strange beat of the chorus is unusual, and Agnetha and Frida singing together is very nice.

'Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!' has a cheesy title, but it's a great pop song. Unless you live in a ditch, you must've heard Madonna's new song, 'Hung Up'. Well, she took that painfully catchy tune from this song. ABBA are immortal!

'Does Your Mother Know' is Panacea's favourite, and I quite like it too. It's sung by Bjorn, which is unusual, but it fits the lyrics. The rhyming is a little cheesy on occasion (eg. I can dance with you honey, if you think it's funny...), but overall it's a great song. The guitar (I think it's a guitar) fits really well, considering how 'pop' this song is.

I don't particularly like 'One of Us'. I only like the chorus, but really, I've heard better. The following song also doesn't shine. 'The Name of the Game' is too...I don't know, 'slow' might be the word I'm looking for, but that doesn't necessarily mean bad.

Luckily, the slight boredom of these two tracks is more than made up for by yet another of my favourites: 'Thank You For the Music'. This is probably, after 'Dancing Queen', one of ABBA's best known songs. I simply adore it. I can often be heard singing it, which rather annoys Panacea, but that's just because she's tone deaf, and envies my beautiful voice.

And, last but not least, 'Waterloo'. It's one of the really famous ABBA songs, and rightly so, as it's really hard to forget once you listen to it. It's a loud song, a short song, and the piano sounds great. Oh, and the beautiful line: 'The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself.' For a history nerd like me, finding this in a pop song is just too cool.

And the album thus ends. Unless you're a hardcore ABBA fan, ABBA Gold is really quite enough for your ABBA cravings. Their best songs are all in there, and even the liner notes are cool (I must be the only person in the world who reads those).

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

2006-01-27T22:40:00.000Z

It's been snowing for two days straight now, and the whole city is a big pile of brown slush. If you're wondering why on earth this is such a big deal, well, you obviously don't live in Milan. Apparently, there hasn't been this much snow since 1985 (but I wouldn't know, as I was still in gamete form at that time), and, Italians being the world's greatest drama queens, this takes the top spot in the news, above Palestinian election results and kidnapped journalists.
Ignore my seemingly indifferent attitude. I am as over-excited as a drunk house-elf. Snow rules, and I never see any.
School decided they'd let us out at 12:30, but everyone left an hour earlier except me, the uber-nerd who didn't want to miss Italian. When that was over, I made my way home through piles of dirty snow, jeans sopping by the time I got to the metro. Still, I had something to look forward to. Plans were made for a snowball fight at Panacea's house. Our also very nerdy friend Harry said she'd join in, and we just ignored everyone else because they were too busy pretending they were too cool for snowball fights.
I wore my Moon Boots and set out to wait for the 54 (that's a bus, by the way). Surprisingly enough, it got there within a song time (around four minutes, unless it's Stairway to Heaven) and I eventually got chez Panacea.
Soon, we were out on the street, in a surreally quiet Milan, throwing snowballs at each other. My two evil friends ganged up on me too many times for my liking, and my poor ears were targeted mercilessly. Alas, tiredness soon set in, and we decided to engage in a more sedentary occupation: snowman building.
The result of an hour's toil and trouble was Frosty.

Frosty is a cool snowman with a green pepper for a nose, twig pieces for eyes, and a mohican. He also happens to be lopsided, although that was entirely unintentional. Those metal pole thingies, by the way, are slightly less than a metre in length, so you can imagine how big an enterprise the building of Frosty was.
The name Frosty is, of course, an original creation. No other snowmen are called Frosty. None at all.
Frosty enjoyed Milan, but unfortunately, Milan did not enjoy Frosty. When his creators where there to watch over him, many people stopped and stared, congratulating him for being so handsome. A really cute guy even took a photo of Frosty! Sadly, the moment we left him alone to face the world, some faceless and nameless vandals made sure to destroy the poor thing. A mere two hours after his birth, Frosty was decapitated, and resembled a small volcano rather than an ice sculpture.
I suppose all good things must come to an end.
May you rest in peace, Frosty!

Incindentally, what is the plural of snowman? Is it snowmen or snowmans?

Weird weather

Oh, look! A post!

2006-01-27T21:16:00.000Z

I've finally taken advantage of the wonders of the internet, and created a blog. This being the first post, I really don't know what I'm doing, so please bear with my random ramblings (alliteration) for now.
Oh, yes, this might eventually get interesting.
Probably not now, though.
I also happen to be an endless procrastinator, so whenever I update, you owe it to my ever-nagging friend Panacea (and that's obviously not her real name).
On a side note, it is snowing here. But more on that, and on a snowman named Frosty, on my next post. Aren't you just dying of excitement?