Thursday, March 29, 2012


Never has something so simple made me laugh so hard. I apologise for this post.


Monday, March 26, 2012

Another reason to add to the list of the myriad ways in which I fail.

Despite the looks of derision I get when I announce as much, I love me some country music.

Love it.

Love it.

I don't know what exactly it was that flicked in my brain, but at some point during my teenage years I stopped using the ol' reliable, "I LIKE EVERYTHING EXCEPT COUNTRY AND RAP" and changed my declaration of musical love to something more along the lines of "I FREAKING LOVE COUNTRY MUSIC, AND PUNK, AND 60S POP. WANNA FIGHT ABOUT IT?"

When tracing back the roots of my ever-growing, never-stopping love of country, folk, bluegrass and all things old-timey, much of the credit for that initial musical education must be given to The Byrds. The Byrds quickly led to The Flying Burrito Brothers, then to Gram Parsons, and then to all the things that led to the Byrds and the Flying Burrito Brothers. Thus I delved deeper and deeper, to the daggy point of no return. It also led me to a deep, undying hatred of The Eagles, but that's an entirely different story.

I could wax lyrical for hours on end about my love of country, bluegrass, twang, but fortunately for you the point of this post is something entirely different. Even if you do think a love of Emmylou Harris is reason enough for me to fail. Frankly, all you need to know was the above; that I like me some daggy-ass shit. From the 70s and all years that preceded it. It fills my iPod, right alongside the metal, the electro, the indie pretensions.

So. I bought myself a ticket to see Chris Hillman and Herb Pederson play at the Corner. Chris Hillman being a founding member of The Byrds. For those of you playing at home, you may recognise The Byrds by their cover of "Mr Tambourine Man" (indeed, a cavalcade of Dylan covers), as well as songs like "Eight Miles High", and the seminal country-rock album Sweetheart of the Rodeo. The Byrds was the band that spawned the careers of Roger McGuinn, David Crosby and Gene Clark. Big-deal-band. You may also know (or not know) Chris Hillman from his work with The Flying Burrito Brothers. For the more tired and weary members of my readership at this moment, what I'm getting at is that seeing Chris Hillman in the flesh was going to be a VERY BIG DEAL. 

Big Deal.

I bought my ticket.

I prepared myself.

I got excited.

I listened to The Byrds, The Burritos, Hillman's solo stuff on repeat on Wednesday night.

I got to work on Thursday.

I went onto the interdweebs to find out what time the gig would start.

Then I realised the gig had been the night before.

My face when.
Believe me when I say I almost burst into tears. I think I made some sort of animal-dying choked noise, and I know I went bright red and started sweating. WAS THIS SOME SORT OF HORRID NIGHTMARE???? Apparently not. I stood up and paced around my desk, probably with steam shooting out of my ears. I then stormed into the producers office.


The ladies stared at me, horrified.

"Did you hurt your arm again?"
"What happened?"
"Are you okay???"

I'm sure that if I were laughing as I told them the story, they would have been sent into peals of laughter, but given the obviously distraught state I was in, they seemed to share (albeit in a decidedly more calm manner) my feeling of utter horror. HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A NERD WHO MISSED A GIG.

I stomped into the kitchen and stood in front of the fridge, and began shoving chocolate into my mouth.  HEALTH KICK BE DAMNED, I MISSED OUT ON SEEING SOME MANDOLIN AND BANJO PICKING ACTION. I decided to make a coffee, but the fact that I was obviously still in shock meant that I got coffee all over the bench. I stared at the coffee and wondered how on earth I could FAIL SO HARD. Had I massacred a town full of kittens in a past life? Had I played a pivotal role in the formation of the Eagles in a past life? WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS? Surely it wasn't just my poor organisational skills. Surely not. Pfft. Don't be daft.

I can laugh about it now, but at the time I was about seven shades of pissed off/traumatised/deeply, deeply saddened. To think! While I was listening to The Flying Burrito Brothers, Chris Hillman and Herb Pederson were ONSTAGE. At a gig I HAD BOUGHT A TICKET TO. OH, THE HUMANITY. OH, THE INFINITE SORROW. 

Oh boy. I'm pretty sure I spent the rest of the day looking sullen. I sure as shit know I trudged over to Mike's place, looking very much like a dejected, depressed Peanuts character. I bought beer en route. I needed beer. OH BOY, DID I NEED A BEER. So I had a beer, and Mike cooked pad thai, and the pad thai was consumed in front of a couple of episodes of Awake (you know, it's actually Pretty Damn Good so far!) and everything seemed a little better.

Still ...

Yours truly, good at things.

Let that be a lesson to you, kids.



Saturday, March 10, 2012

Maybe it Was Karma?

Was having a bit of a ponder about my injured wing.
I think it may have been karma. I dunno, I just have a sneaking suspicion it was.

Not that I'm a bad person or anything, it's just that sometimes I do really dumb things, that inevitably pan out in a far more epically destructive way than initially anticipated. Ain't it always the way?

Perhaps it's all a cyclical, a shit-rolls-along kind of deal. You see, when I was six I broke my friend's arm. I admit it. I did. I broke her arm. I didn't mean to though, honest! I didn't harbour any deep-seated anger or rage in my six-year-old heart towards my friend. At least, I don't remember that being the case anyway. Unless you count the fact that I'm Chilean and she's Argentinian as a reason. Shy of my parents embedding cross-border rivalry in me from birth, I can't see any reason that would be it either. Basically, I'd wager that we can boil it down to my bad decision-making skills, which were obviously well-cultivated even at that early age.

Anyway. It was recess/playlunch/whatever the hell you want to call the break before lunch during school. We were all playing on the monkeybars, swinging around, going upside down, all that jazz. Wholesome kid stuff. Then we started playing this other game, where we'd stand on a chair, then jump towards the monkeybars and catch on, in a spectacular display of primary school acrobatics. Very daring. Especially because the chair was quite a bit higher than the tiny pipsqueak chairs we'd sit at our desks (TINY TINY TOY FURNITURE) on during class. I was playing with my friends, one of whom - and I'm changing her name to protect the innocent here - was called ... Agnes. Let's call her Agnes.

Agnes and I were playing the move-our-chair-back-slightly then jump to the monkey bars game. Ever so slightly, our chairs moved further away from the bars. Then, as she went to speak to someone before her next go, I moved her chair back further. A lot further. I watched as she climbed onto it, oblivious at the gaping chasm between her and the monkeybars (we were six, after all). Then she jumped. Then she landed in a heap on the tan bark.

I don't remember much from those early primary school days. But I do remember that day in the playground. I remember just being kind of curious about what'd happen, whether she'd make it or not. When she didn't, and when she crumpled onto the ground in a heap, my six-year-old mind immediately knew I'd done something Very Very Bad. So I bailed. I probably went to play with someone else, immediately appearing amidst their game. I stayed quiet when she wasn't in class after recess. Man, she was the one that couldn't judge the distance between her chair and the monkeybars, and properly calculate her ability to jump that far! I said nothing.

To this day, I don't think Agnes had any idea that I was the one that caused her to come to school two days later in a cast, and a sling that seemed to take up her entire tiny six year old torso.

I never owed up to it.

Hell, I didn't even tell anyone until a few years ago.

But now the internet knows.

And maybe that's why now I am unable to drive a car or brush my teeth properly.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

"I Don't Think It's Broken" or: How I said Hi to Mitts, Farewell to a Favourite Co-Worker, and Injured My Wing in front of Many Many People

I woke up Saturday morning with my head feeling like it'd been knocked around by the fists of Steven Segal. My mouth was drier than if I'd eaten a Weet-Bix whole without milk. My legs and neck ached. I barely noticed all of that though, for the fact that I'd rolled onto my right arm in my sleep and now I was in more excruciating pain than I had been when I'd collapsed into bed. Mitch - still fully clothed, apart from the shoes he'd managed to kick off before passing out - stirred out of sleepland.

"Fuck off. It hurts."

I stared at the ceiling and wondered where on earth the night that preceded the morning should be filed. Should it be "Rollicking Success" or "Resounding Failure"?  "McConaughey for the Ages" or "Goddamn..."?

I'm not entirely sure.

Certainly, if you'd spoken to me Saturday afternoon you'd have found me looking pretty sullen and despondent. About to head to a friend's engagement soiree, I couldn't even get dressed or brush my teeth properly. I'd tried to drive Mitch to the station earlier and barely got around the corner before conceding that one can't drive a manual car with one hand. I'll tell you this much, my left paw isn't exactly cut out for day-to-day activities. I felt completely defeated by the weekend, and it hadn't even properly begun yet. With that in mind, I'm really, really glad I did drag myself to Tom and Robyn's party. For even though it got pretty old pretty quickly explaining how exactly I'd ended up with my arm in a sling, by the end of a night spent with pals I had well and truly remembered how funny the goddamn situation was. The night was a comedy of errors, yet one more arrow of "Reb Falls Over and Hilarity Ensues" to add to my quiver of lulz.

It started off normal enough.

It was Staf's - he who is up there as one of my favourite people at work - last day. Thus, the beers did begin to flow as 5pm rolled around. To provide you with a bit of context, upon starting at my current place of employment it soon became clear that I was to rehash my ol' be-an-honourary-guy schtick. Which is more than fine, as it's my schtick (read: default state) for a reason. The office's design duo quickly soon became my favourites, offering them coffees whenever I feel even slightly bored, spending my spare moments in their lair, getting into wrestling matches. I have to admit, my days will be a great deal less entertaining without Staf constantly stopping by reception to harass me, pull my hair, or hurl shitty jokes at me.

Anyway, after a few drinks at work (and after bestowing Staf with the black, wooden carved penis bottle opener I'd purchased for him in Bali) I hauled my backpack on (let it never be said that I'm not dainty as fuck) and headed off to meet Mitch and the guys. Which, just quietly, was great. I mean, there's not much in the way of me falling over in this bit of the story, so I won't go into that much detail. Suffice to say though, that being reunited Mitts was lovely as hell. I hadn't seen him for a few months, so you can imagine the hugs, hair ruffling and loving insults that ensued. We immediately set about catching up on each others' adventures in work, sexy times, and woes. Which, given how good (questionable?) we are at things, was more enough to chat about for a long while. There's no describing how much I miss Mitch now that he's in Perth. Without getting sappy, it was fucking great to see him and the other guys, most of whom I hadn't seen in around six months at the least, at most a couple of years.

Anyway, I got a message from Staf declaring the work crew had moved to Cherry. I suggested this to the guys, and we trouped over, a herd of long-haired guys in skinny jeans, and one girl wearing a backpack to off-set any femininity brought on by a pretty dress. We got to Cherry, and that's where things began to degenerate.

I dragged Mitch through the sweaty crowd to where the band was playing and limbs were flying. I "introduced" Mitts to Staf and Dane (read: gesticulated wildly at them), then ran back to the bar to shriek hysterically in greeting at the other guys from work (Matt: "You have a lot of friends with long hair"), attempt to nipple cripple them, then head back to the Film Guys. I spent the next hour or so running between the Film Guys, chatting, catching up, lol-ing, then running back to Work Pals, nipple crippling them, dancing, getting my beer spilt on me, then being very surprised at how tasty Jagermeister in ginger beer is (it's pretty tasty).

SO. I'll skip through the bit where Work Crew left, then the bit where The Film Boys and I walked down Flinders Lane, past the ladies clad in skin-tight dresses, the bit where I felt at once frumpy and bad-ass in my boots and backpack, the lulz in which we sniggered in disgust/delight at the striped-shirt guys loitering in front of the many clubs lining the street. Oh boy, that was a long sentence. I'll skip ahead to the bit where I ran into Matt, Staf and Dane in front of Flinders Street. Immediately after which they announced they were on their way to get food, and Staf chased Dane across the street.

This is where everything kind of goes slow motion. Never one to back away from a potential tackle and stacks-on, I sprinted after the guys. It was one of those, "OH! PEOPLE RUNNING! I WANT TO RUN TOO!!" moments. I don't know what it is exactly, but I just get full of energy when I drink. Climbing things, chasing things. I'm sure you know this by now though. I closed in on Staf and leapt up to kick him in the derriere. In slow-motion, mid-air, I saw a lightning-quick reflex, his foot suddenly sticking out.

Artist's rendition. Clown shoes probably false.

I went flying. I landed on the road, in the middle of Flinders Street. The middle of Flinders Street and Swanston Street. My skirt went flying up (Wearing ugly underwear. I WAS GOING TO DO MY WASHING ON THE WEEKEND OKAY). My backpack hit the back of my head. I was on the ground. I lay there for a moment. After a moment of shock, I began to laugh hysterically, that maniac "HAHAHAHAHAHHA OH MY GOD THAT'S SO FUNNY I FELL OVER!" type rambling that one does when one makes a giant ass of themselves in front of a large crowd. A large crowd which, just quietly, seemed to go "OOOOOOOOOOHHHHH" in unison as I crumpled onto the ground. The type of "OOOOOOHHHH" that pretty much means, "Oh god. That poor girl. I am pretty fucking glad I am NOT her right now" the kind of collective noise of "ooooooh" that means, "Oh boy. There goes some drunk girl falling over. Christ, it's like, not even midnight. She's your mate."

Note the splayed legs and squeal.
'The Scorpion'

Author's note: my legs are not actually that long.

The guys immediately ran over and asked if I was alright in between exclamations of "ooohhhshit!". Through the hysterical giggles, all I could manage was, "YESIMFINE! Oh MAAAAN this is going to FUCKING HURT TOMORROW!" I stared at my right arm, which didn't so much hurt as it seemed to look back at me slightly dazed, almost forewarning me: "You have about half and hour's worth of use to get out of me. Then I'm tapping out. We had a good run tonight. But I'm out. Shotgun not. It's up to you and Lefty tonight. Soz bro." Then Lefty's all like, "DERP."

I'll say this much, I'm glad I wasn't sober.

We wandered over to Subway, where the guys bought provisions and I tried to judge how badly I was hurt. Pretty sure Staf felt pretty darn badly at that stage though. But you know? I kind of didn't care. I was still having a great time, if you can believe that.  Probably testament to the company I was keeping. Aww. Nice, no? But seriously, if you're in the market for injuring yourself on a night out, make sure you do it around them. You'll be distracted from the imminent pain and scrapes by hilarity. 

To be honest, the pain in my arm wasn't so much painful as it was annoying. As movement seemed to deteriorate, irritation grew. I couldn't participate in a bout of wrestling/frolicking on the lawns next to the Arts Centre. Couldn't pull my tights up properly, when I went to the bathroom, couldn't fix my hair, couldn't really even take my backpack off. HNNNNGGGGG. Derp. Derp. Derp.

I'm going to do a bit more fast-forwarding fast-forwarding now. Past the bit where we couldn't find our friend at the Speigeltent, past the bit where we briefly considered heading into that pub across the street from Flinders Street to 'laugh at the bogans'. Fast-forward to Strange Wolf, the very pretty, very hip, and quite expensive bar just off Collins Street. I thought it was somewhat appropriate, given the bar's name, and Staf's vast and sprawling collection of wolf t-shirts/paraphernalia. Anyway, it's at this point in the night that the pain in my arm turned from amusing-yet-slightly-irritating-vaguely-sore-injury to oh-fuck-me-I-can't-even-move-it. I struggled in a one-armed battle with my tights in the bathrooms for a what felt like hours, with my injured limb whimpering pathetically in a position I like to call the "T-Rex".

I actually ended up roaring in rage and frustration.
Good thing there was no one else in the bathrooms.
And yes, I know I drew the wrong arm as being injured.

My game fell a few notches. Not that I had even really brought my "Game" (as it were), but I'm afraid I mostly ignored the beer in front of me, as well as the tall and attractive guy from Boston Staf and Dane had "found" at the bar in favour of staring at my arm in wonder as it began to hrt more and more. Stories swapped, insightful comments bandied around and all I could manage was the occasional "Oh, cool." or "Rad..." and a very unimpressive story about vomming on a girl's leg at Lounge when I was a teen dudd (facepalm, one for the ages). The dancing and uproarious laughter and nipple cripples of Cherry seemed a lifetime ago.

The guys called it a night, first Dane then Staf. I briefly considered catching the Nightrider back to the 'burbs, then decided against it. Firstly, I'd have to head all the way back into the city to pick up my car in the morning. Secondly, I knew that if I left at that moment, I'd most likely end up listening to something vaguely glum on the ride home, then wake up in the morning only to travel back to the city to pick up my car. No good. So I decided to head to where Mitch and co were. HOWEVER. Before that occurred, Staf felt the need to assure me that my arm was not broken. Perhaps for his own peace of mind also? I know not. What I do know is thus; his chosen way to test the brokenness of my arm was to yank it down as hard as possible, while declaring "See? It's not broken!" through a devilish grin. My reply was to shriek, then start flailing at him with my good arm. Tell you what, it's a good thing I'm so fond of Staf, or he'd have gotten a swift kick to the snout.

So. Needless to say, I got to Workshop feeling pretty defeated. Mitts described my entrance later on as something along the lines of, "Hey guys. What's going on? I can't move my arm. I hate things." ... which is pretty much correct, after having not been able to close the door of the taxi I'd just struggled to pay for because I couldn't really get into my backpack. I was so unenthusiastic about things, I couldn't even be bothered getting ice. So Mitch did, in a tea towel. I sat there looking despondent, and the ice melted, and my dress got all wet and cold. The night soon ended. And even though Mitch and I knew we'd have to sleep in my car because our couch options were rendered null because of various friends getting laid (seriously, EVERYONE was getting some), it was okay. My arm was raging at me and the world, I was bummed out and exhausted. It's at this point in the story however, that Mitts leapt into Rad Pal mode. We got into a cab to where my car was, and Mitch gave my good hand a squeeze. 

"How you doing, Rebby?"
"Are you crying?"
"Good. Cause you're no pussy."
"Who's my REEEBBBB?"

Back in the car, the seats were lowered. Mitch patted me on the head. "Its okay Rebby."

He then started laughing. "I can't believe you broke your arm!"
"I didn't break my arm!" I replied.

I thought about it for a moment, about the situation we were in, how the night had panned out. I began to laugh, to giggle kind of hysterically. I thought about how long ago the beginning of the night felt, how all the ingredients of a McConaughey were present, but in the weirdest, most warped way possible. There was an epic journey, there were hilarious sidekicks, there were love interests, there were injuries (nipple cripples, fractured arms and otherwise), frolicking in the grass, dancing to a band. There was accosting and beer, a journey across the city, then back across the city. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, I couldn't move my arm! And we were about to spend the night in my car, parked outside my work, because our friends were busy getting their lay on. It was like, four in the morning. Mitch and I were drinking the apple juice that'd been in my car for days, and stale rice cakes. Hell, Mitch was in Melbourne! The fuck! This was like, a McConaughey adventure directed by a less-twisted David Lynch. Or, if I were a little cooler, Jim Jarmusch. Maybe it's a McConaughey directed by .... I dunno ... Bruce Robinson? Or something? A McConaughey directed by The Coen Brothers? Maybe. I'm tired.

And so, if you're wondering about the treasure ... it was this: the fact that Mitch opted to drive us home. At 4am. Exhausted. After an entire day of beers. It took 40 minutes, it felt like at least three hours. It was a bridge too far, with Mitch raging at the distance and time and effort. It was an ordeal. Truly an ordeal, one in which Mitch yelled at the radio for playing a song as happy as Van Morrison's "Bright Side of the Road". We were on the verge of giving up by the time we reached Waverley Road (about halfway through the journey). It wasn't so much Sahara as it was The Way Back. We staggered into the Reb Cave, and the night ended in a bed in place of a car seat. Treasure. Glorious, victorious treasure.

Anyway. That's the story of how I ended up in a sling, and why I was so tired on Saturday. Saturday morning I stared at the ceiling and tried to ignore the throbbing in my arm, and tried to arrange the thoughts trundling hungoverly around my brain regarding the night before. Was it awesome? Was it shitty? Was it lots of Column A and a smattering of Column B? Was it hilarious? Ridiculous? Yes. All of the above. Most of all though, it makes for a really, really long blog post, and a sling, and some amusing as hell scenes in the ol' memory bank.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Make Your Night a McConaughey

I don't even really know how it started.

It was probably one of the rare (at least, they're rare in my memory) quiet nights spent in apartment Sevin-Oh-Eight. I say that because I vaguely remember Mitch, Jackson and maybe Ben being present during the initial, fateful conversation which would yield the measuring stick and badge of victory for all epic nights that would come henceforth.

Could we have known the life it would take? I don't know. Could Shakespeare have known the extent to which things that came out of his brain would become part of day-to-day speak so many years after his death? I don't know. But I'm sure he had an inkling of when he was on to a good thing.

A good thing, for your night out.

Ever had a night out that was so epic, you woke up in the morning and thought about the you that existed in the afternoon before the night out and thought, "Wow, if only I knew the journey I was about to go on!" or "That was a completely different me, I have so much knowledge to impart on that person!" or "How many places did we go to and how many people did I insult?".

I bet you have. I'd wager that most people have. Most people have taken part in a night out that began unassumingly, but which began to live in infamy from the very next morning onwards. The type of night that is regularly reminisced about, with wild gestures and excited flailing.

That's a journey night. Excuse me, a Journey Night. The kind of night films are made of, films like Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist or The Last Detail or 25th Hour or American Graffiti, After Hours, Superbad or Dazed and Confused. The kind of film with a tag line like, "ONE FATEFUL NIGHT..." or a voice over declaring "IT WAS A NIGHT THAT WOULD CHANGE THEM FOREVER." (maybe not that extreme, but you get the cut of my jib)

If your night felt like a journey, with multiple locations, one that spanned what felt like a lifetime, with a rollercoaster ride of emotions (failing emotions, then slightly episodic set pieces are fine), one that warranted a "PHEW!" upon getting into bed/couch/floor, then you've had a Journey Night. 

What if, though, what if your Journey Night suddenly reached some next-level Journey maneuvers? What if it achieves some higher plane of Epic?

Then you MAY have had yourself a McConaughey.

Like I said, I'm not sure how that conversation came about, what segue brought us to the topic, but we definitely ended up talking about certain elements commonly found within certain films starring Matthew McConaughey.

First off, I have to stress that the "certain films" I refer to are - in fact - films like Fool's Gold. Maybe not A Time to Kill. Let's be clear on that. Films that include the following:

  • An epic journey, preferably through a myriad of different exotic locations. 
  • A love interest. 
  • A hilarious side-kick. 
  • Treasure found at the end of the journey. 

The rules of McConaughey nights (as they've evolved) are thus. For your night to qualify as having been a McConaughey, your night must have contained all of those ingredients. However, the form that they take are not set in stone. For instance, the "treasure" can be anything from McDonalds at the close of festivities, to getting to bed, to finding twenty bucks on the bathroom floor of Revolver (I kid. Revolver is not conducive to treasure at all). A hilarious side-kick could be anyone (a friend spurting out theories on Henry Jenkins or Ronald Reagan is one example). "A myriad of different exotic locations" could be a journey over the length and breadth of the city, or an epic emotional journey.

The thing about McConaugheys though, is that they can't be planned. If you declare "THIS WILL BE A MCCONAUGHEY", then your night will be most likely be filled with bad music and mediocre vibes. The best nights are always the ones that start out in the most unassuming way possible, then somehow take a turn for the spectacular.

I find that when I try to explain what "A McConaughey" is to someone who isn't in my close circle of friends, I'm usually met with a) laughter and something along the lines of "Ooohhhh, I know what you mean", or b) a politely interested yet bemused look. Admittedly, it's fairly silly business. I'm sure there's more appropriate actors to name a Journey Night after. "McConaughey" has a better ring to it than a "Nicolas Cage" or a "Brendan Fraser". There's just something about Matthew McConaughey and that smug grin though, that seems very fitting for a victorious night out with the crew.

Hell, having had a quick peruse of Mr McConaughey on IMDB, I can't actually see that many tropical-adventure-journey-films. There's Fool's Gold, there's Sahara, there's some shitty romantic comedies in posters for which he can't seem to stand up with out assistance, and there's Dazed and Confused.

Anyway, I'm writing this because in the past few weeks I've had a few McConaugheys. Or rather, a few different types of McConaugheys. One a McConaughey-goes-to-South-East-Asia. One a McConaughey-stars-in-a-really-dark-comedy.

Stay tuned.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Sadder than Whitney Houston

When the outpouring of sadness over Whitney Houston's death hit the internet waves, I was hardly moved at all. Never having called myself a huge fan, I regarded all those coming out of the woodwork declaring themselves "LIFELONG FANS" with a kind of skepticism and amusement. Not that any death is amusing in the slightest. I dunno, I just wasn't moved.


This morning during my daily battle through the suburban traffic landscape, I heard on the radio that Davy Jones of the Monkees had passed away. I let out a little squeak and turned up the volume.

I don't really even remember how I got into the Monkees. But, given my slightly addictive/obsessive personality, I very quickly became absolutely entranced by them. The DVDs, all their albums, finding whatever I could on vinyl, posters, books. I couldn't get enough of them. I was in my early teens, so my school folders were plastered with pictures of them sitting proudly next to my Star Wars pencil case (I was very cool, obviously).

There was (is) just something about The Monkees that makes me happy. To my mind, the TV show captures this amazing kind of joy, as do those five or so records that they released. Their music is terribly, criminally underrated in my opinion. They were all accomplished musicians in their own right (apart from Davy Jones, funnily enough), I'll have you know. Personally, I think their best songs are the ones that were their own doing. Hell, Michael Nesmith's solo stuff is amazing. Seriously. It is. Country magic. And it's fascinating to hear his musical stylings forming in a group and environment as strange as The Monkees.


It was The Monkees that ended up getting me into the wider musical wonderland that was the 1960s. The Who (my next obsession), Woodstock, psychedelia, garage. I guess the Monkees aren't exactly the most likely of gateway bands, but there you go.

SO! That's why I've been listening to The Monkees all morning at my desk. Quite sad.

In other news! Mitts arrives today. Again, the past few weeks have been insanely busy. A ridiculous rollercoaster of visitors, trips and beer. With a week in Bali in between (hot, relaxing, pools are the words that pop to mind when revisiting those memories). I feel like I don't even have time to think, let alone accomplish anything creative or constructive ... or sleep ... or clean my room. I lift up my piles of clothing half expecting to see a friendly colony of mice hanging out there (I'm kidding, it's not that bad).