the midweek DIG index
or, you know, a copout for not having anything real and substantial to talk about.
digging:
My parents’ computer being LOADS (slight pun intended, my apologies) faster than mine, most likely because it’s a desktop with 1500 songs on iTunes as opposed to a notebook with close to 4500.
not digging:
still being on bloody dialup.
digging:
Triple J dusting off some fatboy slim, directly leading to me...
...digging:
dancing like ricky wilson trying out for a fiddy cent video, all over my empty loungeroom, in my scratty grey short short shorts and my ancient get up kids t-shirt (courtesy of dana). all together now: right here, right now, right here, right now. no, you've gotta BARK! it...
digging:
the day after the haircut. nothing dramatic, just a touch-up, but i still love getting blow-dries as i can't do them myself for the life of me.
most definitely not digging:
the pimple of uluru-like proportions spoiling my otherwise attractive jawline. i'm getting to the point where i'm think i should form an alliance with it, maybe name it and befriend it like chris does in family guy... i could christen it Just Jack and he can join me in the will and grace marathon i'm planning for this afternoon...
digging:
heading to sydney tomorrow to hang with my girls (including one i haven't seen in more than a year), and tear up the north sydney pubs. that is, after we see WONKA! an innovative and hilarious new selection for the melbourne comedy festival, where they screen the original willy wonka film (with gene wilder, the original and best, much as i worship the carpet lord depp skips on) but turn down the sound and redub it live, complete with 5 actors and 4 foley artists, to turn the plot from a slightly dark modern fairy tale to a very dark insane postmodern LSD-soaked "romp" (the most ridiculous, pompous and meaningless word in modern entertainment criticism) where veruca salt is a polish princess, her dad is winston churchill and the chocolate river is, in fact, a river of poop.
not even going near a shovel:
having to take the train. fuck public transport, fuck the state government (fuck the federal govt while i'm at it, just as a matter of course), and fuck not having my license.
digging:
the song that starts with some guy roaring "everyone's a critic" and has what sounds like a small roomful of people roaring the chorus. gotta love roaring.
that living things song with the vocals that sound like quan from regurgitator, that makes me feel like pouring myself into some black jeans and raising some hell, but in a different kind of tight-black-jeaned-hell-raising way than kasabian does. (sidebar!: having "club foot" in all the tv ads for Goal! is making me want to see it even more. and i could have resisted, with diffculty, even the charms of that mud-spattered piece of absolute totty they've got playing the brilliant young hero.)
something just coming on the radio now that sounds like an electric six remix... danger, danger! spiked with DFA and mylo...
the strokes again. especially that new thing with regina spektor. who is regina spektor?
jenny, conor, m and ben covering the traveling wilburys.
ted leo covering everyone.
everyone covering the beatles.
the sugababes covering the arctic monkeys. (well i haven't downloaded it yet, but i just spotted it on the hype filter in taylor's awesome blog M4KWCRG and just had to include it. come on, even if it's shite it'll be brilliant.)
scuffing my chucks halfheartedly in the dust (ie. not digging but not doing nothing even remotely near digging, if you follow. the sixties had no idea what they were starting with that particular bit of slang.)
james blunt covering crowded house.
holly throsby. hey holly, emiliana torrini called, she wants her gorgeous breathiness back, seeing as you're not using it.. no, really, you're not.
current tune: augie mrach - "one crowded hour"
digging:
My parents’ computer being LOADS (slight pun intended, my apologies) faster than mine, most likely because it’s a desktop with 1500 songs on iTunes as opposed to a notebook with close to 4500.
not digging:
still being on bloody dialup.
digging:
Triple J dusting off some fatboy slim, directly leading to me...
...digging:
dancing like ricky wilson trying out for a fiddy cent video, all over my empty loungeroom, in my scratty grey short short shorts and my ancient get up kids t-shirt (courtesy of dana). all together now: right here, right now, right here, right now. no, you've gotta BARK! it...
digging:
the day after the haircut. nothing dramatic, just a touch-up, but i still love getting blow-dries as i can't do them myself for the life of me.
most definitely not digging:
the pimple of uluru-like proportions spoiling my otherwise attractive jawline. i'm getting to the point where i'm think i should form an alliance with it, maybe name it and befriend it like chris does in family guy... i could christen it Just Jack and he can join me in the will and grace marathon i'm planning for this afternoon...
digging:
heading to sydney tomorrow to hang with my girls (including one i haven't seen in more than a year), and tear up the north sydney pubs. that is, after we see WONKA! an innovative and hilarious new selection for the melbourne comedy festival, where they screen the original willy wonka film (with gene wilder, the original and best, much as i worship the carpet lord depp skips on) but turn down the sound and redub it live, complete with 5 actors and 4 foley artists, to turn the plot from a slightly dark modern fairy tale to a very dark insane postmodern LSD-soaked "romp" (the most ridiculous, pompous and meaningless word in modern entertainment criticism) where veruca salt is a polish princess, her dad is winston churchill and the chocolate river is, in fact, a river of poop.
not even going near a shovel:
having to take the train. fuck public transport, fuck the state government (fuck the federal govt while i'm at it, just as a matter of course), and fuck not having my license.
digging:
the song that starts with some guy roaring "everyone's a critic" and has what sounds like a small roomful of people roaring the chorus. gotta love roaring.
that living things song with the vocals that sound like quan from regurgitator, that makes me feel like pouring myself into some black jeans and raising some hell, but in a different kind of tight-black-jeaned-hell-raising way than kasabian does. (sidebar!: having "club foot" in all the tv ads for Goal! is making me want to see it even more. and i could have resisted, with diffculty, even the charms of that mud-spattered piece of absolute totty they've got playing the brilliant young hero.)
something just coming on the radio now that sounds like an electric six remix... danger, danger! spiked with DFA and mylo...
the strokes again. especially that new thing with regina spektor. who is regina spektor?
jenny, conor, m and ben covering the traveling wilburys.
ted leo covering everyone.
everyone covering the beatles.
the sugababes covering the arctic monkeys. (well i haven't downloaded it yet, but i just spotted it on the hype filter in taylor's awesome blog M4KWCRG and just had to include it. come on, even if it's shite it'll be brilliant.)
scuffing my chucks halfheartedly in the dust (ie. not digging but not doing nothing even remotely near digging, if you follow. the sixties had no idea what they were starting with that particular bit of slang.)
james blunt covering crowded house.
holly throsby. hey holly, emiliana torrini called, she wants her gorgeous breathiness back, seeing as you're not using it.. no, really, you're not.
current tune: augie mrach - "one crowded hour"
decreed by cait (still queen) | 12:09 pm
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