Random Lyric Public Holiday

As is the tradition with me, it's a public holiday and on my facebook page I post random song lyrics. I could do random movie lines, but that would be just silly. Well, sillier than posting random song lyrics, but as I like this ritual, and I'm stuck in front of a computer for most of the day writing and editing, so it's a nice diversion. Some songs are a bit ear wormy. Some songs mean a lot to me. Some songs just come off my iPod and that's it. The only guarantee is that somewhere in the 24 hours there will be Pixies song mentioned.

So let's see what comes up this time round.

Wednesday 25/1/12, 22.43 p.m.

"Quesadillas made with cheese and a rock band who went Japanese."

"Ripe", Ben Lee

This some was discovered in the car when driving one day. A friend loaned me a Ben Lee CD and this was the last track on the album. I wanted to pull over and just listen. Still reckong Ben Lee is one of the most underated songwriters and performers to leave Australia.

January 26/1/12 ; 08.00 am

"You're so pretty when you're unfaithful to me."

"Bone Machine" The Pixies.

Ah, told you there would be a Pixies song in the mix. Bone Machine is one of there better mosh pit songs. I have memories of being among the mix up near the front of the stage with a group of other like minded late 30/early 40 somethings, howling the chorus, then going nuts in the coda.

I love the Pixies for their what I refer to as 'groin factor'. Their music gets to your kundalini and winds its way through you. It spurns you on to get into mischief. And getting into mischief is one of my favorite things.

The Pixies have always, and will always appeal to my very latent, unexercised wild creature. Love em.



9.35 am.

"There's a ghost in my lungs that sighs in my sleep."

"I'm Not Calling You a Liar"  Florence + The Machine

Introduced to this band in the gym, there was something about the unusual lyrics and blended sound that got to me, so I bought the album on spec. One of my best purchases of last year.

This song is one of my favorites - Florence in a bit of downtime.

11.36 a.m.

"We'd like to know a bit about you for our files. We'd like to help you learn to help yourself."

"Mrs Robinson" Simon and Garfunkel

Always a standby for the car. Guaranteed to get you humming along, you can't go wrong with these guys.

I came to Simon and Garfunkel late - as my parent's music tastes ran to Bing Crosby and Hooked on Classics (remember those awful albums with Classical Music and an electronic drum beat - dire!) I bought their "Bookends" album on cassette on the back of the greatness that is Paul Simon's "Graceland" album - the latter which was played to death. Found out that they were the ones who penned 'Hazy Shade of Winter" - which I knew from The Bangles. Doh.

A song that you want to sing along to, but you probably only know a quarter of the lyrics. And then if you don't know the words you can just go, "do dee doo doo doo doo doo doh."

1.49 p.m.

"The Captain's name was Morgan, by heck he was a gorgon."

"The Good Ship Venus" aka "Frigging in the Rigging". Traditional but covered by the Sex Pistols and many, many rugby clubs.

I've got a reasonable repertoire of rugby songs tucked away in the back of my brain, joys of a mis-spent youth and a not particularly politically correct father. There was a tape of me aged about five singing "I'm glad that I'm an Australian, I'm glad that I am free, but I wish I was a little doggie, and Whitlam was a tree." Cheers, Dad. (If my father ever got wind that you more likely to get me using heroin than voting Liberal his ashes would be stirring in that ugly columbarium in which he rests.)

Still, I get a giggle out of this song, which I've been known to hum along on car trips, shock the pants off the lady freemasons and generally show that I'm not as nice a girl as people think I am.

Found this version of the song, which you CAN play with children in the room. It's the PC version of this very traditional song.



2.58

"I'm a lot like you so please, hello, I'm here, I'm waiting."

"El Scorcho" Weezer.

Another car song. I do a lot of singing in the car. I get caught a lot at the lights singing along to something or other that's pretty daggy. The best car songs are the ones which allow you to moan, yowl, scream and sing at the top of your lungs - and this song fits the bill pretty well. It never gets flicked to the next song on the iPods random shuffle - unlike the Arctic Monkeys...



17.15

"I could have been a common thief sitting in the dirt quite happily"

"Coin Laundry" - Lisa Mitchell

Possibly the only decent talent to come out of Australian Idol in eight years. I'm ready to strangle Guy Sebastian and Stan Walker as they're all that dag radio at work plays (along with a lot of Adele, who I used to like, but I can't stomach any more through over playing, and I want to garotte Beyonce and Rhianna...)

Lisa Mitchell probably never should have made it onto that stupid show. She's alternative, smart, savvy and she's got a wicked view on the world at a very young age. Her "Wonderland" album is fantastic - and this song is very ear wormy. Once this gets in my head I sing it for days.

5.27 p.m.

"Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, yeah."

"Sexy and I Know It."  LMFAO

This song is soooooo wrong on soooooo many levels. It's always on in the gym. Pinochet always sings along to it, normally when you're lugging round some heavy weight, which makes you want to clobber him more. Sometimes Pinochet even does the movements - which is just wrong. To me, it's just proof that boy bits should stay tucked away in underpants and only brought out when absolutely necessary and preferably in the dark.

I'm posting the Elmo version instead. Much better. Tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle....

8.31 p.m

"I was guessing at numbers and figures pulling the puzzles apart."

"The Scientist"  Coldplay

I have a theory about Coldplay. Just like Aha, Spandau Ballet, Pat Benetar, Cold Chisel etc etc, in twenty years time their songs are going to be played over the tannoy on dag radio in the data centre of Bastard Bank.

Until that happens, I'm going to continue to enjoy Coldplay, because as soon as anything gets played over the loudspeaker at the Bastard Bank data centre, I automatically hate it. (Thankfully I only have three days left there... yay!)

I've always loved this song - just as I've always loved "Yellow" and quite a few more of their songs. Still not sure about their latest album, but it's growing on me.

9.41 p.m.

"Nothing can interfere with a dream of dreams so near"

"Man with a Gun" Jerry Harrison

This song brings memories of the late eighties, of a person that had to be left behind, of new love, of drunken nights on summer streets and the promise of more.

Jerry Harrison is ex-Talking Heads (another favorite band) Another song I find myself singing when I'm out running. It reminds me of good things. Of nice things. Of a person on a promise. Ah to be twenty again.

10.28 p.m.

"Gentleness, sobriety are rare in this society"

"An Englishman in New York" - Sting

This was my theme song for many years.

From 1993-1999 I lived in London, working for an now defunct international banking house, without a valid visa to my name. I was an illegal alien. However, as I have an "English" name, a varying English accent and I paid my taxes and national insurance, I got away with it. This was over ten years ago. I wouldn't do it again, but I have no regrets.

This song came on the radio regularly  - it still comes on the radio quite often - and it reminds me of Liverpool Street Station and my time in London.

And I've always loved Sting and the Police - unlike Spandau Ballet, they haven't got banal and daggy over time.

Well there you go. Another public holiday, another round of random song lyrics to amuse, infuriate, stump and annoy.

Happy Stralya Day!

Pandx



Little Rituals

5.02 p.m. Friday - the brunette in the stripey top streaks for the door, flashing a pass to get her through the umpteen air locks to let her finally out to the street and apparent freedom.

It's Friday night, nothing's planned. That's a ritual in itself. After years of going out and going hard in the week, the most exciting thing that gets done on a Friday night is turning up at beer club at my old company for a Brok or two. Not that this will be done on this night. The beer club mates are still out of town or busy - no beer club tonight.

Friday night is about feeding the soul. Which means doing things I love doing - not things I have to do. A walk to the post box, a banal act in itself, but the perfect foil after a tedious week in an unwanted office. A feed of hot chips, a weekly serve to stop the cravings from setting in. A trip to the macaron shop - not that it's open at the moment. A visit to Chokolait for a chilli hot chocolate dialed up to nine (I don't normally do hot chocolates, but I make an exception for these - Reindert put me on to these a few years ago and they are sublime). This is the ritual if I don't turn up to beer club, where I will dribble crap with old friends for an hour or so.

I've been thinking at the little rituals of my life - exclusive of the ones that go on at my Freemason's - which I'm forbidden to talk about.


My wandering along among the arcades and narrow lanes of the city bring me peace - as all good rituals should do.

The final stop on the walk back to the tram is to Spellbox, my witch shit shop in the Royal Arcade, where the wheel at the back of the shop is spun to obtain advice for the weekend. Wandering through the scent of frankincense amongst the talismen, tarot cards and idols gives me a sense of belonging. This side of me is hidden for the most part of the day.

This weeks message read, "The Wheel speaks of: Happiness and Freedom - Great happiness will be entwined with your fate; dancing, romancing, and joy for joy's sake. Knowledge and health, an abundance of wealth; a future to connect with your magical self."

It gave me a little hope - dactylic trimeter will do that for you.

Friday evening, once home, is quiet. A little television. A load of washing. Maybe hoover the floors. Maybe do the kitchen and bathroom floors - jobs so hated but so necessary. Maybe a little writing or editing. My book editing job is almost over, thank heavens. I have another Greek Tour description to do by the end of the weekend - nearly there. The ritual of typing and considering - not that writing about tours around the Northern Peloponnese takes much talent or skill - it's just the ritual of sitting, considering, writing and refining.

The writer's life. Look. Consider. Write. Refine. Write. Slash. Refine. Hope.

It's really what ritual is all about.

I've other rituals. My visits to Blarney's on the weekend. I drop over for a cup of coffee most weekends to see Blarney, Barney, her 18-month-old twin boys and most importantly, the Maow Maow. On entering, giving everybody in the room  a peck on the cheek (has to be done - including if Grandpa is over from Launceston) I find the cat, pick him up, place him on my shoulder, and there he stays for around 20 minutes, or for what ever time is required - it depends on who moves first - do I need to sit and have a cup of coffee? Is he over being carted around like a fox cape. It's our ritual.

Other rituals are now coming into play as the boys are getting older. Bouncing the twins in my knee to the tune of "Row Row Row your Boat" , or "The Wheels on the Bus" are now in order. They're at the stage where they can sort of sing along in their joyous, discordant 18-month-old voices. I'm hoping I'll get a name soon. But there is nothing more joyous than the toothy grin of a toddler as he descends into your lap from a reasonable height. Chance has discovered that I hate being tickled - so five minutes of tickling has to take place before he goes toddling off to play with his truck. Lance, the more serene of the two likes his bouncing too - but he hasn't worked out about the tickling yet - thank goodness. Chance is a little bloody minded. Lance is the more laid back of the two.

Pump on Sunday morning, another ritual. Up the back of the gym with Jay on one side and Emm on the other, we have our version of brinkmanship - Emm blitzes the squat track - I'm doing heavier weights for the shoulders, biceps and back track. It feels good. We all roll our eyes at similar places - normally at the end of the back and lunge tracks. After class we go for a coffee where we discuss the rituals of Sunday afternoon. For Jay, a trip to see her mother or a game of football. For Emm, some studying, for me, normally a trip out to Blarneys or an attempt and taming my feral flat. Today it was just Jay and me in the back row - Emm's sprained her ankle.

My other ritual - a free Sunday night with nothing to do. I don't go out on Sunday nights. I refuse invitations on Sunday night if it is more than having my dinner cooked and nothing more strenuous than a bit of telly. Sunday sets me up for the rest of the week. Even if it's just a bit of ironing or reading. It's my night for me. It's comforting. It's enriching - it may not be very interesting, but it's what makes me tick.

I won't go into my other little OCD like rituals around running or the start of work (fire up computer, go fill water bottle, get a cup of coffee, email Jonella good morning....)...

A friend once told me that it was the little things that give us such joy. I never thought a walk through the streets, a cup of hot chocolate and a night in front of the telly could give me such comfort.

The Girl in the Che Guevara T-Shirt

I walk, therefore I am.

Monday mornings I'm very much me, as on Monday mornings I take my constitutional lap of the Tan with my friend Gloria. It's actually a bit more than a lap of the Tan. I start out from my place, meet Gloria somewhere around the top of Anderson Street forty minutes later, do the lap, go for a coffee, then set off to get my mail in the city and walk home. It's about a 15 kilometre journey and takes me about three hours including the coffee.

Once a long distance runner, always a long distance runner - or in my case, walker as my knee, though healing, is still not up for anything more that the odd minute interval.

This three hour schlep around town has me pondering the joys of Melbourne. The small rituals that come into the walk have to be done. Maybe it's a small dose of OCD, maybe it's just the joys of repetition, but there are a number of things that have to be done on my Monday morning to make my day feel complete.

First up, the dressing ritual. The heart rate monitor chest strap is snapped on under the bra. The clothing is normally a pair of jeans or leggings and my very old, very well loved, not quite opaque Che Guevara t-shirt. I've had this shirt since London and it's my walking t-shirt. It's supposed to say leave me alone - I'm angsty and tough and not worth meddling with (particularly as it's a fan t-shirt for the band Rage Against the Machine.) I slap on sunscreen, sunglasses and find my well-loved, shady wombat hat. Lastly, the trainers, my trusty ASICS, are shoved on my feet, my bag, containing my wallet, phone, a bottle of water is grabbed, then I'm off.

Things that need to be done on this walk - jaywalk across Highett Street - the lights take ages. Must check out what the reservoir levels are doing at the corner of Swan and Punt. As I've just discovered, there are footy players normally running around, shirt or sans shirt, at Gosch's Paddock. The sunglasses give a clear perv without being too obvious.

As I'm normally running about five minutes late, and Gloria has a habit of arriving early, we meet somewhere near the top of Anderson Street to start our clockwise circumnavigation of the Botanical Gardens. This is our opportunity to put the world to rights. We discuss the weekend, what people are up to, how Gloria's partner, Gaynor, is doing, what stupid exercises I got up to on the weekend, how our concurrent job hunting is going, what's going on at dream group/meditation and of course, commenting on every dog that is being dragged around the circuit by their fitness freak master.

After a lap, it's into the Tan coffee shop where Gloria has her standard issue latte and I partake in my normal mug of skinny cappuccino. We sit down for about twenty minutes, after which we struggle to our legs - nicely stiffened by the stationary time.

Gloria and I say goodbye and I make my way around the Tan and into the city. The little rituals continue. One must pass Flinders Street Station and look at the crap food I no longer eat - I never knew that donuts could make me feel nauseous. I used to love them. It's then down Degraves Street to check out the Florentine Paper shop and look at the coffee drinking class linger over their macchiatos and paninis. Through Centre Lane with it's clothes and exotic smells and across to Australia on Collins where it's straight through to the Royal Arcade.

Finding a silver coin in my bag its into the Spellbox to spin the wheel. Spellbox you ask? Well, it's my motherland - a mystical and witchcraft shop, at the back of which is a pinwheel. You put five cents in the box and spin the wheel and it gives you your reading for the day - based on the major arcana of the tarot. It's a ritual for me - and the Spellbox is a haven when I'm in the city - a chance to get my energies back - and let my inner witch out for five minutes.

After Spellbox, it's across the road to collect the mail from my post office box. As I've always lived on busy thoroughfares, I've always kept a post office box for mail. It's great - your parcels are collected, your letters stay dry, nobody knicks stuff (which living in a place where there is a bit of housing commission around does happen now and then) and it helps stop identity theft.

Once that is done, it's the four kilometre walk home - often stopping to say hi to Tom at the old work coffee shop or straying for a quick chat with whoever is passing that I've known from former lives.

Yesterday's walk home was broken up by a conversation with a charity tout. It used to be that you could walk down the street unhindered - now I tend to avoid anybody with a clip board for fear of getting what ever sob story that comes my way. Don't get me wrong - charities do amazing work. I give monthly to Medicins sans Frontiers and the Fred Hollows Foundation. I'd like to give more, but under the current circumstances, I'm not in the position to do so. I also sort of resent being nabbed in the street by people. My normal excuse to get out of conversation with them is "I'm on my way to a meeting and I'm late." That gets rid of them. Unfortunately, when you're in a Che Guevara t-shirt and wombat hat, you can't get away with that.

So, yesterday, Mr Greenpeace, resplendent in a slightly dirty mustard coloured t-shirt, birkenstocks and dreadies stops me in the street. He had an earnest smile. Bless.

"I'll stop you now," I said as he approached me with his clipboard.
"You know who we are?"
"Of course. I already give you money." This is not a lie - I'll throw $20 in Greenpeace's direction when I'm flush.
"Well that is very good of you, thank you." said Birkenstock Boy. He thrust a hand in my direction. Dirty nails. Eww.

I took it and shook it as he pulled me in for a hug.

Joy, dreadie, hairy mungbeaner, hippy hug.

Che is supposed to protect me from this sort of thing!

I extracted myself from the arms of the hairy mungbeaner and walked on, mumbling something about the great work Greenpeace do. Albert Street and the three kilometre walk home awaited.

More rituals - searching out the Rainbow Lorikeets along Parliament gardens, pondering the dogs in Fitzroy Gardens, resisting the urge to lie on the grass in the park, thinking that there has to be an alternative for all drivers to Punt Road - busy at all hours of the day and night. Then of course there's the hunt for the police cars at the commission tower blocks and sending out a roving eye for stray firemen.

Once home, I'm on the floor for a good stretch, a large glass of water, then its off for a shower to start the day proper.

The job will come - but I'm really enjoying the blessings of having this time to be able to do the Monday morning consititutional. I'll miss it when I'm working.

Pand
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Project Pandora Update Day 2

Did my fitness test tonight. Ran a kilometre on the treadmill as I'm not really supposed to be running and at least it's a sprung track which will protect the knee a bit. Made the kilometre in 6 minutes 33 seconds - gobsmacked and thrilled! for somebody who hasn't run  for six months it was FANTASTIC. 42 pushups from my knees in a minute, over two minutes in the wall sit and level 3 sit ups, I'm a happy Pand - the workouts are paying dividends. First weigh in tomorrow morning.