pop culture's clover

So I think my luck is about to change.

On Tuesday night, I went to a launch party my old work was holding for Nokia. Lady Gaga was set to DJ (but don't even get me started on her...nor Chris. For someone claiming to be so pure, she's pretty manufactured) but anyway...so we're there and it's very fun. Paris Hilton breezes in with a hundred photographers and poses and stuff. We're just still on the dancefloor, not so phased. Then she cruises past Chris and I. Stays there hovering whilst people are chasing her from different angles and she pivots, and as she does, I kid not, her arm kept rubbing against my boob. She must have rubbed it about 3 times. So obviously this becomes the huge joke of the night.

But I'm now thinking, maybe it's like rubbing the Buddha's belly, that Paris rubbing my breast will bring me some good luck.

this made me laugh as well:

I just had a break in the ladies room then came back into our lounge. And I started singing along to Battle of Who Could Care Less, where Chris looked up from his computer and said:

Blanket
PJS
Sofa
Computes
Spotify
Wiki

You're in your happy place aren't you? I think that epitomizes today. And or my life (minus the PJs).

i wish i was born in 1992

Just another lazy Sunday.

Being in Britain, and being with someone exceptionally cynical has sort of forced me into this anti-happy-go-lucky kind of bird, however things are coming up rosey again.

How great is Spotify? It's an online music streamer, and I just play free association all day long. I don't know how today started bit it lead me from Buzzcocks, to Roy Orbison, somewhere down the line to Yes, to Jethro Tull, to Elvis Costello and now Ben Folds who I haven't listened to in a few years because his royal highness doesn't like it. Well also because Army was played every Friday at Red Square and I think I maxed out. Oh well. Boo hiss to Chris, I'm keeping my music categorical now.

This was essentially the basis of all conversations on Friday night. Chris and I went out with Jonas to this pop punk pub night in Shoreditch however it was rammed full with 17 year olds and we were some of the only people there born before 1990 so we left soon there after. Theoretically, that night could have been amazing. But getting lost in the streets of EC1 with Jonas and his print-out Google map was equally as fun (and or funny). Basically Jonas and I were having a love-in on Spotify and Last.fm. Linking and listing is very exciting points of conversation for me. And yes, it's another 17 year old moment to speak so extensively about music whilst you're drinking a £4.60 pint of Hoegarden.

And then of course we ended up at the Birdcage until 3am. Chris and I just had a giggle. I made him text 118118 to see where Robert Pattinson was in London. They texted back saying: Sorry no info.

I'm pretty sure this is only funny to me. That and Chris managing to spill red wine all over my sweater from gesticulating, and then spilling beer all over my jacket later that evening,at a separate location, under different circumstances.

wisps

It's one of those days where I'm distracted by things around me instead of remaining introverted. The fourth wall of our flat is entirely made up of windows, and we're right on the canal so there's a constant flurry of action. I've been staring at a red delivery van for about 10 minutes and thought of a great idea for a short story, because the driver is kind of freaking me out. Mine and Chris' favourite dog walked past. He looks like a smoky black gorilla. It's been raining, then really sunny, then really rainy again. One of those days. I'm so desperate to see our favourite van which I've dubbed Billy Van.

It's something you would probably only see in Europe, but it's teeny-tiny and has grass growing on its roof. Then there's Michel Gondry van, called that because it's grey metal sides look like perforated cardboard. That's just a little bit about my neighbourhood. Parcel van guy is still there, but it looks like he's eating.

Chris and I caught ourselves looking out the window all the time like little old ladies spying on their community, commenting on the misgivings. However last night, floating in the canal was a mattress so I don't think we're doing a disservice to anyone really. I think the mattress has floated away today.

I'm chugging down green teas just to stay awake these days.

paper and pencil

Today I was doodling.

Well to be honest, I am a printer. I hate my cursive handwriting and have always printed, it's curvy print mind. Today however I was drawing a beach scene when I thought about trying to write my new last name which I haven't officially taken yet as a double-barrel and I'm not sure if I'm really going to.

So anyway, Branson really writes nicely. It's quite loopy. So I started to try to do my name, with a hyphen Branson. Not the same illusion as my swiggly signature however with time perhaps it could look nice. And this lead to write my mum's name, who, let me preface by saying, has the nicest handwriting.

As a girl, we've all sat in our parent's bedroom, when mum is putting on make up and getting ready to go out. And watching her getting all dolled up makes you envious that you're only 6 and can't even play in the back garden without permission. Well take that and apply it to watching your mother write. I find it so therapeutic to see you her sign a credit card receipt (more so if she bought me something good!) or watching her construct grocery lists. I'm not sure of the household you were brought up in, but in mine, we're all desperate to please our parents, to emulate them, to be their little perfect mirrored creatures. Usually it's the parents who want their children to be like theirs, but at our house, we all want to be our parents. So I'm envious that my mother has such stylish handwriting, such a feminine signature.

And today, I could finally forge it.

blog

a self-referential entry. Similar to being in grade school when you have your first public-speaking contest and you don't know what to write your speech on, so your teacher tells you to write one on speeches.

Last night after trolling around here and facebook, I've found about 5 other friend's blogs- all girls. Quite strange for me because the ratio of male to female friends is very high so I don't know why none of my male counterparts aren't writing things down.

But it's a nice little community of girls, where we all write about dreamy things like books, music, jobs and our ambitions for travel. My friend Kayla has made a list of every book she' ever read, without her maybe even knowing that I've read her blog and that list.

It's tidy girl world here which is a nice break from the pseudo-machismo I'm surrounded with on a daily basis. Sometimes I just don't give a shit if Aston Villa lose, and to be honest, I think I know way too much about Premier League football because Chris is constantly sneaking it into conversation, like he does with his socks and underwear when I do my laundry. And I find myself making comments back about things. And we're watching Dexter season 3 and one of the characters looks like player from the league and I made the reference myself.

So maybe this is positive way to shuffle my somewhat homesickness. To read about my girl friends charming existences because in actual fact, that's what I want too. Geography has nothing to do with it, maybe it's about me trying to attain all these paramount goals of career, life and book lists.

then God is 7

I wrote and subsequently deleted a post earlier this evening.

I just feel really selfish and am homesick for the first time in over two years.

Just your resident crazy girl in East London.

high concept

I think television has been very good lately. The movies that are being played that is. A few nights ago, What Women Want staring Mel Gibson, before the anti-semitic hate tirade. Chris, who I forced to sit down a watch with me, actually quite enjoyed it. As did I. He turned to me and said: "So do you think this is high concept done right?". I know that he secretly enjoyed the movie because he didn't make any sassy comments about the ridiculousness of it all. And really why should he?

Romantic comedies are one of my greatest vices. It's not even a 'they're so bad they're good'. They're just generally good. And I loved to be entertained.

Sunday night: 8pm. I am very excited because "Look Who's Talking" is on. One thing I miss from home is TBS showing movies all day Saturday and Sunday and I do have fond memories of this film. For instance, I can't hear the Beach Boys 'Get Around' without thinking about the opening scene (you know, the one with the sperm...). That is actually quite morbid, I can't believe my parents let me watch that when I was what, 5, 6 maybe? And I can't believe they ever let me listen to the Beach Boys after that too.

And even though Chris wasn't actively watching, I could see him chuckling behind the computer screen. Yet another example of 'high concept, done right'.

I'm living in my own high concept inner monologue (and no it's not a little voice inside my head!). I writing now quite intensely and am having quite deep thoughts right before I fall asleep but instead of just getting up, I'm falling asleep and forgetting what I wanted to say. I'm sort of breaking my own heart here.

after I found my way

The jumping at the end was merely Chris and I bored, waiting for 25 minutes for a train to arrive at Euston. Why did get off at Euston if we were going to Old St? ...(5 minutes passes)... Right, yet another interchange. Bank branch.

my 2009

At first I wasn't entirely sure how great the evening would be. When at Camden Town, Chris and I had to make a break for it to get off the tube because the rear doors didn't open (have never been on a train when that has happened before). Amazingly enough, Chris managed to squeeze past the Italian tourists and their massive suitcases, however me and my head weren't so lucky as the door closed. So after miming to Chris to "stay there, I'll come back", I headed to Kentish Town with another passenger who experienced the same fate. So we both changed and rode back south to Camden. So off the train I get but now fearing that Chris is waiting on the platform. So I head back down to the North Platform, Morden branch (Northern line branches in two ways for those who don't know. Sometimes, I don't know either...) so it's crowded, he's not there. So I'm running through the station now back to South platform, Bank branch, not there. South platform, Charing Cross branch, not there either. I'v been in the station for about 15 minutes scooting around predicting that Chris and I won't find each other until about 10 seconds before the new year making it both wildly romantic and an anti-climax (I had partially given into the idea that I would be spending the rest of my life in the station). So I start to ascend to the exit just praying that Chris has as well so at the very least we have reception and can phone each other. I must point out that I'm not panic stricken, I think it's all quite funny. So I exist and have the usual suspects asking if I want to buy skunk or go to some raver's new year's eve thingy. Chris is not at the exit. Oh grand. I check my phone and see he called twice which is a positive sign that he's not in the station and see that Pippa had texted me as well thinking it was funny that I got stuck on the train.

And then there he is. The boy who let a train door close on my head. His first words "fucking tourists".