I do not know what the Democratic Party spent, in toto, on the 2004 election, but what they seem to have gotten for it is Barack Obama. Let us savor.
– Peggy Noonan, “So Much to Savor”, Wall Street Journal, November 4, 2004
And now we dance…
H/t to Mike
I’m trying to write something coherent about guns, and a nice shiny new book thread for you, but I’m finding it quite hard.
I keep thinking of those poor people in that cinema, and the terror of their last moments, and the sheer fucking stupidity of it all, none of which is conducive to much besides going back to bed with the dog and a quart of gin. In lieu of those posts for now, then, I offer you some music.
First, the Doves with There Goes the Fear. A few years ago, a young friend of mine died of ovarian cancer. It was horribly quick, and it wasn’t very pleasant for all concerned.
Kathleen was a bright burning spark of a woman, yet she was possessed always of a serenity, a calm inner spirit that soothed anyone who came into contact with her. She had an odd, gentle beauty coupled together with … how shall I put it? … a ribald huskiness and a brazen-cool-50s-brunette languor. She drives me even now to hyperbole.
She loved to dance – usually in dark rooms with bright lights – and it was a moment of joy to catch her eye across a crowded dancefloor as she danced with entirely unconscious grace. At 10am on the morning after the night before, when spirits were starting to flag and someone was on the phone trying to rustle up more drugs, Kath would emerge from the kitchen bearing a tray of breakfast cocktails that would put everyone on their arse smiling like an idiot until the coke turned up.
After her chemotherapy had robbed her of her hair, she strode around the office like Ripley in pursuit of a particularly bothersome facehugger. She fought her cancer every day and cracked jokes all the while. She had many days and moments of pure happiness in that last year, not least at her wedding – a bittersweet day if ever there were one.
And yet she died, as so many do, and I still miss her every day.
This song was played at her funeral, one last smiling “fuck you” to the pain and the terror. It makes me feel a little better on days like this.
Second, The Aikiu with Pieces of Gold. Possibly NSFW for graphically implied sexual content, but it would have made Kath laugh like a drain, and the song is very pretty.
Finally, because Kath would be angry if I didn’t pop this one on on a Friday night, The Return with New Day.
I’m onto my third gimlet, and I’m wingnutted out, so I bring you this – a wonderfully disconcerting little film by Charles De Meyer called Esther’s, which I was introduced to on Boing Boing and which has a very fine dubstep soundtrack by Amon Tobin.
and this – a lovely remix of Florence and the Machine’s Spectrum by Calvin Harris
I have no idea where I am. This happens quite frequently and, I suppose, is to be expected after about 80 years or so of intemperate dedication to the pharmacopoeial pleasures. However, there is loud music and I have a 40 dollar cocktail in one hand and Brad Pitt in the other, so wherever I am it’s fancy.
Brad keeps bitching because Angelina got turned away by the bouncer for wearing open toed shoes, although I suspect it had more to do with the fact she smells like a civet on heat when you get up close. Brad, frankly, looks like shit. Nineteen kids and a girlfriend with both daddy and brother issues will do that to you. However, I’ve given the poor thing a pill, so he should perk up soon.
Gloria and Anderson are off trying to find coke, if they can stop arguing for five minutes about which of them is taking home the twin Albanian sailors who Gloria picked up earlier at Katie Couric’s party. Leitenant Prek and Leitenant Preng (for those are their names – what can you expect from a place that had a king called Zog?) are on shore leave for a few weeks and on the make in New York, and Katie hired them to serve as shirtless waiters because (apparently) “it’s my party, and I want it to be special”.
Prek and Preng were the highlight of the party, as half naked, bemuscled men bearing cheesy lobster tarts so often are. Otherwise it was just the usual for one of Katie’s parties – non-vintage champagne, too many bankers and media types with powdered noses, Katie complaining all the time because there’s not enough coke at her own damn party, and Dan Rather passed out in his own sick in the bathtub. People tend not to admit they have coke in Katie’s presence because she gets quite grabby if she thinks the lines aren’t being dispensed fast enough. Every time she heads in the general direction of the bathroom, there’s a brief stampede as everyone tries to hide in the kitchen.
Anyway, we escaped from Katie’s apartment by tossing a baggie into the spare room and leaving while she was still tangled up in the duvet, grabbing the lieutenants on our way, and then ended up here, whatever it’s called. I gave up remembering the names of nightclubs years ago. My drink is good. Brad’s pill is so good that he’s started eyeing up Prek’s tattoos, while Prek and Preng are currently gazing into each other’s eyes in a manner which would, if weren’t a filthy old thing, be quite shocking.
Oh, I forgot. At Katie’s party we ran into Gore Vidal who, I’ll be frank, I had thought was dead. At our age it’s often easier to assume.
He looked very well, and we spent a most enjoyable half hour chatting about whether Santorum would be more entertaining to watch under the influence of mushrooms or ketamine, and a great new technique that Gore developed for hiding laxatives in battenberg cake. Hint – it’s in the jam. Just before he left with one of the other waiters, Gore told me a positively eye watering anecdote about Onassis and Jackie and a cucumber that I dare not repeat. Such an old charmer.
Well dears, there’s still no sign of Gloria or Anderson, so I’m going to take these three boys back to the safety of my suite at the Plaza before they make a scene on the carpet. I hope you have a lovely weekend too.
Music in this post, as often, with thanks to the invaluable Alfitude.
One of the many joys of being as filthy rich as me is the ability to declare your weekend begun at 10am on a Friday morning, or indeed at about 9.15 on Monday, concepts like “weekday” and “weekend” being essentially arbitrary anyway.
Happy weekend to all. Time for a drink and some music then. First, courtesy of the always lovely Popbitch – Rebecca & Fiona’s Dance, a perky little thing with some lovely female vocals and lots of lovely buzzy beats, that just cries out for a trance remix.
Also The Temper Trap’s Sweet Disposition, by reason of a further viewing of the delightful (500) Days of Summer. I haven’t been able to get Hall and Oates out of my head all week.
You will be pleased to know that preparations for the Convention in August are progressing well. The girls, on the whole, seem to think that Marge and I should just front up at the first Santorum “meet the delegates”, get some other old dear with a hat and a grudge to slip Ricky a shitload of laxatives hidden in a slice of chocolate cake, release Marge’s squirrels into the room and then make a break for it. I think that’s rather unsubtle. We shall see.
Sandra bet me that she can seduce two Paulite delegates per day, and at least four on the last day if Ron Paul doesn’t get the nomination. Sandra’s fond of giving the odd pity fuck. She says that the tears make it sweeter. Sandra is not a nice woman sometimes.
I took the bet, although I suspect I’m going to lose. If she were wearing a Santorum badge I’d say the odds would be firmly in my favour. Santorum’s young, male delegates are either going to be pinched, virginal godbotherers or closeted gays and, while Sandra likes a challenge, I suspect that would handicap her just enough.
Romney’s cute boy delegates are either going to be Mormons or bankers, and usually both – which would be much more fertile territory for Sandra even if a lot of those Mormon bankers are going to be fucking each other.
I don’t know if there is such a thing as a Ron Paul gay. I shudder to think. Google tells me that the top result if you search on “gays for ron paul” is the charmingly named Gays for Ron Blogspot, which hasn’t been updated since February 1, 2008. So that’s not much use. I’m not going there. Perhaps one of you can go check and find out for me what a Gay for Ron Paul looked like during the last Presidential election.
Mrs Chen (who lives in 5B) says that Sandra should walk up to Ron on the convention floor, pants him and pelt him with elderly eggs. Again, a little unsubtle, I suspect. Mrs Chen does hold onto a grudge. She’s like the last limpet in the bucket.
So, we’re still undecided on strategy. Any suggestions will be gladly received.
On a more practical note, however, I have started stocking up on convention pharmaceuticals, and I am hunting the archives for a recipe for Mamie Eisenhower’s Black Cherry Ice Cream Cake – Newt’s favourite. I think I can cram enough speed into it that Newt will spend the entire four days vibrating in a corner somewhere, without affecting the taste. Mamie liked her icecream sweet, thick and pink, just like her men.
Anyway, that’s where we are up to.
Don’t forget the Balloon Juice Fitness Club which I will post as close to 6pm on Sunday as WordPress and my elderly brain will allow me. Last week’s was sadly under attended. Slackers. Don’t make me come in there and make you exercise.
If you will excuse me, my dears, there is a vanilla and pear daiquiri with my name on it currently frosting its glass on my swim-up bar, and the pert-chested and rubescent MI6 officer who stuck around after David Cameron’s visit to Shady Pines keeps tugging the top of his speedo at me. Most distracting.
I hope you have a lovely weekend, and I shall speak to you all soon.
I give you due warning – the sight of cute Russian boys in their undies is not adequate compensation for the boyband/Christmas acoustic horror that will overwhelm you if you press that play button.
I suspect Poe’s law may also apply to bad europop.
Sometimes the youtubes take me to scary places.
Some weeks the bustle and bluster and stupid in the world and on the intertubes is just so great that it defies my attempts to joke about it. You can tell it’s one of those weeks when I break out into a rash of music, book or food threads. When in doubt, write about the things that keep you sane.
In that aim, I offer you a little song called “The Falcons”, by an Anglo-Irish gentleman (who, from this live performance, I have a sneaking suspicion may also be a nice gay gentleman – although who can tell these days?) called Patrick Wolf.
I’m grateful to Mr Wolf for giving me my go-to-happy-place over the last couple of days.
Why has no one told me of his existence before? What else have you lot been keeping from me?
It’s apparently something past 9am. It’s dark and hot and there are random blinding flashes of light. I’m not exactly sure where I am. It’s possible I’m just at home at Shady Pines and having a stroke. However, I have a vodka/rocks clutched in one hand, which makes me suspect things are going to be ok.
Gloria is off trying to find some coke, after Katie Couric spent twenty minutes begging us for a line and then, when we relented, snuffled the whole fucking gram in the men’s toilet with Lauer. It was good coke too, having been, I am reliably informed, smuggled in from Peru only last week inside one of the spawn of the Jolie-Pitts. A little gritty on the nose but with fine blue notes in the upper register. I miss it already. Gloria had better get back soon, because reality is starting to intrude into the fine French electro.
Gloria is the only one in a fit state to go hunting for more drugs because her pill hasn’t kicked in yet. Her pill hasn’t kicked in yet because she keeps checking for text messages from Anderson, who promised to be here, but is a no show so far. I do hope he comes. Not only would it get Gloria back in the mood, the last time I saw him – at Splash, I seem to recall – Anderson started telling me a wonderful story about Marcus Bachmann, but didn’t have time to finish, so I still don’t know whether they ever managed to get the GI Joe action figure out again.
The evening has been a bit of a blur, dears. It’s Sandra Frazer’s birthday, so we are all in New York. We started off at a little drink thing at Gloria’s – just a few dozen of Sandra’s besties, all very casual. Gloria, as usual, had laid on the Billecart and the totty in equal measures, so when we asked Sandra what she wanted for her birthday, she pointed imperiously across the room she wanted “that”. “That” turned out to be Ryan Gosling, so we’ve spent the last twelve hours stalking the poor darling across New York.
The party was lovely, except for that bloody Angelina, who cornered me and WOULD NOT SHUT UP ABOUT HER FUCKING CHILDREN. Between that, her unresolved jealousy that I had Brad before she did, and the fact that she smells like someone dumped a bottle of patchouli oil in a birdcage, she’s almost unbearable. She latched on to our little group as we were leaving for the club, even though Gloria had one of her maids wave a little brown baby out the window to distract her. Eventually we managed to ditch her in some diner by ordering coffee and then scarpering when she went to the bathroom. Read the rest of this entry »
I can’t stop watching. It’s like eating marshmallow while bathing in fairy floss inside a sugar house that David Lynch built inside John Waters brain.
I also offer this for our electronica minded bretheren, to counteract the sugar:
… and this:
h/ts Paul Ryan’s Dirty Sockpuppet and Comrade Mary at Balloon Juice