Friday 4 March 2011

MONDAY TUESDAY HAPPY DAYS

Don’t you love how every day has its own feeling? Call it a general tone or an atmosphere if you will, but every day of the week has always felt like it serves up a different energy. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all metaphysical on you and start burning incense – not that you could smell it – but it is a well known fact that each day feels a bit different than the one before, and thank god for that. I bore easily.

Monday is obviously the juggernaut of emotional energy. You merely have to say the word Monday and people groan, roll their eyes, mutter under their breath…start crying (the really emotional types). Songs have been written about dear ol’ Monday because it has simply got the power – you don’t hear a song about Wednesday now do you? As well, people always seem to start things on Mondays, being the new beginning thing and all, cause when it comes to the week it is kind of the rip off the Band-Aid day when one is thrown back into their lives and apparently can make a fresh start. It’s good to have hope.

Tuesday is like the best friend of days. It’s reliable, not too flashy, and yet, sometimes you find that Tuesday is the dark horse just waiting to break out of the gate and surge to the front. Monday got you ready, and now of course Tuesday is going to kick your ass and make sure you are good and awake. And don’t sell Tuesday short, some monumental things can happen on a Tuesday….'Black Tuesday'. Need I say more?

Wednesday is traditionally known as hump day. Obviously due to its position in the week, you have made it half way, hurrah!! Only a few days left until you can let your hair down and party like it's 1999 - or do whatever it is that strikes your fancy. To me, Wednesday has always felt like the stepchild of Saturday night. It’s got spunk, it gives people that sense of hope that the end is near, and people usually convince themselves that going out on a Wednesday is perfectly acceptable. In fact, for some, hump day has almost become the new weekend. It's so rebellious like that.

Thursday is another one of those quiet ones that you are never quite sure what you’re going to get. Often it even gets mistaken for Friday. How many times have you done that? "Oh cr*p I thought it was Friday." Poor Thursday must have a real identity crisis. But I've always liked it for its understated strong silent thing. Thursday doesn't need the attention. It can handle it.

Then there’s TGIF, yes good old, let's get this party started Friday. The goalpost, the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, the glimmering North star that says, you’ve made it people, now ring that bell, take that stupid suit off and start getting up to no good! Go on, you’ve earned it. Or of course, if you’re like me, you can simply melt into the sofa and say ooooooooh thank god, Daddy is home to help with the King! Friday can also pride itself on being the most mischievous of days – don’t you just know that if Friday was a person, she’d be 5’ll with legs for days and a smile that said come hither, but at your peril.

Then there’s Saturday. It’s just so damn jovial and full of possibilities, and yet, it’s always a bit more civilized than a Friday night, despite the many a songs written about its violent tendencies (Oh Elton). Saturday has always felt like the dinner party night…or the family trip to some nature park or Ikea…one in the same really. Both have animals in the wild fighting over stuff.

Then we have Sunday. Oh Sunday you are the Queen of moods aren’t you now? I used to dread Sundays when I was a teenager. I knew school was just around the corner, and my sister and I would get that sick feeling in our stomachs. We’d call it the Sunday blues, where you simply felt hollow. But funny enough, as I aged, I started to love Sundays. Sunday mornings meant reading the paper in bed and a walk in the park, the day was mellow, usually chalk full of sports on TV, and there was never too much expectation. Just an overall let’s see where the day takes us. Then of course if you are religious there is the whole communing with God thing, which brings about its own harmony and peacefulness for many. So really if you think about it, Sunday is the adult of the group. She’s saying, okay folks, you’ve had your fun, now take a deep breath, and relax, cause it’s all about to start again. Good luck to you.

Thursday 3 March 2011

O CHARLIE

Apparently Charlie Sheen has the lost the plot. It’s hard to miss it these days, as he seems to be conducting an interview every five minutes with any one who will have him on. And of course, on those interviews he comes out with gem after outrageous verbal gem such as - "I have the brain of a 10,000 year old man and the boogars of a seven year old." He also calls people maggots, spews about his violent hatred for those he dislikes and happily boasts about his polygamous lifestyle with two porn stars that he calls 'the wedge.' Oh, I’m sorry, only one is a porn star. The other is a model and a nanny - but of course she is. He is on the drug of ‘winning’ apparently. He’s on something that’s for sure.

The funny part is, throughout some of his ranting and ravings there are definite moments of lucidity where the man actually makes sense. When he is lambasting his ex bosses that he of course has pledged a holy war against, he does have a point when he asks why his personal life is any of their business. His defense, as explained by him of course, is that he shows up to work on time, does his job, gets amazing ratings for the network – ratings that seem to go up every time he goes on some porn and drug fueled bender – and all in all does the job that he was hired to do. So in his opinion, if he wants to start a porn academy and smoke crack all day, that’s his prerogative.

I suppose it begs to question, if someone is actually doing their job and is making your company over a billion dollars (which he did), is it the employers business if the employee likes to play with blow up dolls at home and pop vicodin like jelly beans? In this case, the problem appears to be the profile of the situation. Every time Charlie does or says something it is reported across the world. Astonishingly, even when he is arrested for brandishing knives at his ex wife, or hurling unbelievable expletives at people that work for him, or even taking his ex, mistresses and twin boys on holiday to Barbados, people still tune in. Cause as we all know, we are a car crash culture. People are simply waiting to see what he will do next and what is going to come hurling from his mouth.

Of course, the innocents in all this are his children. They will of course grow up and Google their father and realize that his lifestyle made Hugh Hefner blush and drove them into therapy. In fact, I’m sure even Keith Richards is watching in awe at the amount of illegal substances Sheen consumes. And the fact that one of the mothers of his children smokes crack too, well I’m thinking that won’t help matters. I shall of course use all this in the future to remind the King how lucky he has it, especially when he tries to tell me that I’m embarrassing him. Thank you Charlie.

Tuesday 1 March 2011

SING LIKE YOU MEAN IT!

I was thinking about singing last night after having watched an actress warble through a song during the Oscars telecast. I had to hand it to her for trying to be a singer; then again, she’s an actress, so I suppose she was ‘acting’ like a singer. To her credit she held her own considering it is not her day job so to speak.

Of course it got me thinking what constitutes good singing, and not just from a technical standpoint because there are many great technical singers out there. They hit every note, they have great breath control, they know just where to add the vibrato and where not to. But to me, I’ve always defined a great singer by their ability to perform, and moreover, their ability to let go within the moment. I mean truly let go.

I know, it sounds so simple. And trust me, I’m sure Yoko Ono has let go in her time and lost herself in her crazy squawking cat ramblings (seriously, I'm not even sure you can call what she does singing, can you?) so there are exceptions to this rule of course. But when you think about the greatest performers of our day, they are the icons that they are because they can do just that, perform. They don’t just sing. They connect to the song on a deep emotional level and translate in a way that only they can, usually with unbridled abandon. This isn’t always pretty – you know the types that make those crazy ugly singing faces - and sometimes they even look like they’re in some drug induced parallel universe. Then again, a lot of them probably are.

I used to sing – in my family I suppose it was genetically predisposed. And whilst I loved it, and definitely think I had a lot my moments where things just aligned and the notes sailed out and went exactly where I wanted them to, there was usually always thought involved. I was younger, more unaware of myself and even more problematic, more aware of everyone else. Hence, when I sang, I would critique myself as I went along, my head was a script of ‘oh lord woman, you’re sharp, rein it in for god sakes!’ I rarely had that outer body experience where the song is being sung, but you are not really aware of doing it. When it happens you know it, trust me, and it feels better than just about anything out there.

So who lets go? The list is pretty long: Mick Jagger, Aretha, Nina Simone, Jimi Hendrix (to name a very few)....Milli Vanilli. Just kidding. And, well, I know I’m biased, but that dude that wrote My Way :-). The man can sing the heck out of just about anything and never hits a wrong note. In all the years I’ve seen him perform, I don’t think I’ve ever heard him phone it in. It’s just unabashed, sing till the veins on your head pop. When I was little I used to go to his shows and get very upset watching him cause I was convinced he would sing so hard he'd have a brain aneurysm. Then I’d spill my Shirley Temple all over my sisters and me and the focus would shift to the stink eyes I was getting from across the table. God I miss Shirley Temples.

So next time you’re shy about singing in front of your friends, husband, kids, bus driver, own it and sing that song like it’s got legs. Really long kick ass Elle Macpherson legs. Trust me, you’ll be surprised at the reactions you’ll get….

Um, actually you may not want to sing at your bus driver as you might get sectioned. Just a thought.

Monday 28 February 2011

BOOB MILK ICE CREAM

An ice cream parlor in London has made a new flavor of ice cream, and from the sounds of it, Baskin and Robbins will NOT be welcoming it as their 32^nd flavor (those of you unfamiliar with B&R, get familiar; especially with their peanut butter and chocolate. It is worth every caloric bite). So what was this particular parlor’s bright idea for the next rage in ice cream? Breast milk. Yes, you heard me, their latest ice cream concoction lists breast milk as one of its ingredients.

They are calling this brain child of revulsion ‘Baby Gaga,' and of course are pushing its organic and ‘free range’ properties. Maybe it's me, but what is organic and free range about breast milk? The fact that the women in question weren’t raised in cramped cages getting stuffed full of hormones? Have you lived in a city? The flats are indeed the size of chicken crates, and more importantly, what if the donators of this said breast milk were crack smoking, twinkie shoveling junkies? Is that still considered organic?

The problem – the first of many – is that one just doesn’t know where this milk is coming from, and I don’t know about you, but milk from a cow that sits chewing on grass all day is one thing. Milk from crazy bag lady Shirley sitting next to me on the bus picking the bugs out of her hair is another thing.

Apparently this parlor put an ad out for mothers to donate their breast milk, and wouldn’t you know it, people did. One woman who donated actually remarked...I have to quote her cause it's just that good...

"What could be more natural than fresh, free-range mother's milk in an ice cream? And for me it's a recession beater too — what's the harm in using my assets for a bit of extra cash. I tried the product for the first time today — it's very nice, it really melts in the mouth."

Sorry, I just almost threw up. Ah yes, people out there are clearly open to doing just about anything for cash. I suppose my tantamount question is why? Why why WHY? Why would anyone make breast milk ice cream, and more importantly, why would anyone want to eat breast milk ice cream? What happened to good old fashioned strawberry, or live large, go for Rocky Road. But ingesting another woman’s breast milk is just pushing the palette boundaries as far as I’m concerned.

.....then again, on a dare, I did try my best friend’s breast milk – in a shot glass, I’m not a total freak. And let me tell you, it certainly wasn’t good enough to make a sundae out of it.

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