HMV Got My Number

Argh. After buying 4 CDs at Borders on Tuesday, I suppose I can’t possibly justify buying three more at HMV with the 3 for £20 offer. Stuff I’m tempted by:

  • Outkast: Aquemini
  • Hefner: Fear Of God (although I’m not sure if I should get this or just wait till I can afford The Fidelity Wars.)
  • Spiritualized: Pure Phase or Lazer Guided Melodies
  • Red Snapper: Making Bones
  • Nick Drake: Way To Blue
  • David Holmes: This Film’s Crap Let’s Slash The Seats
  • Miles Davis: Kind Of Blue

As I said, argh.

Stop Arguing That We’re Arguing

I’ve mentioned here before how much I hate mooting. Yesterday I realized there was a reason for it all. Because mooting is incredibly boring and annoying, but moot judging is immensely enjoyable, and I just played judge for the first time.

Four people, all bound by courtroom etiquette to subservience and extreme politeness. You, as judge, the recipient of this. The joy of catching someone out on a poorly thought out argument, and seeing that “Oh shit, she’s right” look appear on their face as they realize they’re in a fix. Equally, the satisfaction from challenging someone on something just because it’s a challengeable argument, and having them come back strongly in support of their stand with a well-reasoned defence of it.

At the end of the day, I look at what I like about the various relevant activities I enjoy (mooting, debating, drunken conversations…), and realize that what I find fulfilling and enjoyable in every case is the interplay of differing ideas.

The only time I ever enjoy a moot is when the judge questions me, and I then have to respond to his challenges. Otherwise, it’s a one-way speech, and it’s incredibly tedious. I love debating because (in the British Parliamentary format that I do) participation doesn’t begin and end with your speech. You can interject at almost any other time in the course of someone else’s speech, and they can interject during yours.

I love not being agreed with. I love not agreeing with others. I don’t understand why so many people, and so many Singaporeans in particular, seem to think that a discussion of differing opinions is something bad. One of the most annoying things someone could ever say to me is “Look, whatever. You’re right. You win. Can we stop arguing now?”

First of all, the simple fact of differing views doesn’t automatically make something an argument. It’s a discussion. Secondly, I’m not disagreeing with you to “win”, or trump you. I’m arguing because I want to understand how you see the issue. And I want you to understand how I see the issue. Why is that wrong? And if you have a view that can’t stand up to scrutiny, then don’t you want to know that your view isn’t necessarily valid? I’d appreciate being told if I was believing in something for no good reason, and it shouldn’t be my problem if other people are too insecure to handle a similar realization.

This turned into a bit of a rant. Well, all I really intended to say was that I enjoyed my moot judging yesterday. But I guess you probably already figured that out. :)

My Mind Has A Mind Of Its Own

So I’m walking back to my hall from Tesco’s, and when I pass the computer room I decide to pop in and send Russ a free SMS to update him on my efforts to find us accommodation in Paris. Where we’re going on Friday, by the way. I think I haven’t mentioned it here yet.

So I sit down, sign into a terminal, and am just about to open Netscape (UCL computers only run Netscape. This pleases me greatly) when he calls me. This is just another one in a long list of Freaky Telepathic Russ Moments. Maybe I should actually start keeping a list of those, just for interest.

It’s actually rather stupid of me to be writing this here, because when he reads it he’ll nag me about having been on the computer instead of doing the ten million other things that I should be doing instead. And he’ll be right. Dammit.

Oh, before I go, a conversation fragment. I was in my hall common room looking for some of my French hallmates to ask them something about calling Paris:

Me: Johanna, have you seen anyone French around today at all? As in, people from France, not people French kissing.
Johanna, giving me a strange look: No. As in, to either question.

Why does my mind work like this? Stop embarrassing me, mind…

Content Too Random For Title

I’m not quite sure why, but between yesterday and today, this computer lab has suddenly started smelling of unwashed hair. Yes, I’m familiar with the smell, because it is exactly what my brother’s room smells like. Mind you, it’s a different smell from general unwashedness. I am familiar with that smell because it’s what my brother’s room used to smell like before he, er, improved. Hands up all those who want to swop brothers. Don’t all rush at once.

I just found out about the results of the Bloggies. Well done to Wockerjabby for winning Best Kept Secret weblog, although I’m not quite sure how it’s a secret given that I’ve been reading it since about April last year, and I’m not particularly in the loop blogging-wise. Or in general, actually. I’d also have nominated her for Best Named and Best Titled Navigational Thingy if such categories existed, but I admit that’s just because one of my favourite poems ever is involved.

I went to bed at 1 am last night because I had a splitting headache. I woke up at the first of the three alarm clocks that I have (and which regularly fail me, or I them, depending on my state of self-delusion on a given day) with the proverbial bright eyes and bushy tail. Perhaps I should look into this sleeping-and-waking-up-at-regular-hours-like-the-rest-of-the-human-race thing.

Student Discount Day Yay

I love Student Discount Day at Borders. Today’s haul:
The Sandman Companion (Hy Bender), £8.99
Grandaddy: Under The Western Freeway, £6.99
Roots Manuva: Brand New Second Hand, £6.99
Stereo MCs: DJ Kicks, £6.99
The Beta Band’s self titled, £6.99
20% off everything. :)

Speaking of Sandman, I just found this new and pretty damn excellent gallery! I also found out that Neil Gaiman has a new book coming out in July, American Gods. It’s already on my wishlist.

Discovering little things like these make me happy, and are good for the stress headache I seem to be suffering from right now. Another site for sore heads is this one in honour of artist Dave McKean. which I’ve been devouring over quite a while. Its parent site, erasing.org is also highly worth a visit – it’s one of the very small number of sites I check every day.

Hmm. What else before I return to my room and my property law essay?

I’m a wallpaper junkie. Even more so when it’s eels wallpaper (the band. Not the long slimy sea thing.)

This Peanuts version of the breakup of the Smashing Pumpkins is funny and all, but after reading it, I sort of just sat here and felt…sad. Say what you will about the theatrics, the tantrums and the teen angst lyrics, but at the end of it all, I loved the music, lusted after James Iha, liked Billy in spite of all the bad press he got, and thoroughly enjoyed the two occasions I saw the band in concert (Singapore 1995ish, London 2000). Current favourite SP song, (though it might well be a different one in a few days time): Soothe. I love the guitar work on it.

Damn it, someone already made a Kilgore Trout page. I often find it difficult to commit myself to absolute rankings i.e. My All-Time Favourite ______, but I think I can say, without a doubt, that Kilgore Trout would probably be my all-time favourite writer who doesn’t exist.

Sex And Drugs

On Saturday I watched Traffic (Odeon, Tottenham Court Road. Gotta love the 5 pound student concession), and later, Sex: The Annabel Chong Story on Channel Four. Two films with much fodder for moralizing/philosophizing/taking the piss, and I have to say that I engaged in all of the above.

As films go, both were absorbing, but for very different reasons. I thoroughly enjoyed Traffic, It took the hugely complex mess that is the war on drugs, and chose key elements within it on which to focus. It had a number of messages, but didn’t club you over the head with them. It had unlikely heroes, and unlikely villains, who eventually came across as believable and multi-dimensional, the way real people are. It had moments of genuine hilarity, and genuine pathos. It was easy enough to follow, but not predictable. It was gripping, thought-provoking, and genuinely entertaining, if you take the word in its broad sense. I came out of the cinema and was amazed that two and a half hours had passed so quickly. I think the most important thing about “issue” movies for me is that I don’t want to be condescended to or clubbed over the head, and I don’t want emotional rhetoric to obscure the hard facts. A guilty movie that comes to mind is Philadelphia. Traffic, however, didn’t strike me as falling prey to such weaknesses. Well worth my 5 pounds.

Sex: The Annabel Chong Story is a movie of particular interest to Singaporeans, given that we’re a country used to being famous for having the best port and airport in the world, or being one of the freest economies, but aren’t really used to having the world’s best gangbanger.

The movie tells you particular things about a)pornography, b)Singapore and c)Annabel Chong.

a) I hadn’t seen that much porn before watching this movie, but my primary reaction to what I saw wasn’t moral outrage or disgust but incomprehension as to why men find it arousing. Gisele Bundchen nekkid and seductive: understandably arousing. Annabel Chong nekkid and trying to be seductive: repulsive. The woman is hideously ugly. I don’t even understand how any of the 251 men could get it up to fuck her. The same goes for men. To me, Ralph Fiennes: sex on legs. Ron Jeremy: an advertisement for chastity on legs, and disgusting fat legs at that.

b) It’s annoying how I have to keep telling people this. I don’t feel oppressed in Singapore. I’m not brainwashed. I’ve lived in the “liberal democracy” of the UK for a year, and I love it. I’ll go home to Singapore in two years, and live happily there as well. Annabel Chong feels oppressed by Singapore society. I’d suggest that anyone who has willingly fucked 251 men in 10 hours is likely to feel oppressed in most societies.

c) I felt some pity, some disgust and not much respect for her. Pity because of the obvious unhappiness she goes through in the course of the film. Disgust at her pseudo-intellectualization of everything she does. If she’d said she’d done 251 men in 10 hours because she liked sex (or pain), or wanted the money, or wanted to set a world record, I’d say fair enough. Saying she did it as a feminist statement, and that it was a noble and empowering act for womankind, is ridiculous, and I’m pretty sure most of womankind would rather she empower us by putting her obviously capable intellect to work instead of her equally obviously capable cunt.

I don’t usually use the words I’ve used above, but the politer alternatives seemed inappropriate. Porn is about fucking, not sex; cunts and pussies, not vaginas. Sure, it has its place in a secular capitalist society, but I don’t think it should be made out to be anything more than what it is. It isn’t intellectual. It isn’t noble. It’s just something certain consumers are willing to pay for, and certain people are willing to produce. And the Invisible Fist does the rest.

Instead Of Sleeping

Things I did instead of sleeping last night, which resulted in my getting to bed at 6 am:

  • Made a 404 page which I then decided I wasn’t going to use.
  • HTMLized some of my prose excerpts collection.
  • Tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with my falling Dali poster (see previous post).
  • Thumbed through the latest issue of the Economist.
  • Listened to 100% Fun (Matthew Sweet), Siamese Dream (Smashing Pumpkins), my lovely Ella Fitzgerald compilation, and In The Aeroplane Over The Sea (Neutral Milk Hotel).
  • Read a bit of The Neandertal Enigma (James Shreeve). Would have read more, but it was 5.45 am by then.
  • Put Yo La Tengo’s And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out on, switched the lights off, and got into bed.

The Unpersistence Of The Persistence Of Memory

Ulp. Jared linked to me from Entropy. This is worrying, given that it means that people might actually start reading this blog. I should perhaps start on that long-postponed campaign of making my site less crappily incomplete.

So, um, potential person here from Entropy, hello! Some bits of this site aren’t quite done yet. This is due to the fact that much of the coursework necessary to get me a law degree also isn’t quite done yet. Every time I get caught up in glorious web design geekiness, reality has this annoying habit of sneaking up and biting me on the ass. This would be quite kinky if reality looked like Ralph Fiennes, but it tends to be short, squat, and slightly balding with a receding hairline, and it spends a great deal of time talking about graduate recruitment opportunities…

My poster of Dali’s The Persistence Of Memory keeps falling off the wall. After picking it up today for the whatevereth time in the past two weeks, I contemplated draping it, soft clock style, over the edge of my chest of drawers, in pursuit of some sort of symbolic resonance with the imagery of the painting. It would, of course, render my chest of drawers impossible to actually use, but it’s a small price to pay for the self-contentment that comes with doing symbolic, resonant…things.

What is it about Blu-Tack that makes a poster which has stayed happily on the wall for weeks, nay, months, suddenly decide it can’t take it any more? And once it’s fallen once, it’s never quite the same again. You can stick it back up, but things are never quite as safe and secure as they once were. There’s always a fall around the corner. I’m sure there’s some sort of life metaphor to be found in this. I could write a great teen angst poem.

The NME Thing: Mansun/King Adora/Sunna/Mull Historical Society (Astoria, London)

I knew I had to do the NME thing at some point during my time in Britain. Tonight I went to a Mansun/King Adora/Sunna/Mull Historical Society gig at the Astoria with Matt, Alec and Nina. As I’ve said before here, it wasn’t the first gig I’d choose to go to out of all available, but Matt wanted to go, and I figured I might as well go since I’d have company.

We got there during Mull Historical Society’s set. I can’t say I was distressed at having missed any of it. I suppose a charitable music journalist could call their lack of packaging, stage presence or sound quality refreshing in this age of manufactured musicality, but I was underwhelmed. Of course, if they become the next Radiohead, I’ll have to delete this post hurriedly and drop smug little references into conversations about how I watched them when they were unknown and knew they were going to make it big, but somehow I’m not too worried about that happening.

The second act, Sunna, was definitely an improvement. Sure, they didn’t sound like much more than a rather derivative heavy rock/lite metal Bush/Metallica/Pearl Jam amalgam, but they had catchy enough riffs, showmanship, and at least some level of variation in their songs. They had the Metallica ballad, the White Zombie-esque dancey metally track, the Pearl Jam’s Spin The Black Circle stylie thrash, and other appropriately dark toned, minor keyed extended jams, all involving lots of flashing lights and people risking whiplash. All good fun.

King Adora. Hmm. I didn’t realize how many of their songs I actually knew until I heard them perform. I was generally distracted during their set by the antics of a group of what looked like 14 year olds who were obviously huge fans. One had orange King Adora bumper stickers stuck across his face. At the end he ripped them off in a swift and manly gesture and waved them ecstatically in the air. Ten seconds later, one hand came down from its aerial worship and surreptitiously checked an eyebrow. Ouch.

The main feeling I had at the end of Mansun’s gig was frustration. This is a band whose first album I thoroughly enjoyed, whose second album I thought showed a significant evolution of sound, and whose third and most recent album I felt to be profoundly uninspired and so tediously Mansunesque it sounded like a Mansun tribute band.

Live, The Chad Who Loved Me, Taxloss, Blown It/Special and Wide Open Space (all from Attack Of The Grey Lantern and Six) were immensely satisfying, and Paul Draper can definitely sing live. But ultimately, these performances just showed up the mediocrity of the new material even more. I Can Only Disappoint You was as boring live as it is on the album. They tried to give Electric Man some resonance by washing the band in warm yellow light during the chorus (“Bring your sunshine to me, oh, electric man”) but if the music doesn’t move me, clever lighting won’t change that.

Other musings:

Is there some unwritten requirement that when you go to a gig, if you don’t have a T-shirt of a band performing, you have to wear another one with some other band in the “scene” on it?

Do indie boys really think that disgusting haircut (and I use the terminology loosely) looks good? Only Beck looks cool with it, boys. And that’s actually just because he’s Beck. It’s still a dumb haircut even on his dear little genius head.

I Am The Scourge Of Sadomasochists!

This pretending to be a lawyer thing seems to be working out. Today was the quarter-finals of the senior mooting competition. I had to argue that this guy who carved his initials on his girlfriend’s butt couldn’t try to get out of his conviction by arguing that she’d consented to it.

The leading case about this in English law is about a group of sadomasochists who got convicted for assault despite the fact that all their “victims” had consented to their acts. One of the arguments I made during the moot was that legalization of sadomasochism should be done by Parliament and not the courts. I’d been planning to refer the judge to this quote from one of the Law Lords:

“If it is to be decided that such activities as the nailing by A of B’s foreskin or scrotum to a board or the insertion of hot wax into C’s urethra followed by the burning of his penis with a candle or the incising of D’s scrotum with a scalpel to the effusion of blood are injurious neither to B, C and D nor to the public interest then it is for Parliament with its accumulated wisdom and sources of information to declare them to be lawful.” (Lord Jauncey, R v Brown)

But he said he got the point early on, without me needing to refer him to judgments, so unfortunately I didn’t get to read that quote out.

Anyway, I got through to the semi-finals of the competition. I’m glad because I think I deserved it, but annoyed that I have to keep at this activity which I don’t particularly enjoy.

Thanks go out to Russ for subjecting himself to one and a half hours of the tedium that is a moot – I appreciated the support.

Thanks do not go out to my alarm clocks, which failed to work this morning resulting in my awakening in absolute panic at 2 pm, with only one third of the moot prepared.