Mama Was A Rock’N’Roll Band

Today, I did not read chapter 8 of Law and Economics, Cooter and Ulen, 1997. I did, however, read this Magnetic Fields blissout at Tangents, which made for much better reading.

He talks about having tears in his eyes during Papa Was A Rodeo, while people around him were laughing, and my heart goes out to him. Sure, there’s some sort of humour in that the lyrics read by themselves could come across as incredibly hokey and country-western-cliched, but actually listening to the song just changes everything. You feel the dead-end desperation of nowhere towns. You see the swath of road illuminated by the headlights of a truck, beyond which all is darkness, but you know the road just goes on and on. You squint a little at the sickly yellow light of a roadside diner, and rub your fingers against each other, thinking you can feel menu grease on them. And then the song ends, and you open your eyes, and you’re sitting in your room, and you just really really love the Magnetic Fields.

I borrowed Screamadelica and Pixies At The BBC from Nick, and Matt has lent me Little Kix in preparation for the Mansun concert we’re going to this Thursday. The loans from Nick were stuff I’d always meant to listen to but never really got round to getting my hands on. I’ve listened to each one once since Sunday, but don’t have defined feelings about them yet except that they’re definitely worth listening to again. The Mansun album sounds like, well, Mansun. Similar to the first two albums with none of what made them interesting. This is why I sort of lost interest in them after hearing the new singles on the radio last year. Oh, well. The reasons I’m going to the concert on Thursday are, firstly, that I thought it’d be good to see a really Britishy type band live here, just for the sake of it, and secondly, that my growing resignation about my grim prospects of watching bands I really want to see made me jump at the chance to see a band I didn’t really mind since I would at least have company to go with. I’ve written about this before, and it doesn’t sound any less pathetic the second time, so I’ll stop there.

UCL President’s Cup 2001

it’s over! It’s Over! IT’S OVER! IT’S OVER!!!!!

The UCL inter-varsity debating tournament 2001 was on Friday and Saturday, convened and organized by Nick and me. And I’m relieved and overjoyed to report that it seems to have been a success. This time, we were working under far more difficult circumstances than we had been when organizing our first debating tournament in October last year. Dire financial crisis in our debating society meant we had the grand total of 95 pounds to run the tournament on, plus whatever we got from entry fees. We told the debating community about this, said we wouldn’t be able to offer the lavish prize money and free drinks that other tournaments offer, and asked if they’d still be willing to come. Support was significant enough for us to decide to go ahead with it anyway, and now I’m so glad we did.

After running The President’s Cup exactly to schedule last year (quite an achievement in the British university debating circuit), we were determined that this one would be no less well organized. We did, however, end up running late in this one, much to our general dissatisfaction, but many delays were due to forces beyond our control like teams turning up late, and college staff booked and instructed well in advance failing to do what had been arranged. All the same, so many people made a point of telling us they had really enjoyed the tournament, and these are debaters who’d definitely have bitched loud and long if they weren’t satisfied with it.

Another thing I’m proud of was the quality of debating. We had a well contested and interesting final. I’d come up with the motion This House Would Make Amends For Africa. The first proposition team made a courageous and well-argued case in support of reversing the current situation of withholding aid from African countries which allow the practice of female genital mutilation, and eventually won the tournament. We’d tried to achieve a wide variety of motions in the earlier rounds of the tournament, so we had motions ranging from This House Would Tackle The Mad Cow to This House Would Give Saddam A Stroke, as well as the UCL innovation of generally themed debates where anything goes as long as it sticks to the topic given (the environment, this time), and another innovation of our own, where we told the debaters we knew how much everyone liked bitching about motions, and so we’d give them the opportunity to submit their own motions for the third round, one of which would be chosen.

We wanted our tournament to be well-run, well-debated and well-enjoyed. It looks like we succeeded on all three counts. :)

I should, however, add one of my characteristic disclaimers here: despite all this, I still think it was far from perfect, and that there were areas where my organization could have been better. The fact that we had to work with a number of well-intentioned but generally useless morons who are unfortunately members of our committee made things difficult as well, and sometimes I probably let my frustration show a little. So, there’s still lots of room for improvement.

Following in our President’s Cup tradition, we went clubbing after the tournament, and revelled in being completely different people from how we’d had to be during the tournament. JP, Nick’s flatmate, had free passes to the Glasshouse, so that’s where we went. The stresses of the past few days had taken their toll on Nick and me, such that we didn’t really feel up to dancing much, but we were, nevertheless, amused at watching JP’s effervescent antics as we chilled on a couch. After a shivering post-club excursion to Farringdon for coffee at 6 am, we went back to their flat. It’s a pretty surreal experience when you’re lounging in a road-scrounged easy chair, with a huge Bruce Lee poster staring you in the face, Gomez on the speakers, Wall Street on the television, and the all-permeating smell of weed. I next woke up around 8 am in JP’s bed, with Nick scrunched up next to me, JP fast asleep in the easy chair, grey snow on the TV and silence on the speakers.

I notice the littlest, and strangest things when the radical break from routine means I’m not functioning on autopilot. The mingled odours of tobacco and weed on my clothes and hair, defiantly residual even as I walked through icily fresh morning air on my way home. Soggy fur on a dog after it had romped its way through dewy grass. The clack of my boots, too loud among the shuttered shops and empty cafe furniture of Woburn Walk in the morning. The incongruity of sitting in my hall having breakfast in a gold halter-necked top among pajamaed hallmates who would later change for mass, while I’d be changing for bed.

And now it’s 3 in the morning, and as I write this, a blank sheet of paper on the table masquerades as tutorial work for tomorrow.

The tournament’s over. The weekend’s over. Back to normal life.

Burns Night Bloat

I heard Stephen Malkmus’s new single on the radio today! He’s playing at the Garage on February 12, and I’d really like to be there given that I missed Pavement’s last gig at the Brixton Academy in November ’99, which I now kick myself energetically and mercilessly for. Hey, friends of Michelle who like Pavement/Malkmus and are in London? Anyone? Please? Sigh.

(originally written at 12.23 AM, Friday morning)
Note to self: dancing the ceilidh for half an hour after a huge Belgo’s dinner is not a good idea. Tonight is Burns Night, which pyromaniacs and sadomasochists possibly twist to suit their special needs, but which the Scots have adopted to celebrate the life and work of Robert Burns. So I came home to my hall after braised beef in beer with apples and plums, a couple of mussels, and lots of fries, got pulled into a ceilidh circle, and didn’t get out again till half an hour later. Although I suppose it could have been worse. I could have been dancing the ceilidh for half an hour after a huge haggis dinner, for example.

Stealy Determination

Today I stole. I snuck into the lower refrectory, looked around me nervously, and surreptitiously eased styrofoam cups off the drinks counter into the bag I’d brought for that purpose.

I did this three separate times during the day.

Why, you may wonder? Blame it all on trying to organize an inter-varsity debating tournament which has been suddenly and unexpectedly thrown into financial crisis. It’s tomorrow. I’m a little stressed. I sure hope they accept that explanation of things when I’m in the dock at the Old Bailey.

The styrofoam cups, by the way, are for the debaters to put their hot drinks in at the tournament. I wasn’t just being randomly kleptomaniacal.

This afternoon I also got my first glimpse of Trigger Happy TV thanks to Matt, who was watching his Best of Season One tape in the TV room, parts of which were possibly spattered with little flecks of Chicken Tonight Spanish Chicken sauce each time a particular skit amused me. I suppose most British viewers might be jaded and cynical about the show by now, the way they’ve become about Ali G, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. At least it’s better than America’s Funniest Home Videos.

Side thought: I wonder if that show began the whole Some Place’s Somethingest Somethings trend. Jeez. From America’s Funniest Home Videos to World’s Most Gruesome Multiple Vehicle Pileups or something to that effect. Talk about the slippery slope.

Fearful Symmetry

CD-Wow has The Roots Come Alive and Ladysmith Black Mambazo: The Warner Brothers Collection for £6.99 each and free delivery. Hmmm. Should I snap these up because they’re cheap, or hold out for better albums by the artists like Things Fall Apart for The Roots and something from Ladysmith’s Nascente label days instead? I can hear a little voice in my head and it whispers prudence.

I wanted to listen to Maxinquaye last night, but remembered that it’s been on loan to Gareth since the beginning of this academic year. Note to self: nag. I also really wanted to listen to Loveless but I forgot to bring it back with me when I returned here after summer at home in Singapore. Note to self: MUPPET.

I really want to write something about this post at Entropy, but I don’t have the time right now. So often, when I’m reading this blog, it feels as if its author Jared has reached into my head, found the most fundamental things by which I define and understand myself, and written them down far more compellingly than I am able to. The scary thing is that he’s writing it about himself, and doesn’t know I exist.

The inevitable cliches about how the Internet brings the people of the world together and how you suddenly discover some wondrous synergy between yourself and someone you have never met thousands of miles away come to mind. But I’ve been on the Net since 1994, have spent more hours surfing the Web than I dare to compute, and have never seen any site with content that speaks to me quite like his. Something even scarier is that much of his “about me” page would sum me up perfectly.

It’s somewhat weird. A little depressing, in a way. Hmmm.

Worst Chink Ever

Wow. Two days into the week, and I’ve managed to make it to all seven hours of lessons so far. Well done me. :) I do acknowledge, though, that this astounding accomplishment in my eyes is standard operating procedure for most of the other people in the law faculty, and I did spend the less thrilling parts of my property law seminar today (of which there were quite a number) surreptitiously reading the latest issue of Time Out. But hey, it’s a start. I just have to make it the rest of the week as well. And all the rest of the weeks. And actually be mentally engaged. Hmm. Perhaps I should rethink this university thing…

Last night the TV viewing preferences of the people in my hall and mine finally coincided, which was a welcome change given that they usually watch Father Ted while the X-Files is on, and wanted to watch Contact instead of Trainspotting last Sunday night. But last night, we united in support of Fargo, which I have to admit was my first ever Coen brothers movie, although it definitely won’t be my last. I loved its dark and often shocking course of events, its hilarious sendup of regional quirks, and generally, its sheer watchability right from the beginning. Great acting as well, especially from William H Macy and Frances McDonald.

Side note: it just occurred to me just how many excellent actors Con-Air managed to get. John Malkovich, Steve Buscemi, John Cusack, Ving Rhames and Nicholas Cage. For Con-Air?

Okay. Movie interlude over. I’m glad I’ve managed to chip away a little of the tip of the iceberg of my movie ignorance, or rather movie knowledge-without-watching, which would be slightly more of an accurate description. Next stop: hopefully The Conversation, which the UCL Film Society will be screening some time soon.

I hope Matt managed to get tickets for us to watch Mansun and King Adora at the Astoria on Feb 1. Time Out indicated that they’re sold out.

Tonight is the Chinese New Year dinner for international Chinese students at UCL. It’s free, at an excellent restaurant and is something like 10 courses. For some reason, though, I’d been under the impression that the dinner was Feb 23, the same day as the Inner Temple intervarsity debating tournament. The dilemma then, or so I thought, was whether to go to the excellent free dinner, or go to what would be one of my last tournaments ever with Nick (debating partner, co-organizer, good friend).

Initial resolution of the dilemma (as I believed it to be):
Me: Well, you know, it’s really good, and it’s free…
Nick: (puppy dog expression)
Me: (hurriedly)…but of course I’d rather go to the tournament!!

But then I was talking to a couple of fellow Singaporeans yesterday, and the topic of Chinese New Year came up. I asked if anyone wanted an extra ticket, since I wouldn’t be using mine. My friend was keen on taking up the offer.
Victoria: So can you bring the ticket to the lecture tomorrow?
Me: Yeah, but if I don’t wake up in time I’ll just give it to you one of these days.
Victoria: But the dinner’s tomorrow.
Me: Tomorrow is Chinese New Year’s Eve??!! I thought it was on February 23!!
Everyone looks at me in stunned, Chinese, silence.

Whoops.

I suppose I could blame the influence of Western! Imperialist! Dogs! for this rather embarassing incident, but that would be so 1960’s. I assume modern day Chinese jingoism is slightly more subtle. Dang it.

Generation Surrenderist

My mother once walked into my room while Heather Angel (last track, Sonic Youth’s A Thousand Leaves) was playing. Her comment on Kim’s vocals was in a similar vein to the comments she makes about most of the music I listen to. She said, “This sounds like the ramblings of an autistic.” I know these are politically correct times but while listening to the first couple of minutes of the track earlier I couldn’t help thinking that she did have a point. Oh dear. I feel I have betrayed My Generation.

The penalty for agreeing with parental criticism of music I like will surely be swift and severe. Perhaps I will be made subject to a fetid and formulaic morass of sound, blasted from all directions wherever I go. Everywhere I go, members of My Generation will respond with looks of incredulous disbelief when I scream for release from this “music” that they love and perpetuate through their dollar votes. Death will be no escape from this; when they see that my rebellion persists, they will incarcerate me; my captors will call me Winston and tell me it is not easy to be sane. Eventually something will break. I will be released into the world again, to spend my days sitting in McDonalds with a gaping smile as the latest Matchbox 20/Stereophonics (adapt as needed for US/UK readers) hit blares.

Perhaps this will happen.

Or perhaps I’m just channelling George Orwell because he’s more fun than The Economics Of Contract And Tort Law.

My Name Is Michelle And I’m A CDaholic

Russ thinks my CD buying is an addiction. He might be right. Bricolage (Amon Tobin), How It Feels To Be Something On (Sunny Day Real Estate) and Mag Earwhig! (Guided By Voices) arrived this week. I also ordered Whiteout (Boss Hog) and The Sophtware Slump (Grandaddy). All from Django. But see, they’re all really cheap, relatively. I’ve been waiting to get the first three for *ages*, and I’ve only just got them now, because they’ve always been too expensive at special import prices. So it just happens to be that expenditure I’ve always intended on incurring is suddenly being incurred all at once, but I’m buying all of them at used CD prices, so they’re really much cheaper. I can stop any time I want. Really.

Really.

(other random music notes to self)
Current gig-related frustration:
The Magnetic Fields are on tonight at the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith. I only found out this morning. It’s sold out now. Argh. Argh. Argh. I must keep track of these things.

Upcoming gigs worth thinking about:
– Grandaddy 7 Feb at The Forum
– Goldfrapp 22 Feb at ULU (3 minutes away from home. I love living in central London.)
– My Vitriol 1 March at ULU (even more so if Marten can get us on the guest list again)
– Low 22 March at Shepherd’s Bush Empire
– All Tomorrow’s Parties some time in April somewhere out of London. It looks very promising. I didn’t go last year and had to listen to Sonic Youth’s weird set on the radio instead.
– Asian Dub Foundation, apparently some time in April at the Barbican.
– All Tomorrow’s Parties at UCLA, October 19-21. Curated by Sonic Youth. I need say no more. I am *seriously* contemplating a hop across the ocean, although it may well be wishful thinking for reasons I’ll outline below.

Probable future gig-related frustration:
– Almost none of my friends even know any of these bands exist, let alone like them, Marten, Jeremy and Jason being exceptions. I watched the Smashing Pumpkins, Built To Spill and Flaming Lips alone, but that’s because I’ve resigned myself to my plight.
– I actually have to study, unfortunately.
– I’m a poor student who already spends too much on music as it is.

Day In The Life

Ah. Have just had a productive discussion with Nick and cooked some kick-ass honey and mustard chicken. I might have two tutorials to do for tomorrow, and feel guilty about the fact that I’m going to be watching West Wing tonight, but right now I still feel gooooood.

I didn’t get to talking about yesterday in my earlier post. Yesterday was well spent (as was about £20 on the various things I got up to) apart from the fact that I really really meant to go for my property seminar, for which I’d been labouring over reservation of title clauses, but only woke up just as it was finishing. Sigh.

One of the reasons I keep this blog is simply to remind myself of what I do with my life, which is why I sometimes tend to be quite detailed about how I’ve spent my day. I can’t be bothered to do that right now for Wednesday, but here’s a somewhat uncrafted account of things.

Got out of bed at almost 1 pm. Cursed a lot. Russ came over. Got lectured a little (and deservedly so) on getting enough sleep and waking up on time. Tried to decide about renewing my mobile phone contract (which network? which tarif? which phone? which minion of hell dreamed up these damn contraptions and then got me dependent on them?). Failed. Left to go watch Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon at the Curzon in Soho. Went to Impulse first to return CDs. Got slightly dirty looks from the staff because I was returning £40 worth. Well, I did buy £80 worth, so I don’t have a guilty conscience. Bought tickets. Sandwich lunch in Neal’s Yard or whatever that little shopping centre’s called.

Watched the movie. Michelle Yeoh’s Mandarin was bad. The dialogue and Moments were as stilted and cliched as it always is in Chinese films. The plot had the usual chinks. We agreed that it had various flaws but at the end of it all it’s always nice watching something where you remember dreaming you can fly.

Returned the Craig Armstrong CD to HMV, bought a Kranky Records “kompilation”. Dinner in Wagamama. Met Karen at Leicester Square to go lindy-hopping at the Notre Dame. Lindy-hopping’s always fun. Got home. Read the papers. Blissed out over Amon Tobin’s Bricolage. Went to bed.

That’s what I did. Yeah.

Surprised By Lack Of Debating Burnout

I have to go man the UCL Debating Society stall in the Clubs and Societies Fair after my lecture today, and go do efficient things with Nick afterwards for the UCL tournament we’re in charge of organizing for next weekend.

It just occurred to me that I thought I’d be well and truly sick of debating after coming back from the Worlds, but I’ve been surprised to find myself reasonably happy to be forced back into it.

Monday was our weekly public debate, where I spoke in proposition of This House Would Legalize Prostitution. The debate probably epitomized all that is good and bad about our Monday night debates, the bad being the chronic dearth of good argument, and the good being the boisterous but still good-natured atmosphere. As is usually the case, I was the only girl speaking from the table, and decided, for the fun of it, to be filthier than all the male speakers. So I told the opposition they were pleasuring themselves under the table instead of listening to the debate, having sex with their mothers, and were generally sexually unappealing and inadequate, they then made reference to my “methods” of procuring financial support for my university education, and after the debate we all hugged and went to the Union bar arm in arm.

I’m not sure if I should be troubled by the fact a newcomer to Monday nights later described me to one of the regulars as “that Oriental girl who ripped all the guys to shreds and isn’t offended by anything”. It’s a question I wonder about from time to time – whether I should act in a more conventionally feminine way i.e. less swearing, less innuendo-packed comments, less I-won’t-take-any-shit-from-stupid-people aura, less confident, less assertive, less interesting…

Tuesday was our weekly competitive training, where the motion was This House Believes That The US Should Get Out, and the first proposition team defined the debate as being about NATO withdrawing from the Balkans. With Nick feeling less than healthy, I partnered Josh, a new exchange student from Georgetown, who hadn’t done British Parliamentary debating before. He did very well for a first time speaker, probably due to his other debating experience back in the US. I’m generally surprised I managed to enjoy a debate about a subject that I find less than thrilling after going through the burnout-inducing pressure of Worlds. Guess I really do love it.