Sedici file da 150 metri e una pianta (erano meli, ma chiamarli alberi è troppo) ogni metro. Fanno 2400 piante a cui togliere paletto, legaccio e gancio a mano. Per tagliare i rami secondari ad altezza uomo, una ventina di colpi col forbicione pneumatico ci vogliono tutti, e sono 48 mila tagli. Poi bisogna sdraiare le piante e per la parte alta altrettanti colpi non bastano neanche,  a ocio facciamo centomila sforbiciate e  morta lì. Arrivi all’ultimo e ci scappa la foto.

Dopo aver tolto ed arrotolato due chilometri e mezzo di fil di ferro, rimangono i tronchi degli alberi, i pali di cemento e le ancore lungo le testate e anche qualcuna in mezzo alla fila. Per i tronchi presto fatto, tre tagli di motosega a pezzo e con 7200 ce la si cava, li si carica  e una quindicina di carri si riempie come niente. La quarantina abbondante di ancore non sembravano un grosso problema, non pensavamo che fossero sotto di un metro e con la pachera del mio amico muratore italocalabrese  non vengono su, bisogna usare il muletto del trattore.

I pali di cemento, 31 per fila più altri sparsi in giro, saranno stati almeno 450. È mio personale motivo d’orgoglio essere riuscito ad estrarli tutti con la pachera  senza aver fatto del male a nessuno, ricevendo anche dei complimenti che secondo me erano la reincarnazione degli scongiuri. Sembra fatta, ma ci sono ancora le zocche (le radici e la parte emersa del tronco fino a 30 cm., che quasi sempre presenta il gnoccone dell’innesto).

A cavare una zocca son buoni tutti, il problema è che per farlo bene devi lasciarle il minino di radicette e di terra attaccato, anche per non rompere eccessivamente i coglioni a chi le deve caricarle sul carro, e sopratutto  tenendo conto del fatto che quel qualcuno è più che probabile sia te medesmo.  Estraendole e roteandole, all’ultima zocca mi sono quasi rammaricato che nessuno mi abbia chiesto di accendere un cerino con la benna della pachera, forse ci sarei anche riuscito. Quando l’ultima zocca è sul carro il lavoro è finito.

D’altronde, il contratto verbale parlava chiaro:  al bar,voi piantate le patate e quello che volete nel pezzo di terreno vuoto e in cambio mi liberate quello occupato dai pomari entro fine novembre.. Legna, pali, e tutto quel che trovate in giro sono vostri e vi faccio piantare le patate anche l’anno prossimo. 

Avreste solo dovuto vedere la faccia di Claudio, il  mio socioconcorrente , quando a due giorni dall’inizio lavori mi ha visto con la mano ingessata

You’re The First, The Last, My Everything – Barry White
Macht gute Laune zum Montag. Allen einen guten Start in die Woche!

I finally have a name to attach to The Voice.

I hear The Voice on Monday nights as I’m driving home from work.  He’s the announcer on Westwood One’s radio coverage of Monday Night Football.  Not the play-by-play guy or the analyst.  The announcer.  As in, “Monday Night Football on Westwood One, brought to you by…”

The Voice is Barry White times two.  The Voice won’t shatter glass, but it might cause foundations to crumble.  The Voice won’t scare babies, but it might cause grown men to tremble.

Listen.  To The Voice.

The Voice comes out of the mouth of a man named David Lee.

There is a 35 year old case of jealousy working here.   At my first full-time radio job at WAVZ-AM, New Haven (The Lucky 13!), an L.A.-based consultant had to approve my news shift change from overnights to mornings.  I knew my voice wouldn’t pass muster.  But disc jockey/techno-wizard Pete (Stone) Salant took one of my tapes, ran it through a magic machine (I never understood the technical stuff) which knocked the voice down a few octaves, and I was morning-drive bound.  Pete now does this for a living.

My own voice has sufficed since then.

But there is no voice like The Voice.

for Nanci



After thirty,
no one takes love seriously

anymore—
if you speak of surrender

your friends will only warn you

to hold on to your scorecard,
to calculate giving
and ration it out
into prudent parcels

like the mutual funds
on your bank statement—
to always think
about what makes sense,
to never pick up the ball

unless it falls in your court;

to keep your words

short and sweet,

sharing only the skin
on the milk of your heart.

But you understood

that this is not love at all,

after thirty or any time:

dreamer, friend, 

partner in crimes of passion.


In a mirrored apartment

that your father bequeathed

to you after his murder
I escaped the world,

skyrise-high 

above the East River

and the bleached ribs
of the Whitestone bridge

where seagulls lazily played
in the panoramic blue
outside your picture window.

We savored meals 
of dreams and secrets:

hiding in bookstores,
swimming in crystal blue
of chlorinated pools,

wandering Manhattan streets,

returning to commune
at a glass table

that captured the glow

of sun and streetlights

from brunch to midnight

when the moon would rise 

like a brooch 

above a city, sparkling
like a sequined evening gown—
and we’d watch the sky:

silent snow, pane-shuddering rain,

airplanes passing like thoughts
as we spoke of love

and love’s absence—
savoring both equally

as you stroked your black cat.

It was always just us,

alone in our secrets

and fragrant fantasies

that sustained us endlessly

as we chose our next adventure:
the monk I loved silently

who’d sent us gifts of rambutans

he’d climbed a wall to steal,

sleeping peacefully between us
with cherub breath

as your Barry White bed
with its sheets of purple satin

snickered in chaste irony
and we yawned like sleepy sphinxes
under alabaster nudes
that your father left in his wake—
vague ladies in dim tracklight

combing their hair, gazing in pools
like pallid sentinels of Venus.



You were never afraid of death,

only of dying young
without having tasted enough of life—

so you kept your suitcase ready
for my calls:

restless road trips
through forests, castles

and Francophone hearts,
full with tea and risotto,

seated high on window ledges—
damp with the blood of tattoos,
asleep in yogic peace
in blue attics—



and returning home to your sanctuary

where a letter awaited you from Italy:

a man we both knew was all wrong,

but his letters were so pretty.

I understood this, and loved you for it.



So it is you I seek now—
relisher of my secrets,

gourmet of intrigue,

weaver of intricate tales.

It is you who will understand

and just listen

to all my heart holds inside.
It’s you who will let my story breathe,

give it a name, 

honor it

for the mystery it is. 



I love you for for knowing

that passion is complex

and not about obtaining;
it is a story to be told,

tasted over and over—

a gift to be unwrapped
in breathless suspense—

whether or not
its color was what you asked for.

©Sarah Noack 2007

Per farmi perdonare del recente periodo di assenza , vi regalo una delle scene più esilaranti di una serie TV mitica: Ally McBeal.

Il pezzo naturamente è il celeberrimo successo di Barry White che fa da sottofondo al fantastico ballo di John Cage. A voi.

נתחיל שוב; מה שהכי חשוב זה סדר ושיטתיות ואם אין את התכונות האלו צריך לפתח אותם תוך כדי שימוש בתכונות אחרות שיש. ויש תכונות..למשל; למה אתה פה, מה מביא אותך לנסות ללמוד מכשירים שרוב משתמשיהם הרבה יותר צעירים ממך? הנה שעורי הבית לשבוע הבא: להכין רשימה של הסיבות שבגללן באת ללמוד. מה צריך לעשות כדי לכתוב את הרשימה: לפתוח את המחשב? לא, כי הוא תמיד פתוח שם בחדר. למצוא את תוכנת וורד. איך נראה הסמל שלה? W מהמילה WORD. ועכשיו. מה הן שתי דרכי הפעולה לפתוח את וורד

Fonte: “lasicilia.it“

Giuseppe Attardi
Quanto è lunga la strada che da Catania porta ai vertici delle classifiche di mezzo mondo? Lunga, lunghissima. Lo sa bene Mario Ranno, in arte Biondi, in omaggio al nome d’arte del padre Stefano, anche lui cantante. «Mi ha trasmesso la passione per il blues e il soul degli anni Sessanta – ricorda – Vinse il festival della canzone siciliana, un suo pezzo è diventato la canzone ufficiale di Catania. Anche mia nonna cantava, alla Eiar. Mi imboccava con pappe e canzoni anni Cinquanta: Benny Goodman, Fred Buscaglione». Poi la gavetta nei pianobar, come apripista al “Tout Va” di Taormina per Fred Bongusto o Ray Charles: «E’ stata una grande fatica fisica, ogni sera scaricavamo gli strumenti e l’amplificazione, facevamo tutto dall’inizio alla fine. E ancora oggi, ai miei concerti, mi presento molto prima di tutti, seguo il montaggio, attacco le spie… Al “Tout Va” ho imparato il reale valore delle cose, anche quelle considerate marginali. Quell’esperienza mi ha insegnato tanto: avevo 17 anni, l’età in cui assorbi tutto come una spugna».

Mario Biondi ascoltava Al Jarreau, Isaac Hayes, Lou Rawls, Bill Withers, Michael McDonald, e modellava una voce alla Barry White, già da allora, molto prima che un dj della Bbc trasmettesse This is what you are trasformandolo in un tormentone jazz e che il cd Handful of soul e il successivo Live raccogliessero tre dischi di platino con oltre 300.000 copie vendute in tutto il mondo. Adesso, a cinque anni dall’esordio discografico, torna con un nuovo album, If, e 15 brani, 11 inediti e 4 cover, che partono da una già considerevole base di partenza di 70.000 copie vendute in prevendita, equivalente a un primo disco di platino. «Che è importante per uno che non è diventato miliardario come Michael Bublè, ma che rischia di rimetterci tutto», tiene a sottolineare. Già, perché la voce nera di Sicilia ha voluto salvaguardare la sua indipendenza, non ha ceduto al richiamo delle Major ed ha accettato l’invito di Renato Zero di far parte della nuova etichetta “Tattica”. «Dopo il successo, c’era la fila di produttori, arrangiatori, manager alla mia porta. Mi cassiarai – ride – Entrai in confusione. Renato Zero mi ha convinto a contare solo sul mio istinto. Così ho chiamato i musicisti con cui volevo suonare, da Jacqués Morelenbaum al violoncello a Michael Baker, batterista di Whitney Houston, e poi Sonny Thompson, bassista di Prince, e Giovanni Baglioni. Ho scelto io gli arrangiatori, le canzoni, tutto».
Il risultato è davvero eccellente: una festa di suoni, mood, swing, dinamica, fiati, orchestrazioni. Un respiro sonoro internazionale, che spazia dal nu-soul al jazz, dalle ballads al r’n'b, dal funk a Bacharach (autore di Something that was beautiful) ai ritmi sudamericani, fino ai richiami africani e a una versione scanzonata ed esotica di E se domani di Carlo Alberto Rossi, tradotta in I know it’s over: «Prima di registrarla – racconta – ho ascoltato tutte le versioni esistenti di questa canzone, ed erano tutte lente, strappalacrime, io ho voluto mettere un po’ di allegria con un po’ di Caraibi e di rock-steady, come fece il musicista hawaiano Israel Kamakawiwo con Over the rainbow».
In inglese tutte le canzoni, fatta eccezione per la conclusiva Bon de doer, in portoghese. Eppure Biondi non disdegna l’italiano, come accaduto nei duetti con Amalia Grè, Ornella Vanoni e Zero (sarà, invece, in inglese il cammeo registrato per il nuovo disco di Claudio Baglioni). «No, nessun tipo di preclusione, sono orgoglioso di essere italiano – precisa – Non ho alcuna remora a cantare in italiano, ma questo disco è la continuazione del discorso cominciato con Handful of Soul». In inglese sarà anche il cammeo registrato per il nuovo disco di Claudio Baglioni, mentre all’orizzonte si profila un duetto con Chaka Khan «che per me è un mito». Nel cassetto, però, l’artista conserva anche tanti brani in italiano «e non è detto che prima o poi non li tiri fuori, magari per darli a qualche giovane promessa del nostro Paese».
Biondi non nasconde l’obiettivo di mirare al mercato internazionale, dove è ormai molto popolare: «In Giappone, a parte il fatto d’incontrare catanesi di Tokio, è stato sorprendente sentire il pubblico fare il verso “sha-la-la-la” a This is what you are. In America sono molto incuriositi da un bianco italiano che fa musica nera. Anche in Europa le risposte sono ottime: in Francia la gente mi fermava, stupita per questo genere poco italiano, e mi diceva: “Ma come, non eravate il Paese della Pausini e di Ramazzotti? Adesso vi siete messi a fare i raffinati?”».
Una soddisfazione per Mario Biondi, 38 anni, sei figli, autodidatta. Come l’e-mail che gli arriva mentre parliamo al telefono. Il mittente è Bacharach, ha appena ascoltato il disco: «Mi dice che non vede l’ora di farlo conoscere ad alcuni suoi amici importanti, perché ci fa una “bella comparsa”», traduce in siciliano Mario Biondi. If esce domani in Italia, tour tra marzo e aprile.

Har du ett barn som mest sitter hemma och äter frallor och spelar Super Maria Bros hela dagarna? Tycker du att ditt barn behöver en sundare hobby? Att kasta dvärgar är både moraliskt tveksamt och en hobby som kräver mycket kontakter. Du behöver först och främst en dvärg. Redan där sållas många intresserade barn bort och börjar spela innebandy eller samla på tändstickor istället. I en undersökning gjord av Riksidrottsförbundet var dvärgkastning den absolut dyraste sporten tätt följd av ishockey och ridsport. Men hur ska man då göra om man har en något ansträngd ekonomi men ändå vill ge sitt barn en utmanande och utmattande hobby? Om ditt barn kommer hem efter skolan en dag, med munnen full av fralla, och berättar att han/hon vill kasta småväxta personer så långt som möjligt. Alla andra i klassen får göra det. Är vi fattiga? Var kommer barn ifrån? Om ni dör får jag bo på barnhem då? Varför finns det elaka människor? Vad svarar du? Låt oss på djurtube ge dig en hjälpande hand. Nu finns det nämligen ett alternativ och det är tjejkastning. Man kastar helt enkelt tjejer på olika sätt och gärna då till fantastik bra musik. Här är ett exempel.

Ed Nelson ska egentligen vara Earl Nelson. Huruvida det är ett smeknamn eller om upphovsmannen till videon är en pajas låter vi vara osagt. Tillsammans med Bobby Byrd blev han Bob & Earl och gjorde några riktiga dängor. Bland annat Harlem Shuffle som Stones senare gjorde profit på. På Harlem Shuffle ackompanjeras de även av Barry White som var  rundlagd redan då. Tjock alltså. Och antagligen glad.

/nicklas

This is probably going to sound enormously lame, but this next post was written due to inspiration generated from the new Young Soul Rebels War Child song, the cover of The Killers I Got Soul. Feel slightly out of perspective considering this song is about children dying in war, and listening to lyrics makes events of my life laughable in comparison.

Now I’m listening to Groove Armada’s Purple Haze, amazing song with a slight excerpt of the Hendrix classic. Listening to music I love always makes me think about the people who created it – how did they do it? How did they go and just make music? They just DID, is how.

Reading the last 8 or so posts of what’s been this arduous dedication to what I’ve probably conveyed as the hardest, most dramatic, most unique, most astounding problem ever known to any woman or man, I can’t help but thinking about what I have created.

What have I created?

A lot of HOT AIR. A lot of HOT AIR and WHINING.

I have the accent for whining. I’m an Australian. An Australian girl with a particularly whiny voice which incidentally, some people earmark as phone-sexy (I have no idea who or what would label my voice in such a way. May he rest in peace, but it’s like suggesting Steve Irwin was the modern-day Barry White). But just because I have the accent for it, it does not under any circumstances give me the license to do it incessantly.

So I screwed around with a married guy, dumped my ex-boyfriend, and married guy’s wife had a baby. And because I’m a human and not an engineered machine, I ended up with a few feelings so I screwed around a bit more. I’m sorry, is there are actually room in the already bursting-at-seams-extramarital-affair-participant club, or will I need to join the year long waiting list?

My point is (I finally have one) – for the love of god, who cares? Nobody else, that’s for sure, and it’s high time that I didn’t either. There are people out there with actual, tangible problems, and while I’m not saying the last year of my life has been problem free, it’s all about the context.

Today, whilst filling a basket with 46 quid worth of shoes and various stockings and tights in Primark, I thought about lifestyles. I looked in the mirror while I twirled around trying on my now new pair of corporate-pencil-skirt-matching red stiletto heels (which I will wear to the office – I’m sorry, but I never volunteered for the job of making life any easier for married people), and imagined telling my sordid tale to the 13-year-old child who sat in a crowded, sweaty, smelly warehouse making these shoes.

‘Well, you see, there’s a man and… and he sort of kissed me and then you know, went back to his wife and I didn’t like that, and then you know, I might have sent him this text message and then his wife-’

‘Yeah, I have a family of five, including my parents, to support with my 5p equivalent daily wage and I’ve been working for thirteen hours. When my shift ends I’m going to go home and tend to my sick little brother and try and find enough food to feed the rest of us tonight. You were saying?’

I’m not saying the wealthy Western world should feel guilty about feeling the way we do about certain situations and events in our lives (about, about). We’re humans and humans have feelings, it’s both a fortunate and unfortunate element of our make-up (genetic, not cosmetic). It’s just sometimes – well, really, all I’m trying to say, if there’s anyone reading this who’s also feeling covered by steel duvet’s weight’s worth of problems – it can help to jump outside your head for just a few minutes and think about the globe. Once you think about the globe, you can start making changes in your life to get yourself and those around you to where you’d all like to be.

Currently, I’m listening to one of my favourite songs (Groove Armada’s Lightsonic – yes, I’ve worked my way through the album during this post), I’m looking at my new boots and red heels with a secret kind of glee (I’m sorry, but my SSS will understand -  once a stirrer, always a stirrer), and I’m waiting on a call for a new job which I’m 90% sure I’ll get. It doesn’t sound like much, but I think, as the beginning of my recovery phase, that’s a good start for tonight.

This is the kind of news I read that creates one of those ‘?$%@!!’ type reactions. I’m not sure how to feel, which is why I leave it up to you guys to help me in this one.

First love: Music. (Pretty obvious)

Sports love: Futbol aka “soccer” to the U.S. folk.

When the powers combine, in the form of Cristiano Ronaldo and Barry White… well I just DON’T KNOW.

See for yourself here.

alyssa estrada,

anenews

There’s been a big influx in people heading over to uStream to broadcast, being drawn to the openness, opportunity to try experiment and, despite the barrier of a screen, intimacy that the medium offers, more here. Last night Elijah and Skilliam aka Butterz jumped on it for what turned into a massive session. If you want a glimpse of where grime is right now in ‘09 then this it. New music from Starkey, SRC, Terror Danjah, Maniac along with loads more, didn’t you know Barry White and MJ are big in Bow?

Elijah and Skilliam – ButterzTV 22/10

Mai tineti minte scena asta? Sau alea in care Ally McBeal tipa “I object!”? Dupa Dallas, serialul asta mi-a marcat copilaria – bine, nu eram chiar asa de mica

Hey, it’s cold outside! You need some warm basslines to heat you up. Here’s a short  vinyl mix I did a while ago, focused on the similarities between Fusion Jazz and Hip Hop Instrumentals. You dig Hip Hop and Jazz as we do, don’t you?

45 King (right) with Lakim Shabazz and MaceoParker

Similarly to my previous mix, I tried to put together a sequence of smooth tunes that sound good together (at least to me), and tried to create an atmosphere out of it. The Lowest Common Denominator is having a warm and deep bassline, somehow Lowend-Theory-sounding, you know what i mean, we all love that sound.

You got some Fusion Jazz originals represented by virtuosos like Stanley Clarke (who provides a really cool intro if you ask me), Miroslav Vitous and german band Passport, some 90’s Hip Hop classic instrumentals, a classic UBB tune by Bo Diddley (really nasty drums), an underrated track from Funkadalic followed by a great sampling of the same by none other than the 45 King.

Then you got some Barry White, a couple of crazy jazzy beats from the Wild Style soundtrack, a Tribe Called Quest break I took from a bootleg vinyl I bought in Paris many years ago (that’s when I discovered breaks albums…crazy), and the solemn El Michaels Affair banger “Glaciers Of Ice” to close the mix. Hope you enjoy it as I did making it. Peace.

Tracklist:

Stanley Clarke – Life Suite Part 1 [Atlantic, 1974]

Nas – The World Is Yours (Tip mix) – Instr. [Columbia, 1994]

Omniscence – Amazin – Instr. [UGC 2001]

Bo Diddley – Hit Or Miss [Street Beat]

Passport – Homunculus [Atlantic, 1974]

Wild Style OST – Gangbusters [Beyongolia, 1998]

Funkadelic – A Joyful Process [Westbound, 1971]

45 King – We Got The Funk [Tuff City, 1988]

Funk Master – You Can…. [Promo]

Black Moon – I Got Cha Opin – Instr. [Wreck, 1994]

Lords Of The Underground – Funky Child – Instr. [Pendulum, 1992]

Black Moon – Reality (Killing Every…) – Instr. [Wreck, 1994]

Wild Style OST – Jungle Beat – Gangbusters [Beyongolia, 1998]

Miroslav Vitous – Infinite Search [Atlantic, 1974]

Beats From A Tribe [Bootleg]

El Michaels Affair – Glaciers Of Ice [Truth & Soul, 2006]

Listen on the player above or download on Zshare:

Warm bass mix!

#213  Barry White > Let The Music Play
Sängkammarsoulens konung Barry White i ett av sina mest minnesvärda nummer. White, som tragiskt gick bort i juli 2003, var en fena på att komponera sovrumssoundtrack. Inte för inte kallades han också The Maestro eller The Walrus Of Love…

THE BANANA SPLITS!

The Banana Splits Show, first airing on U.S. TV from 1968 to 1970, stands as a kids’ TV show like no other.  What words can describe it?  30 minutes of joyous delirium?  Three times the Recommended Average Daily Dosage of 7am Psychedelia for the Under 10s?

Going into world-wide syndication from the early 70s onwards, The Banana Splits remains an icon of childhood experience for Generation X.  Most immediately remembered is the musical number that opened the show, the ‘Banana Splits Theme’, otherwise known as the ‘Tra-La-La Song’.  I’ve not met a Generation X-er who doesn’t join in the chant the instant they catch another hum its infantile ‘nursery rhyme’ lyric.  It’s pure joy.  Nothing else for it, click on the Youtube link below…

The Banana Splits Show is set in a clubhouse that never comes to order, populated by the ever confusticated club chairman ‘Fleagle’ (a beagle), Deep South-accented ‘Drooper’ (a lion), ‘Bingo’ (a hippy-bespectacled chimp and ‘funkiest’ of the group), and last but not least, ‘Snorky’ (a mute elephant and the group’s acknowledged ‘eccentric’).  Aptly for a kid’s show, everything they do is non-threateningly manic.  …Or manically non-threatening – I’m not rightly sure which.  In any case, each member of the Splits is pure benevolence.

One part of the show about which there is something indubitably threatening, however, is Danger Island.  Think Treasure Island on Drugs.  It’s in the classic tradition of the ‘Cliff Hanger’ serials, somehow grotesquely exciting, and none of the actors take it the slightest bit seriously.  (Pay close attention to the pie-fighting ‘natives’ in the following clip: These actors are clearly having the unrestrained time of their lives on camera!)

Like any self-respecting ‘gang’, The Banana Splits have their ‘rival’ gang: ‘The Sour Grapes Bunch’.  This rival gang is never seen but delivers a message every episode via a go-go dancing under-10 year-old, a different girl each time but always called ‘Charlie’.  One time, however, all the Charlies are seen at once, on the occasion of their ensemble performance of ‘Doin’ The Banana Split’ – a knock-out musical effort by a budding new Hollywood tunesmith… You may not recognize him by his voice here but it’s a very young Barry White ripping out a soul-rock gem reminiscent of Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Fire’.  (I’m not the only person on the planet who thinks it’s excellent: Listen to a pure audio version of this song at the end of this article…)

I’m still not sure whether I find this performance glorious or worrying.  All I know is, until the moment I first saw it, I was a normal, well-adjusted child…

Jonathan Harris

The Banana Splits was production company Hanna-Barbera’s attempt to merge live-action with animation.  This the show does, punctuated as it is by various rollicking adventure cartoons of the old school (The Three Musketeers, The Arabian Knights – featuring the voice of Jonathan Harris of Doctor Smith fame, Lost in Space).  But the show merges the ‘real’ with the animated on other levels as well: Most of the interior of the Banana Splits clubhouse is merely ‘drawn’ – i.e. a psychedelic Lion sits down on a chair but falls over as the chair is only painted on the wall.

All in all, The Banana Splits isn’t a thing of Brilliance…

It’s a kids’ show of great Sweetness.

Also of perfect Madness.

My sincere thanks to all featured Youtube contributors for helping keep the experience of The Banana Splits alive, also to Foxtel’s Boomerang channel where the show has been aired over the past few years.  Hopefully it still is.

To read another article by Justin, click on the link below…

“What If the Power Failed?” – Today’s Kids and their Virtual Fun.

„Nu plange pentru ca s-a terminat, zambeste pentru ca s-a intamplat” (Gabriel Jose Garcia Marquez)

‘I’ve heard people say that
Too much of anything is not good for you, baby…’ 

“What the fock is THAT?” I say pointing at a lump sitting on the dresser in my bedroom.

“It’s the stereo I  found,” my dear hubby says. “You know really I can’t believe that someone’s thrown it in the rubbish like that… all it needed was a friggin’ three cent amp!”

I’m irritated.

He looks very pleased with himself as he twiddles the knobs tenderly and gives it a good spray’n’wipe. 

“Oh no, But I don’t know about that…” 

And I guess he should be…   pleased with himself that is… 

I’ve never known anyone as handy with a screwdriver and soldering iron as he is.

He can open a toaster, a computer or the arse-end-of-the-dolly-that-wees and work out within seconds what’s wrong with it.

Then a minute later the guts are pulled out, tweaked, reinserted and VOILA!  it’s fixed.

It’s amazing.

But there’s a down side.

He’s really attracted to rubbish. 

Hang on!… That doesn’t paint me in a very nice light. I’ll just rephrase that. 

He’s really attracted to the art of “fixing things”.  

Don’t get me wrong…he’s not cheap or nasty…but he does effen-love-a-tight-arse-bargain. 

He is the Aldi to my David Jones.

It’s a constant source of annoyance for me, all that trolling through the cheap and nasty aisles of every freakin’ two dollar shop we come across… but most of all I dread the time of the year when it’s: Hard Waste Collection Week.

That’s when everybody puts their unwantables at the front of their houses- and on a designated day burly-beef-cake-council-men (traditionally in manky stained singlets) come and haul it all away.

That whole week I wait, wide eyed-petrified, wondering what pieces of useless garbage dear hubby, and his mini-me-accomplice-sidekick (aka the son) will haul home… 

This year I beg and I plead…please let’s throw out heaps of stuff and things and bits from our garage (otherwise known as the repository for everything other than the car) and he miraculously agrees!

>cue angels from heaven singing and playing harps< 

On collection day I walk out all excited…  and see… one single-paint-tin on the front lawn. 

And,

Inside my garage instead of lovely clear spaces is now an even bigger pile of junk.

This year’s collection of unwanted shit treasures seem to have a musical theme, there is:

a guitar,

a karaoke machine,

an electronic disco light ball (I fockin’ kid you not.)

a stereo

and possibly some other crappy-things lurking in the corners.

I tippy-toe sneak in and find him and Master 11 hunched over something, heads close together… tinkering away with their frankenstein creations and enjoying themselves immensely. 

How can I be angry about that? I think… and really… after all, it’s all  in the garage right? … what’s the harm?

But now it has crept into the bedroom…MY bedroom…  

“There’s many times that we’ve loved
We’ve shared love and made love
It doesn’t seem to me like it’s enough
There’s just not enough of it
There’s just not enough
Oh oh, babe…”

He stops fiddling with the stereo when he notices that I’m still standing there, arms crossed, perfectly still.

He looks at me and his eyes grow wide as he realises that I now resemble a character from myth and legend…

I can see him thinking…hmmm, oh yeah…what… was… her… name?  Snakes-for-hair-chick? The one who turns grown men into stone?? Oh shite yeah- MEDUSA! 

He knows he has some serious damage-control to do.

He leans in close, pulling out the big guns…

“You know,” he whispers, “… I just thought you’d like some… muuusac in the bedroom… mmm…” 

Music? In the bedroom?

Is he fockin’ insane??  We’ve been through this before , I like quiet…silence…a complete lack of digitised-audio in the bedroom. 

“Oh, some things I can’t get used to
No matter how I try”

 “Is THAT Barry White?” I say. 

“mmm… maybe…” he looks at me sheepishly. 

“FOOOOR-get it!” I say, clutching tightly to my resolve, furious with the junk and bleedin’ rubbish that is invading my bedroom and my house… “Just like the more you give, the more I want And baby, that’s no lie…”oh Barry… my oh my, you do have such a… “What kind of love is this that you’re givin’ me? ” deep…throbbing…voice….mmmm…rubbish Carla…don’t forget how much you hate the rubbishhh…. “Is it in your kiss or just because you’re sweet?’” and suddenly I’m all gushy and melty …“Girl, all I know is every time you’re here…”  and maybe even a little wobbly at the knees…

I feel the change, Somethin’ moves…”

and the last thing I remember… as my resolve buckles under that thick-husky-croon…is thinking …okay,well maybe music in the bedroom might not be so…

*sigh*

bad afterall…

“I scream your name…Do whatcha got to do…”