September 21st, 2009

She Just Smiled

Last weekend I had some people at my house for what we termed “International Beatles Rock Band Day.” As is easily surmised by the title, the day was all about playing Beatles Rock Band. The tricky part is that “International.” What made it international? I will tell you: having someone from another country/continent is what makes it international.

Brian, Angela & Josh (married!), Matt, and Carolyn were the out-of-town attendees, representing (in order) Albuquerque, NM; Jacksonville, FL; Chicago, IL; and Hurstbridge, VIC, Australia. So, Carolyn’s presence is what made it “International.”
We’ve all known each other for 4-5 years online, and I’ve met a couple of them before, but if you had told all of us 4 years ago that we’d ever get to meet Carolyn, we most likely wouldn’t have believed you. So when we found out she was coming to visit, we all freaked out and got really excited.
Until she mentioned the vegemite. As in, “When I come to the States, I am bringing vegemite and you are all going to try it.” We got a little nervous, but we were pretty sure that she’d never be able to get that stuff past Customs, so we felt safe.
When she arrived in-country a week before IBRBD, she announced that she had no problem getting it in the country and that we should all resign ourselves to our fate.
Sure enough, when everyone got here and were preparing for the start of IBRBD, she toasted up some bread and slapped some vegemite on it.
Now, I feel I must at this point say that I don’t mind the smell of skunk. I wouldn’t want it on me, but if I’m passing through a cloud of skunk smell as I’m driving somewhere, it does not horrify me. But you should know, dear reader, that the smell of vegemite horrified me. It was like the smell of stale bread, only with a lurking vengeance buried beneath the surface, waiting to strike, maim, and consume anyone who got within tentacle’s reach of it.
But I had promised I would try some, so I gamely accepted my corner of vegemite-infested toast and ate it. I could write you a thousand words as to my reaction, or I could just save you a lot of reading and show you:

It may be difficult to discern from the picture, but my twisted visage should somewhat convey a similar sentiment to Colonel Walter E. Kurtz‘s last words:

The horror… the horror.

May 19th, 2008

I Me Mine

I’m currently reading the book Service Included – I’m not entirely sure why, as I’m not a foodie even a little bit. I’d heard it mentioned somewhere and read an excerpt that I found intriguing, so I got it. It’s interesting enough, and an easy read, so I ought to be done with it soon.

The author is relating her experiences working at a high-class restaurant in New York, and I haven’t been able to put my finger on what’s been bugging me about it until just recently. It’s the same thing that’s always bothered me about autobiographical works: “I,” “me,” and “mine.” “I accomplished so much” and “I did a great job” and yada yada yada. It’s irritating.

I suscribe to the school of thought where I’d rather someone else tell me I did a good job than say it myself. If I say it myself, I rob anyone else of the chance to say it, and if I didn’t really do a good job, it just looks stupid to tell people I did.

I have no deep thoughts to add here, just realized what was bugging me and wanted to share. I’ll leave you with some George Harrison:

All through the day
I me mine
I me mine
I me mine

November 16th, 2006

Yoko? O, No.

Like most Beatles fans, I don’t have too many nice things to say about Yoko Ono. She broke up the band, man. Not cool. Very not cool. And she’s weird. Like, super-weird.

Recently, though, well…

Recently I’ve been listening to the soundtrack for the movie Rushmore. One of the songs on it is “Oh, Yoko” sung by John Lennon. He sings “In the middle of the night I call your name” and “in the middle of a shave” and other mundane times in a person’s normal day. She’s on his mind all the time. And it hit me – they were in love. No matter how weird they were or how “arty” or how whatever they were, they were in love.

John met her at a showing of her “work.” There was a ladder and John climbed it. On the ceiling above the ladder on a small card and in small type, there was a single word: “yes.” It intrigued him, and the ballad of John and Yoko spun out from there.

You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who wouldn’t say John and Yoko were perfect for each other. Two more strange people you won’t find anywhere. But that hasn’t stopped 30+ years of Beatles fans being mad at her, including me.

But I think I finally get it. No matter how much it changed his life or the lives around him, he was in love. I can respect that. I think I can almost forgive him, even.

Yoko’s still a wacko, though.