I Am Everyday People

I'm thinking I'll just take the blog back to rambling about everyday crap that happens to me. Recently I've been far too interested in writing highly polished and clever pieces in an attempt to try and impress people who have no interest in being impressed with me. Everyone has a blog these days, Grant. People both in power and otherwise will not find it extraordinary. Remember at the Love Is All show when that girl said to you "You must really like the band to be right down the front" and you responded with "I just want to get some good photos for my blog", remember that? She didn't raise her eyebrow because she was intrigued that you would have a blog, she was repelled by the fact that you would announce so proudly you had something so common as a blog.

So I'm on the couch supposedly writing an essay. Cathy's in the kitchen cooking up something that smells unappealing. The cat is killing birds like he works at a poultry farm, I had to vacuum up all the feathers this morning. And a dark wind blows...

I was considering developing a crush on Marieke Hardy after she declared herself a former Fitzroy supporter in The Age this morning. However after the mention of this "handsome bass player" in her article, I became suspicious of her. Her profile on her blog lists an number of unsavoury bands that she is into, and one can only assume that this "bass player" is in a band of a similar ilk. This is a problem for two reasons. Firstly, 87% of guys who form bands only do so because they know "chicks love it". And secondly, guys in rock bands are really just rugby players minus the ability to throw (or whatever supposed skill rugby players are meant to possess). Marieke's inability to recognise these two obvious facts immediately disqualifies her from being potential relationship material (imaginary or otherwise).

Presently I'm being seduced by the blue-lit electro-pop of Hamilton, Ontario's very own Junior Boys. Jeremy Greenspan's sensitive white-boy vocal stylings invoke a genuine guy who can't quite find a way out of the seedy life he's found himself leading. This is music for late-night winter train travel, for the underpass at Richmond station or for 5am in Little Bourke Street when you're looking for some opium. Not that I do a lot of the latter, but one can imagine.