Okay so I've been a little quiet lately. What with my freshly ended studies, my days are full of me playing my secret vice, drinking coffee, walking in the muggy British summertime air, painting portraits of bird women, and being on my own in a house I have to leave in six weeks.
So in other news:
Brian Eno doesn't know about the visualiser function with iTunes - and almost every other media player. 77 Million Paintings. Christ on a crutch. I sat long and hard trying to justify to myself why anyone would want to obtain his mad warez for £17.99 -- and I could not think of any reason other then it's Brian Eno's ambient tunes set to an abstract ever-shifting painting of digital light and blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. I think it's crap. Crap I say, crap.
Oh. I've become addicted to - sigh - TV on the internet. Specifically, the hospital drama House, which I am glad to see has 69 episodes of cynical, medical goodness. Man. I've seen so many hours of benign tumours and blood clots this week, paired with dry witticisms, I just don't know what to do with myself.
It's not really the type of show one should watch if they're, say, a hypochondriac -- but fuck yeah, it satisfies my sick fasination with awful, hard to figure out, weirdo diseases and disorders. There was a book that I was obsessed with when I was younger -- I feel that the title was simply 'Blood', and it was a bunch of real life case studies about stuff like ebola. The ebola one was my favourite one - it was like a mystery novel, but better. Medical thrillers; how grand.
And now, that God damned hippie Demian Rice has got me all like, listening to him. God. I had avoided liking him since 2002. What's up with that? Musicians who you dislike on principle, but whose music is actually good, so you end up liking them? Guh! Fucking feel good folk hippies - why must I enjoy your pathetic heartfelt music, like a gooshy History & Folklore major from a sappy Humanities college in Vermont. Bah humbug.
Must watch House. More blogging later.