This Beautiful World

It's a beautiful world we live in,
It's a beautiful world we share,
Beautiful people everywhere,
The way they show they care!
It's a beautiful world, it's a beautiful world,
For you ... for you ... it's not for me!
Devo, 'Beautiful World'

Have had that song stuck in head of self for the past couple of days. Sarcasm quite biting for some reason. Degree to which people take what self says seriously quite scary of late. When did self become worthy person to seek approval from? It makes self feel like cut-rate Pat Morita. Which is itself utterly, utterly ridiculous, as self is sure you'll agree.

Anyway, anyone out there desperately wondering whether self approves of them should take advice of self and stop caring.

Have just read Maelkann's LiveJournal which was quite angsty. Still waters and all that. Should probably take issue with his incorrect but somewhat flattering perception that of us all, only self can play go. Three losses in last five games self has played are rather poor testament to that. Currently 'chasing' (HNG style) Chris Grubb, who comprehensively outplayed self in our last encounter despite a minimal number of captures on either side. Bizarre to end game with fifty less points of territory without self actually having lost anything significant.

Quite happy with practice of omitting self as subject in entries on page. Humourously clipped delivery results, like telegram out of P.G. Wodehouse novel or whangnot. Why dickens do it? Fun.

Self has made numerous fluttering mental notes to discuss content of Aaron's web-log with eponymous owner. Aforesaid notably brimming with angst of late. Fortunately lazy research indicates to self that non-selves have been doing job to extent. Self finds Rae's 'such a guy!' remark potentially accurate and potentially offensive. Self finds Rae's criticisms of angst in others risibly hypocritical. Self expects spirited defence with amusement.

Self should do 'something constructive' (anti-euphemism) today. ZAngband character of self died yesterday, self suspects it was a sign from nonexistent Gods relating to torpor of nonexistent soul of self. Self in dangerous humourously detached mode at present. Self beginning to suspect mood equals harbinger of metaphoric grisly doom. Ignore self, self is cracked in head.

Cocktails

The cocktail party organised by Leighton on Nicole (with help from Grubb and Paul) last Saturday was fun, if a little derelict. After a few hours of decreasingly sophisticated conversation and increasingly intoxicated behaviour about half a dozen people there wound up voiding their digestive tracts in various parts of Leighton's house. I am proud to say that I wasn't one of them, but I see no need for me to release their names to the public in any case. Other people have already done that for me!

First to pike was Jen, who seemed to fall asleep on Chas' arm about five minutes after she, Chas, Pam and Oliver walked in dressed up approximately to the eights (it would have been to the nines, guys, but Chas' bowtie ruined your hopes). Last to pike was roughly me, I think. At least, I didn't see anyone else awake when I went to sleep.

Funniest moment of the evening was probably Max throwing her drink on me for no apparent reason. My response was, of course, to throw my drink over her (like I'd back down from a clear-cut opportunity like that). This left her slightly more miffed than me, because (a) she cares more about her appearance than I do (oh, the vanity!) and (b) every item of clothing she was wearing was worth more than everything I was wearing put together. After this Anil walked up and punched me in the stomach because 'that's no way to treat a woman' and then spent most of the rest of the evening apologising to me because he hadn't seen the original drink-throwing incident. I note from Max's blog that he also thought it necessary to convince her that he was 'not a bad man', so I think we can safely say that he didn't get much else done.

Had the obligatory conversation with Anita to convince her that the fact I hadn't seen her for a couple of weeks didn't mean I hated her. I don't hate you, fool, although I doubt you read this page.

Chris Grubb is an amusing drunk. Whether he was amusing enough to compensate for both providing at least half the justification for throwing this party in the first place, and throwing up continually between the hours of one o'clock and three o'clock in the morning, is a matter for God to decide. But swapping shirts with Anita, jogging around the block in an effort to ease his intoxication, and moseying around with a hood over his eyes like some homeboy for half an hour was hilarious enough for me, anyway. Photos revealed in the aftermath that he may have spent some time clinging to Leighton's front drain pipe like a lemur, as well.

I sold my soul to Chris on Monday night for the price of a can of Coke. I may attempt to redeem it at a later date.

Fine Music

Went to a short classical guitar recital at WAPA (at least, that's where I think we were, some architecturally uninspired college of higher learning in Mt Lawley, anyway) with Pam around lunchtime yesterday. The music was beautiful enough. The performer (a chap called Graham Hall who Pam had thought beforehand was her jazz improvisation lecturer) had chosen some pieces which stretched his ability to the limit, and were admittedly pretty tough. There's no way I could ever achieve this guy's level of proficiency, and thus humility allowed me to forgive the few small errors he made. The music itself? The first section was half a dozen Renaissance lute pieces, ending in a saltarello which I used to play in a four part ensemble in year eight, and which this chap played solo. The second section was the best, a sonata by some composer called Manuel Ponce the fourth movement of which was my personal highlight. The third was some gimmicky contemporary piece which had a bit of frankly Tommy Emmanuel-ish guitar-as-percussion-instrument stylings in the middle, to wow the audience. I personally felt this was a bit of a cheap shot. But it would certainly be nice to have the 'chore' of attending compulsory lunchtime concerts every week instead of say, a couple of Databases lectures.

Basketball

The coffee served at Hungry Jack's is dashed unpleasant.

Spectated at the UCC basketball team's first outing last night. As I remarked, sitting on the sidelines, I think it's lovely that all the boys have found an activity where they can all be men together. The rest of the cheer squad comprised the McCutcheon sisters and Max, and these three decided that it'd be fun to write down everything I yelled out during the match. I quote:

Max: I'm so going to put all this in my blog.
Jen: No, because I'm going to put it in my blog!
Pam: I'm putting it in my LJ!

Anyway, I didn't actually say anything funny (except possibly the remark about the shapeliness of Chas' posterior) so I doubt much of it will make it online. After all, I have no sense of humour. But I was flattered that some people incorrectly thought that I did have one.

The match itself was fairly shambolic, with a promising start for the UCCsters let down by repeated turnovers, a marked lack of attacking options when the Comet from Cornwall (that'd be Kieron, folks) wasn't afield, and just overall suckiness. And since basketball isn't a contact sport, when you're behind you can't just start hitting the opposition as I used to when I played indoor soccer (before I wrecked my ankle doing it once too often).

Jen and I had a brief discussion about writing up the UCC team in Hattrick terminology, which went something like this:

Me: You know, I don't think any of them have any stats higher than 'disastrous'. Actually, Kieron might be an 'inadequate' scorer.
Jen: We really need something a bit stronger than 'disastrous' to describe their ability - perhaps 'catastrophic'?
Me: I think 'apocalyptic' would be more appropriate.

At one point during the evening I said some nasty, nasty things to Jen as part of a nasty, nasty joke, which I didn't mean. Anyway, I suspect I may have hurt her feelings slightly, especially since she thought that it was all part of some private joke about her that I had with Pam, which it wasn't. Anyway, Jen, I'm sorry for being such a horrible, evil man. I felt a bit guilty afterwards.