1812 Overture Adventures

I headed to the Australian National University’s Llewellyn Hall this afternoon for Strike Up The Band!, a harmony of pretty noises brought to me by the temporary convergence of the Canberra Symphony Orchestra and the Royal Military College (RMC) Band.

While orchestras and bands are not usually my piccolo - I’m more of a Bon Jovi circa 1980's type of gal - I was well impressed with their big band contraptions.

I ventured to this brassy shindig to fill the seat of my season-ticket holding mother, who was unable to make it on this occasion. There are so many rules at the symphony. There are the usual ones, like must wear clothes, no phone calls during the 1812 Overture, no getting up on stage to join the orchestra, blah, blah, blah.

But there are also big mobs of implicit rules. Non-negotiable implicit rule #1. Everyone must applaud incessantly throughout the performance, but must clap particularly gratuitously when the conductor enters stage left. And when he walks off the stage. And when he raises his hands. And when he scratches his arse. Some people need a Standing-O and a 21-gun salute just for turning up to work. Sheesh.

I do not know why this relentless applauding needs to happen, seeing as his presence and energetic hand waving seem largely symbolic. I’ll eat my trombone if the orchestra do not know their shit backwards.

Speaking of trombones, I used to play that apparatus in high school for lame music appreciation class. I guess all that appreciatin’ didn’t rub off on me, because I quite liked Atomic Kitten in their heyday. Playing the trombone is like trying to blow through the exhaust pipe of a small car while balancing it on your thigh.

But my sister told me she remembers my home practice sessions very, very well so I must have been quite marvellous at it. All I remember is being the last person to pick an instrument for the school term and spending the whole class every week trying to find new places to put all the spittle.

My favourite bit of today's performance came with the 1812 Overture, with a gigantic cannon firing blanks into the crowd. It was incredible. At least it would have been had it happened. In reality, they engaged the services of a cannon sound machine. How cool is that?  Overall, I did not fall asleep even once, and that is impressive.

#annoyingasfek

What’s up with the popularity of Instagram?  I understand that people want to flaunt pictures of their cat's poo or their tasty spaghetti bolognese dinner to the world; really I do.  I adore cat poo and I’ve eaten food on at least one occasion.  But what’s with the hashtags?  This is exactly the type of thing that's wrong with the Western world.  Not the main thing wrong with the West – that’s undoubtedly the Kardashian clan – but one more fucking thing.

Excessive, pompous, narcissism disguised as sarcasm hashtagging is fucking annoying.  In fact it's so fucking annoying it's #fuckingannoying.  I get it - people are trying to be clever.  And sometimes it is, but mostly it's not.  Why do people hashtag their cat so other users can see their picture of a #cutecat amongst millions of other #cutecats? I don't know either, friend, I just don't know.

If you want to keep a log of your lives, write a sentence about it.  A beautifully constructed sentence conveys more meaning and evokes more memories than a single word ever could.  That's what me thinks anyways.  Here's why I hate on hashtags.

I've been a prolific writer since the day I was borned.  It was a bit difficult to lift a pen in those first few hours, but where there's a will there's a Middleton, and all that.  Sentences are my friend.  We is like best buds.

And I just think if you have time to put twenty hashtags on a photo to describe what you think other people are too fucking stupid to see for themselves, then you have time to construct a bewitching, lingering sentence.  I love words as well, but generally without hashtags interrupting my flow, man.  I find that where there are sentences on Instagram, there are no spaces between the words.  This shit is messing with my head.

The hashtag craze was presumably invented by someone who didn’t learn how to construct a sentence in school and still can't figure it out.  Maybe it's just my personal preference, but I don't want to live in a dumbed down world of hashtags. 

Mobile phone drone

I had a conversation with a youth today, although I'm not very savvy with ages so Bob (not her real name) could have been anywhere between the ages of 8 to 22. The youth tend to identify themselves to me by being despairingly naive and idealistic about the fate of the world, usually self righteous, often entitled, and just overwhelmingly youthful, which is irritating.

I too cared about the fortunes of the world until I was approximately 23 years old. I have diaries and notebooks full of my political rantings and unbridled philosophising. I think I even believed in the prospect of world peace at some point. Aww, sah cute. At any rate, world peace is one of those things that sounds good in principle but is really not healthy for the economy.

Our conversation revolved around technology and how it needed to be kept up with, apparently. Bob is about to buy some new mobile telephone, called the iPhone something, and it’s going to cost Bob a fortune but Bob doesn’t care because Bob has to have it. I queried what was wrong with her current phone. Nothing was wrong with Bob’s current phone, even though she only bought it in April. But it’s not the latest version and it has to be the latest version or Bob’s head will spin on its axis and explode in humiliation and indignity.

I just don’t understand. I mean, what a fucking waste of money. Why do I even care? It’s none of my business how stupid people squander their wealth. My goodness, technology seems to be a bit of an addiction; like heroine or McDonald’s chicken nuggets.  So I referenced my hankering for the days when we didn’t have smart phones and this was met with a blank confused stare. I suppose Bob can’t even fathom a world without them. 

Sprinter from winter

I know that the weather was created by God to give boring people something to talk about, but I got more to say about that crazy little natural pheomenon. I didn’t get no break from wretched Canberra this winter, which I’m still dirty about.

All my work associates (I think ‘associates’ makes my line of work sound more interesting and meaningful) took the prime leave slots – which is anywhere from June to late July when Canberra is at its most frosty – so I had to hang around in the doom and gloom that is the national capital at that time of year.

So this week I’m booking some leave, which is of no interest to anyone but of enormous significance to me. For one month next June/July. Yes. I know I'll feel better when I have a get out of jail card. June 2014 is absolutely eons away, but I will be blimey happy that I gave myself an escape from the frostiness before all the other clowns at work book in.

I have a vague idea of where I want to go - back to the Mother Country, maybe - and an array of people to join in the fun - how hard is it to convince people to leave Canberra in winter? - but that is all inconsequential detail at this stage. What I do know is that if I have to spend another winter here I will need to be consigned to a mental health facility.

Apple Fools

Ah apples. They are so great, aren't they? I love apples.  If they and bananas and mangoes ever disappeared because of some post-apocalyptic nightmare scenario that only affects specific yellow and red and orange coloured fruit, I would be massively screwed because I just don't care for any other type of edible flowering plant except those ones.

So it's most fortuitous that I love pretty much every vegetable that's ever been born, except the ones that I loathe, most notably brussel sprouts. I mean, really.

Brussel sprouts are a member of the cabbage family, which certainly explains why they are so disgusting.  Worst family genes ever.  Anyway, back to apples.

I ate a royal gala for my post-lunch repast today.  It was really delicious and crunchy, except there were two stickers on my apple, and I don't really approve of my fruit being used as a platform for insidious promotion from fruit growers.

Individual stickers on apples are just annoying, because I just don't care where they come from and the sign above the fruit in the shop tells me what specific fruit I am purchasing.  Plus I have a brain and may be able to detect all by myself when a banana has accidently or deliberately been tossed into the royal galas.

Through the story of Adam and Eve, apples have become the symbol of knowledge, immortality, temptation and rampant advertising.  When Eve took the apple off the Forbidden Tree she probably had to peel off a fucking promotional sticker. I think I'm going to create tiny oval stickers of my face and put them all over Canberra.  Just because.

Stomp A Little

Still awake because of a head cold, and other crap that's going round and round in my head.  Shut up brain. Go to sleep.  Went to see the STOMP tonight in Canberra. Gosh they are good at what they do.

Apparently I'm one of the few people in the world who claim to never have seen it. STOMP is a blend of tap, contemporary dance, theatre, comedy performed by people who have big mobs of rhythm using pretty much any household items, including brooms, dustpans, shopping trolleys, newspapers, cigarette lighters, garbage bins, plastic bags, pipes, pots and pans, rubber tyres, coughing, clapping, finger clicking and literally the kitchen sink.

The performance was super slick but it was also gritty. Most of the performers aren't the polished tapdog-type of athlete, but more the Kingswood County-type of drinker.  It was also witty, and they made (but a few) mistakes, which just added to the attraction. If you create an environment where the audience perceives the performers as capable of self-deprication, watching them make mistakes reminds you how talented they are.

It's best not to go to these things with any tinge of a headache, because it won't end well for you.  A few things I gleaned from the performance. I now know why shopping trolleys never work; because the Stompers have had their hands on them.  Might write more when I feel better, which is not right now.

Whale Calling

Last weekend I headed down to my local awesome beach.  Sure, it's about a two-hour commute from my home, but it's worth it because there's sun and sea and sand and shells and many other things that start with the letter S.

Did the father's day thing with the father and the family and then went to a lookout to view beach things from up there.  It's always a good day for up.  It's coming into whale commuting season when the bus-sized mammals swim past the east coast of Australia to cooler waters, but I didn't expect to see any as I always seem to miss them.

But there were four of them! Four! Four adult Southern Right Whales! I was beside myself.  So exciting.  Watched them for ages as they tried to cool themselves down by lolling around and then foolishly drove back to Canberra because I have a job or whatever.  Now that it's almost whale season, I must follow through with my new obsession, which is whale stalking. Bermagui next I think. Yes.