Sinister: absinth makes the heart grow fonder

[Stankin' Cooter]

My Treasures:

Last week, I was sitting at my desk, doing some work and listening to ‘The 
Fox in the Snow’. This, in itself, is not a particularly unusual thing, and 
certainly not post-worthy, by any stretch of even the most fevered 
imagination. The thing is, though, that my desk is in Australia, where it 
was mid-afternoon; the song was being played on a radio show hosted by a 
listee in Colorado, where it was late at night; and the song was requested 
by another listee phoning in from the UK, where it was very early morning 
indeed.

Even over the crackly, intermittent, low-bandwith audio stream, the song 
sounded pretty good.

Mandee: I’m a big fan of your work, and I’m at least halfway tempted to give 
you a call myself, if you’re in the habit of granting the musical requests 
of international callers. Plus, you know, it seems to be the done thing.

Ken: What on earth were you doing up at such an ungodly hour? And you sound 
nothing at all like Mojo Jojo, somewhat disappointingly.

Some considerable mention was made on Mandee’s show about Halloween. 
Unfortunately, we don’t really have Halloween here, being the third world 
and all. I remember being about 10 years old, and my older cousin suggesting 
that we go trick or treating, and get some STUFF! It sounded like a great 
idea. I like stuff. (I like things too, but they’re mostly made up of stuff 
anyway.) The problem was, though, that we were staying with family, at a 
little house in a small, sleepy country town, where a lot of the locals were 
somewhat out of touch.

We went to the door of one house, knocked, and a confused, elderly woman 
answered the door. Being something of a staunch traditionalist, I put the 
question ‘trick or treat?’ to her, and she responded with ‘neither, 
thankyou’, and slammed the door in our ham-fistedly made-up and otherwise 
decorated and/or disfigured faces. To be perfectly honest, we didn’t really 
know what it meant either, although my cousin had attempted to explain it.

As we wandered back down the path, to try the next house, the understandably 
confused woman reappeared at the door, holding something large in her hands, 
and yelled at us. Memory tells me that the object in her hands was almost 
certainly a shotgun, and that she pointed it at us in a threatening manner. 
Memory can be tricky, though, when it comes to warm childhood nights in late 
spring, spent wandering about strange places. Also, one of the houses was 
full of partying teenagers who thought it would be funny to give us some 
booze for a ‘treat’; that may have had something to do with it as well.

A few people have mentioned Sodastream recently. I had the distinct pleasure 
of seeing them play live not so long ago; it was a breathtaking experience 
which may have even prompted a post, if memory serves. They were giving out 
a three-song sampler of ‘The Hill For Company’, which I think I must have 
very nearly worn out in the time between the gig and the release of the 
album proper. I bought the album the moment it came out, and thankfully it 
proved to be every bit as spotless in its full-length form as it was as a 
sampler. I can’t possibly recommend it anything even remotely approaching 
strong enough terms.

It sometimes seems as if there are few advantages to living here, being a 
music obsessive. I pay through the nose for imports that I have to wait 
weeks for, and I’ll never see most of my favourite bands live. Being able to 
stroll down to the local, and have a band like this tie my stomach in a knot 
for a fiver in the back room, though, makes it all seem a bit more balanced, 
at least for a while. If they’re playing anywhere near you, please go and 
check them out; you’ll be gob-smacked, I promise.

The newly employed, though consistently inimitable Miss Madeleine of 
Leicester gave me an honourable mention. I’m not quite sure what on earth I 
could have possibly done to deserve such an accolade, but thanks ever so 
much all the same, m’dear. And, straight back at you, with a side order of 
congratulations, it should go without saying.

I’ll also take part of my fifteen minutes to welcome Australian Jen to the 
fold. I don’t know how we’ve made it this far without you.

Kirsten Kenyon said:

“…and then you wake up one morning to find frost on the ground and an angry 
mob of scary geese hissing at each other and doing their dirty business all 
over your backyard.”

If I thought that it was possible to wake up to find such a thing, I’d never 
sleep again. I actually may not be able to anyway, just at the thought of 
this. Add in a couple of cabbage patch kids, a Madness record and some long 
thin things that poke in your ear, and you’ve got my own personal hell, 
right there.

Autumn is my favourite season, but I can’t think of anything more terrifying 
that a mob of enraged, honking, great big crapping geese. I’m therefore 
pleased that it’s spring here, and that I’m in a part of the world with 
considerably lower levels of geese infestation.

I’ll leave it at that for today. I’m at the end of a five-day bender of what 
might perhaps be best described as Chu-ian proportions, by the sound of 
things, and I think that I’m probably at the end of my rope as well. I’m 
never drinking again. Hey! No chuckling up the back there!

Take nothing but the very best of care, and stay double baked, for extra 
crunch!

Bulk love,
     -David.

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