Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day
cleanskies

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Be Comforted Little Dog, Thou Too at the Resurrection Shall Have a Golden Tail

Mumble grumble suffering sausages. I twisted my little finger at a gig. I went down in a mosh and some tall guy decided it would be funny to pile on. And it was, kind of (more fun anyway than the definitely-old-enough-to-know-better guy running sorties from the wall to touch my breasts) but my hand was folded awkwardly under me and now I have a black-and-blue little finger. Is it on my right hand? Of course it is. I went to see The Damned, the first of two very family-orientated shows this weekend. I'm used to seeing the odd two-generation group at a gig, but since The Osbournes it's become practically compulsory to attend a certain sort of gig en famille so it was mum's leather bustier vs. son's mohawk all night. I'd not bothered to change into my black jeans, and between the denim and the short hair was expecting to feel a bit un-rockgoth, but as it turned out we were surrounded by podgy guys with uninteresting hair and beige t-shirts, so I fitted in about as well as I usually do. The gig was fun, though like a lot of old bands there's not a whole lot of voice left on the singer (Dave?) but I didn't care, I was revisiting those bits of the school disco where it was too dark to see and too loud to talk (yeah!) and staring at the stage thinking, Bloody Hell, it's Captain Sensible! And he's still wearing the same hat! In fact, the Captain mentioned the other family gig that weekend, his scathing comments crystallising my desire to go, but as it turned out we weren't organised enough to spend a lot of time at Oxford's dinky yet poptastic Party in the Park, and entirely missed the top of the bill, perhaps just as well for though we fetched up missing the Sugarbabes, we also avoided Atomic Kitten, Gareth Gates (who?) and (shudder) Darius. We weren't the only ones crossing genre lines, either -- the park had its share of sullen Children of Rock. Was there more black shapeless clothing and long scraggly hair in the park than the zodiac, or was it just a case of confounded expectations perverting my perception, making the goth intrusion in the park seem vast and the swelling the beige t-shirts until they filled the entire venue?

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On Saturday a very small collarless tortoiseshell kitten with a big fluffy tail came into the back garden and sat for a while outside the patio doors, mewing and chasing insects and doing all the other things cats do when they're doing the "I'm helpless, look after me!" thing. Eventually it went away, for I am hard-hearted! Yes I am! We did briefly consider taking it over to Jo's, but that would make her two cats mad and we couldn't have that. It was cuter than most of the kittens here, anyway, so I expect it'll find a home.

Fiction continues to melt into real life as The Invisible Man's method for monitoring his drug levels migrates to reality in this tale of tattooing diabetic rats.

And speaking of which, I also discovered (while looking for notable dates in September and yes for work reasons) what happens when philosophers and physicians go psychogeographical. "The 1th (Onthe pronounced "wunth") UK Conference on the Findations of Psycho-Physics will function as interference to the 11th UK Conference on the Foundations of Physics, with the aim of creating a state of entanglement." Mmmm, tangly.

Also, swans are dangerous, though not as dangerous as cars.
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