Regina Spektor

Last night we went to the Esplanade Theatre to see Regina Spektor perform. It's a much nicer venue than the Marina Bay Sands, where we saw Wicked; although there's a lot of seats, the auditorium goes up, rather than back, so you don't feel so isolated from the performers if you haven't purchase front row tickets.
On the other hand, the seats were made for Munchkins; anyone my height or above is going to have horrible trouble standing up again afterwards.

EMP in Seattle

Today we drove to Seattle and visited the EMP, the Experience Music Project, near the Space Needle. It's a beautiful building, but the contents are a bit odd.

Musical Toilets

They keep playing inappropriate music in the toilets at the office. A few days ago I was hunkered down in the thunderbox when I realised my activities were being soundtracked by A-ha's theme to The Living Daylights. Today I found myself being serenaded by Robert Palmer. There are many things a toilet may be, but if it's simply irresistible then I think you're probably leaving it a bit late before you go.

Zombie Christmas

Yesterday, wandering though Lane Crawford (Selfridges for those of us who can't afford to fly back to London from Hong Kong to do a bit of tasteful yet insanely OTT designer shopping) I spied a Christmas CD by Emmy The Great. It's incredible.

Musical toilets

This evening I met a friend for drinks at the Westin in Bellevue.  He's down for the day to talk technology with some people nearby, so as I've just travelled several thousand miles, it seemed to make sense to catch up.  However, as I'd been out for the evening already, I was in need of a swift visit to the euphemism to unload my sorrows.

Great! Depressed!

Sakert, the Swedish-speaking simulacrum of Hello Saferide, has rerecorded songs from her first album in Swedish, in English. Confused? I was...

Drunk on Friday night

And back in the room... I left the office at 6 this evening for a quick drink before dinner, and recovered consciousness standing in HMV in Causeway Bay, listening to Lady Gaga trying to be controversial - it's hard to figure out if I'm plastered, or not paying attention to the Pet Shop Boys, or if this is real life.

Questionably drunk

Tonight I went to a quiz night, the first time in at least a decade. It was an odd affair: in a darkened room hidden on the first floor of a building in Causeway Bay, with very cheap drinks and a very complicated door, which meant although it was easy to get drunk in, it was hard to get out of. A bit like a land war in Asia.

Running in Hong Kong: California Fitness

Back from Bangkok, and back to the gym. Compared to the gym, the Khaosan Road seems fairly civilised; it might be full of people on their gap yah, complete with fake dreadlocks and youthful idiocy, but there isn't the sound of overheated techno and madmen bleeding through from an aerobics studio.

It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing

Preparing for tonight's show at Takeout Comedy, I sat in the Starbucks up the street and stared out the window, hoping to calm my brain by looking at nothing. Instead I was bemused by what I could see.

Rehearsal

After yesterday's exciting day at (somebody else's) office, I wasn't sure how I could ever climb to those dizzying heights again. Was there any way I could bring back the adrenaline?

Looking down on Vancouver

Canadians are very mellow people, but they all love rubbishy hip-hop from two decades ago, which is why they named one of the mountains overlooking the North Shore after Cypress Hill.  People said they were insane in the brain to do so, but there was nothing stopping them.

Bagpipes and heartlessness

Ever since the End Of The World (Financial Edition) in 2008, there have been clumps of old people gathered outside banks, complaining that they were mis-sold risky investments, and lost their life savings as a result. This being Hong Kong, their protests consist of them playing terrible music through a tinny loudspeaker, while the heartless workers stride past ignoring them, and a group of bored looking security guards stand around ensuring that they don't get in the way of the efficient running of the banks. Nothing much has been done to compensate these people, and because they literally have nothing better to do, they continue to stand outside the banks, holding up their placards and being ignored.

Waiting for Slash

I'm in a large black room with all the ambience of an aircraft carrier, listening to five dad rockers playing what sounds like the inside of Bryan Adam's head after one portion of poteen too many. Well, it started with the intro to Summer of 69, and the chorus is Help by the Beatles, but it doesn't really matter what this quintet of receding-hairline metallers do; everyone is really waiting for The Slash to come onstage.

Podcast #2

This evening Gary and I recorded our second podcast: 25 minutes of blethering about whether rats are worse than snakes, needless swearing and my terrible impression of a fitness coach with a hacking cough. There'll be a link to it as soon as Gary has worked his technical wizardry.  Or deleted the file.

Brian Eno - MGMT

So after watching a five-year-old film with very few redeeming qualities, I'm trying to bring myself up to date by listening to Congratulations, MGMT's new CD, and the track 'Brian Eno'.

Terrified of Luke Haines / Eleven Minutes Late

I'm sat alone in my flat, ruddy petrified at the noise coming from my television, yet finding it laughable at the same time. Or perhaps it's just the onset of hysteria. Yes, I'm listening to Luke Haines' The Great Brain Robbery again, from his 21st Century Man album, and the combination of Haines' intimidating, hate-spitting voice and the constant buzz of the electricity transformer that he's recruited as a musical instrument, makes me feel like my head is trapped in a box of pure evil vitriol. And 1990s Brit-art. And the fact that I could turn it off whenever I like, but don't, adds a delicious absurdity to it all.

It's rather like when you listen to Slayer's Decade of Aggression live album, and the CD comes to an end, and you suddenly find yourself relaxing now that the horrible, horrible noise has stopped.

Or, more prosaically, like the great feeling you get when you stop hitting yourself on the head with a hammer. But, er, in a good way.

Finding things out

For the last two weeks I've been searching in vain for my ipod.  I looked in all my many bags, under all the rubbish on my desk at work, under every pile of post and books and DVDs on the table in my flat.  No luck.  I've been troubled by this loss, deprived of my best means of ignoring the world while on public transport.  Luckily nobody has tried to talk to me in the last two weeks, but without the sonic screen of NWA on constant repeat, it was only a matter of time before I'd have to interact with something other than myself.

I don't wanna miss a thing

There are times when I feel totally ashamed of myself.  There are other times, when I feel a kind of meta-shame - a nagging feeling that I should be filled with shame, yet I'm incapable of doing so.  Or I'm actually proud of what I'm doing.  Perhaps this actually evinces proof of growing maturity - that I can be pleased with what I do without worrying about what other people think of me, or of conforming to notions of proper behaviour should be.

But it's hard to hold to that view when the thing you should be ashamed of is listening to 'Don't Want To Miss A Thing' by Aerosmith.  Or rather, an American Idol cover version of that song.  On Youtube.  Played through the tinny speakers of my msi Wind netbook.  Which, coincidentally, provides the perfect sonic simulation of a crappy transistor radio, which is somehow the perfect way to enjoy this over-the-top, middle-of-the-road, straight-down-the-line guff.  Music it's hardly worth mixing cliches over, let alone metaphors.

But it's hardly my fault.  Before you criticise me, you read The Corner, and then tell me I don't need cheering up with the highest saturated fat comfort food for the soul that Steven Tyler could devise.

Realism is not always good policy

I'm gradually making my way through the haul of books, DVDs and CDs that I purchased in London.  Probably foremost amongst those has been Realism, the [almost brand] new Magnetic Fields album.  I've been keen on the Magnetic Fields since I watched the last episode of season one of The Shield, which is a strange way to come to find a quirky singer-songwriter considering romantic misadventures.  But then what isn't romantic about seeing a bald-headed Angryman* charging around in despair, to the sound of "All My Little Words"?