When I was a kid I used to be hooked on Lemon’n’Lime Tangy chew bars, purchased from the leisure centre vending machine for 5p each. Chewing a Tangy was somewhat like sucking down a cup full of sulphuric acid, but in a good way. 50p would buy 10 Tangy’s and I could happily sit and eat them all one after the other, and then deal with the inevitable stomach ache and dyed green tongue.
Fast forward half a life time and my tastes have certainly changed. The idea of eating even one Tangy now strikes fear into my heart and into my teeth. How did I ever eat these things, and enjoy them?
I have a similar feeling when I look at MySpace. If we’d had such a thing when I was a swaggering teenager I’d probably have loved it, but these days I recoil in horror from the garish, noisy, shoddily designed crassness of the whole thing. I spent the last hour looking for a resonably understated theme for MySpace, and then gave up with exasperation. Why bother. If I’m going to be forced to hang out in Mr Murdochs sweetshop then I’m taking my Tangy with me.
Damien’s MySpace Travesty of Taste
My bad habit of not being able to pick just one book to read continues. At least they’re all fairly complimentary, so its not like try to suck on a sherbet lemon whilst chewing a toffee.
I thought I had liberated myself from my Haruki Murakami obsession when I gave away my newly purchased copy of Kafka on the Shore as a present. But just whe you think your out, he reels you back in. I’d only read the first two pages and they hadn’t grabbed me at the time, but for weeks now they’ve been popping back into my head with greater and greater intensity. What was it all about. So on the late Friday trip to Borders I caved and bought copy number 2.
Its been a week of multiple purchases as I also bought a second copy of The Curse of Chalion by Lois McMaster Bujold, having lost the first copy at the gym. This is an exceptionaly well crafted courtly fantasy that I picked up more out of curiosity about the author than the book, but I’ve been completely charmed by it.
And then there are the two little books of Ted Hughes poetry, Crow and his translation of Ovid’s metamorphoses that I’ve been carting around in my work bag for the last two weeks and picking at. I like Ted Hughes’ writing for having such an incredibly male presence, which I don’t find in poetry very often.