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I need to go through my collection of Facebook friends and delete the teenagers. My newsfeed often reads like this:

“I’m like, so depressed. Why does life suck so bad? :/ ”

“I hate boys, they’re all the same, I’m so sick of being messed around. You know that feeling you get when you see a boy you like but he’s with someone else? :’( ”

“Life is so hard, I’m going to have a fire by the beach on my own tonight”

Buhhhhhhhhh.

I’m pretty sure I saw Jack Black getting on a bus to Streatham this morning. He was wearing a grubby white t-shirt, jeans tucked into large, white socks, loafers, and was yelling “I got it, I got it!” while wrestling a buggy (hampered down with some sort of child) onto the bus. The reason why I doubted it was Jack Black was because he was getting on a bus (and the kid sortof threw me off) , but the fact he was kind of tubby and about my height made me feel more confident it was him. I wish he’d danced or something so I could have been positive it was indeed Jack Black.

I can’t get excited abut Avatar because all the stills I’ve seen just remind me of Delgo.
This, is Delgo:

You see what I mean?

There’s really no way to say this without embarrassing myself: I love rap music, and I have to fight the urge to dance as poorly as a dad listening to Justin Timberlake when I hear it. I don’t have to fight very hard, but still.
As is the case with plenty of non-ghettoian white kids, my healthy sense of admiration for the genre basically means that I feel empowered by lyrics that have absolutely nothing to do with my life experiences. My life is sufficiently far removed from violent altercations with cops, bad drug trips, bloody turf wars, loose women, or jeans that cost a months wages but I still feel engaged by rap. Even as I drive an economic car around the suburbs, deliberate between one kind of apple or another in Tesco’s, and walk to school without getting mugged for my trainers. Ridiculous, really.

If I were even half as obsessed with my sexuality as “MoHo’s” generally are, I’d be considered to be a right weirdo.

Here’s Andy:

He played:

• The Evening Sun
• This Town
• Long, Long Road
• Crystal Sparkles
• ‘Round the Bend
• My Train
• I’ll Be Your Mirror
• Coming Down the Mountain

Some of which will be on a five-track EP that Andy’s starting to record this week with Guy Randall, the same guy who recorded Andy’s dad’s album.

Here’s Joshua:

And here’s a chicken. (There was an assortment of taxidermified beasts at the show, funnily enough):

If it wouldn’t have offended family members, I would have eloped.

Call me a nuptial Scrooge but 80% of the weddings I have been to are bunk. They generally have more to do with eye-catching centerpieces, napkins that match the reception invitations, and staging events for photograph opportunities than the concept of recognising two peoples decisions to fuse paths and futures.

My sister-in-law Liz secured me a little shin-dig cart-horsing wedding paraphernalia around Sundance on Saturday.
I’m not exactly enthused by setting up for weddings, but the lure of money in exchange for honest work appealed to me and Liz totally did me a financial favour by getting me on board. Liz and the Bride had devised a wedding analagous to those seen in contemporary wedding magazines, complete with sushi chef for cocktail hour, Tiffany’s champagne flutes, and a bajillion votives. Taste aside, the abundance of luxury items (linens as quality as my wedding dress fabric, Tiffany’s cake cutters) turned my stomach – especially when I realized how much was going to waste (cherry blossom boughs that were axed for the one hour ceremony, floral arrangements that were perhaps barely noticed by guests who were stealing napkin rings… yes, I’m serious, guests were stealing napkin rings but that’s a different story). Having tried (and failed haha) to get into wedding planning once (I just can’t bring myself to care if the napkins match the invitations, if the table decorations are sufficiently stylish in their haphazardry, or if my ‘style’ is accurately reflected in my choice of décor accent items) I have a general reference of what rented linens, floral arrangements and all that cost. My subconscious automatically tallied a running total of Saturday’s wedding elements and presented my conscious with a neat bill, the total comparable to my annual salary three times over.

I’m not judging the bride for her budget or anything – she was a very poised and lovely girl. Neither am I criticising those who love design (I completely understand that there’s a lot of satisfaction to be had I creating something aesthetically pleasing). I’m just remarking upon the commercial nature of weddings these days and the waste that comes from what I see as ‘luxurious’ living. I’m not exactly in the hemp-tent camp on the issue of luxury, but I’d rather make a down-payment on a house than wear a designer wedding dress for six hours.

And while I’m on the topic of weddings, what exactly is the point of “bridals”? I had never heard of such an idea until I came to Utah. It’s as if the bride doesn’t want her guests to forget what she looks like. I don’t know if this is a Utah thing or an American thing, but it strikes me as strange. Maybe there’s some logical reason that I’m just not seeing, but I’m pretty confident it’s just an excuse for bride’s to get their Vogue on. Speaking of which, Emilie and I really took advantage of the luxury of the reception photobooth… I realized that I have a rather large repertoire of ugly faces I can pull with little provocation, but the minute someone really wants to take a picture of me and I’m meant to smile, I freeze up and either look really ticked, or manage to protrude a Turtle Lip. It’s really unattractive.