I have just come to the conclusion that I am now well and truly ancient. Twenty-something whippersnappers won’t be able to relate to this, I am sure. Well! Without further ado, here is a list of things that excite me the MOST nowadays: (boyfriend excepted of course as is not thing)

• working out, yoga, cycling (I am thin and gorgeous!)
• making iTunes playlists with all singles by an artist in chronological order (anybody got the single mix of George Michael’s “Monkey”?)
• making iTunes playlists with “The Best Of” of the aforementioned artist, but cut down to 1CD length, often featuring non-singles (makes me feel like an A&R!)
• awaiting my new kitchen cupboards (to be delivered by IKEA next week hopefully)
• designing covers for my iTunes playlists (see the Roxette post not so long ago for an example)
• Vicar of Dibley (not much to add, really)
• going to Texel with my boyfriend (hint: Texel is not full of exciting nightclubs) (do youngsters still say “nightclubs”?) (does anyone still say “youngsters”?)
• the thoughts of food, in general (especially Indian, or Italian, or Mexican, or boyfriend’s cooking in general)
• Marian Keyes writing a new book (especially since “The Brightest Star in the Sky” is sooooooooooo good)
• Janet Jackson’s new Best Of (despite awful cover) even though I’ve already got both full Janet singles playlist and 1CD version (and, worse, 2CD version too JUST IN CASE)
• 27″ iMacs
• awaiting my new bicycle

That’s, um, it.

Now please forgive me while I go and put my teeth in a glass.

I have just finished the new Marian Keyes book, which made me laugh, cry, think and feel a lot of various emotions, some of which but not all could be contributed to my flu.

The book is thick. (Good thing.) The cover is gold with a pink star in the middle, which kind of identifies the audience rather closely; it is, most probably, gay men and women that will enjoy “The brightest star in the sky” most, and as ever, straight men lose a lot as it is the best book Marian has yet written. The cover will, sadly, ensure that the book is written off as “chick lit” despite the fact that Sophie Kinsella, Helen Fielding and the likes might, just might, get close to approaching Marian Keyes’ talent if they immediately move to the country to spend the next 30 years honing their craft.

Keyes, who started with a book about a woman whose husband leaves her on the day she gives birth and followed it with one about her own stint at rehab, has never shied away from difficult subjects. It takes quite a long time to discover what exactly is the problem that makes one of the couples pop antidepressants every morning; religion, workaholism and many others (which I am really really tempted to reveal but just CAN’T give you spoilers) are tackled, each of them in a manner that suggests lots of research and tact ? yet, never does the book go into the direction of easy sentimentalism or forcing out tears for the sake of it.

It is a book with a LOT of characters. This has become characteristic for Keyes a few books ago ? instead of focusing on one lead character, she will have ten of them, each of them with their own quirks and fancies. Lydia, who very closely resembles Helen Walsh, is my favourite (dear Marian, we’ll have a book about Helen Walsh next. Plskthxbai), but there are older people, younger people, men, women, couples falling in and out of love and lots of delicious sex. I’m not sure if the book warrants as many reads as I gave “Rachel’s Holiday” or “Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married”, but it definitely warrants a second, as it is written similarly to “Sixth Sense” ? it is only after you get close to finish that you realise WHAT exactly you have been reading about, and I can’t wait to see how that knowledge changes my perception.

I do have a bit of criticism, though. At the end of the book Marian thanks the Polish people that helped her with research. I am afraid they were not much help, to be honest. The two male characters refer to each other as Jan and Andrei. First of all, if a Polish person named Jan has a friend, there is no chance in hell that the friend will call them Jan ? it will be Janek or Jasiek. Second, perhaps the name has been changed for easier pronunciation by non-Polish readers, but we don’t actually have people called Andrei in Poland, it’s Andrzej. Similarly, there are no people called Palweski ? Palewski or Pawelski would do, Palweski is not a Polish name.

In fact the only time when a character in the book sounded like a paper silhouette and not an actual human being was when Andrei utters the sentence “Hard as it is for me, a Polish man, to understand, she doesn’t respect either of us.” And he is not even the one who has a poster of pope hanging over his bed.

I would go on and on about brilliance of the book, because it is absolutely worth it ? I may be anal about Polish names, but the fact that someone’s name is Andrei instead of Andrzej isn’t enough to ruin my intense enjoyment of over 600 pages of amazing writing ? it’s just that I am extremely tempted to give spoilers and I know I shouldn’t. So how about you just buy the book right now and read it yourself? It is wildly good. In fact, the only wish I have is that Marian could write as fast as I read, because waiting a year for the follow up isn’t really an option.

 1   1   7  THIS MOMENTARY
            Delphic
 2   2   5  ONLY LOVE CAN BREAK YOUR HEART (RICHARD X BETA VERSION)
            Saint Etienne
 3   3   3  SPLITTING THE ATOM
            Massive Attack
 4   5   4  A GIFT
            Basia
 5   !   1  SHE WOLF
            Shakira
 6   4   5  UPRISING
            Muse



 7   !   1  BODIES
            Robbie Williams
 8   6  13  BOX N' LOCKS
            Mpho
 9   !   1  SHE CAME ALONG
            Sharam feat. Kid Cudi
10  12   2  FRESH OUT THE OVEN
            Lola feat. Pitbull
 (more...)

I just had to post this picture here so that I don’t have to go to The Frisky to admire it every five minutes.

This is Andrew Wilson, brother of Owen and Luke. He is in some random movie right now. It doesn’t really matter. THERE SHOULD BE MORE MEN LIKE THIS IS ALL I AM SAYING DAMMIT.

Let’s analyse all the things he does right.

1. Beard. A thick, full, trimmed but not too trimmed beard. A sign of a real man if I ever saw one.

2. Long(ish) hair. Men had that hair in the middle ages. I know because I saw many movies like Lord of the Rings which are kind of like middle ages with magic rings and hobbits. Middle ages were sexy. True, they didn’t use too much soap or deo either, but hey, they were too busy killing, pillaging, being drunk and waving their swords for that. 21st century men (mostly) don’t spend time killing, pillaging and waving their swords, so they have loads and loads of spare time to take care of their luscious locks!

3. The lumberjack shirt. Well it is not totally a lumberjack shirt, but that’s better, because it’s not obvious in a Village-People-look-I’m-s0-macho way. It’s a hot lumberjackish shirt.

4. Is that a slightly hairy chest I see? YES IT IS.

Memo to all men: immediately print this picture, then spend the rest of your life trying to look like Andrew Wilson. Myself, I can’t type any more, am off to buy a new shirt.

I could die.

Those words reverb and echo in my head. It’s not that the accident I had was so major. It’s that I still believe I am immortal; that things like those (or like cancer, or like fire… etc.) happen to Other People. Yet there I was, flying through the air, hitting the ground, being shit scared of the speed with which my body, suddenly bike-less, moved over the pavement. And now here I am, with my palm bandaged, aching knee, leg and shoulder, and the words “I could die” in my head.

It’s not “I could have died”, because, well, I couldn’t, not really. Perhaps if I hit a tree or a car with my head, or if I broke my neck, but I wasn’t even close to doing that. There are relatively few bikers that actually die in accidents like this, and when they do it makes the papers; on the other side, accidents like mine are a daily occurence. No broken bones, nobody famous involved, not much blood other than my surface wound. It’s just the realisation, once again, that I go through life making plans, putting things away to do somewhere in the future, but really, next time I could be less lucky. There could not be much future to speak of. Maybe I have 50 years left. Maybe I have two weeks. And as for my plans, trust me, that accident wasn’t among them.

I have those plans to write books, to learn to draw, to go to dance classes. One day. Sometime in the future. When I’m better, smarter, when I have more time. Because I can wait. Right? Wrong. The bandage on my hand reminds me about it. Because I could have perhaps not died, but I could have broken my wrist in a way that would make sure I would never use that hand again. That wouldn’t make my drawing better. I could have also broken that leg, not bruised it, and that could have somewhat influenced my future dancing.

It was really hard to make myself step on the bike in the last two days. I looked at it, and I stepped away, and I stepped back towards it. I thought “I could take a tram”. Then I thought “But if I don’t bike today… will I do it tomorrow?” I had an easy excuse — I was all sore. But I knew, deep inside, it was an excuse. I had to do it. Not because a tram costs money, because I have to wait for it or for any other reasons. I had to jump into the future. And I have to do it again, be it my future in writing, dancing or drawing. And I have to do it soon; perhaps as soon as the bandage goes away.

Because that future thing, you know? Who knows how much there is left of it.

Daily Kos: “I’m heterosexual, and it’s just freakin fantastic!” (via Joe. My. God.)

I have more rights, less expenses, less chance of being beaten, less chance of being disowned by family, and tons of other benefits, rights and advantages. Because I fell in love with, and desire a person of the opposite sex. For this, my life is clearly better than anyone who is gay or lesbian.

The United States has made it clear – I am heterosexual and my life is better than the lives of gays and lesbians because of it. And, in the end, isn’t that what being American and living in the land of the free all about?

RH Reality Check: AIDS rate among gay/bi men 50 times higher than among straight men and women (!!)

As incidence estimates released by CDC last year revealed, MSM [men having sex with men] constitute more than half of all new cases of HIV and are the group in which the number of new cases each continues to slowly increase. What’s new today is that the CDC has calculated *rates* of HIV/AIDS prevalence among MSM, not just raw numbers. Lansky says the CDC estimates that there were 692.2 new HIV cases in 2007 per 100,000 MSM. Having a rate as well as the raw numbers allows comparisons for the first time to other population groups at risk, such as women and heterosexual men.

And in lighter matters: Hannah’s Negative Nancy takes over

I like to keep things positive around here.  I believe in good karma.   In happy thoughts.  In sending out the kind of energy I want to take in.  I promote optimism and hope and all those warm, wrap-your-arms-around-the-world feelings. But please excuse this slight slip into Negative Nancy territory. Because when you practice Bikram yoga long enough?hell, when you do anything long enough?some things are prone to just, well, aggrevate you a little…

As I was riding to work on my bike today in the rain I decided to overtake a lady in front of me, who two seconds later decided to overtake the person in front of her, without looking to the left. Three seconds later we were both on the ground.

She hit a car parked by the street with her bike. The owner of the car came out from her shop to ask, first, “are you okay?” and then inquire about the car. The lady pointed at me and shrieked “it’s his fault!!!” I said, “how can it be my fault, my bike is three meters behind!” “Well you made me hit the car!” She complained about her shoulder, while I called the police. It wasn’t until I finished the conversation that I realised my hand was bleeding.

Police have arrived within three minutes which to a Polish person is nothing short of a miracle — in Warsaw 20 minutes would count as “miraculously fast”. I was in a bit of shock as I tried to recall the events; the lady kept on complaining about her shoulder and saying it’s all my fault. Well, I thought. I wouldn’t be so sure. But then, I couldn’t really recall what happened until half an hour later I suddenly remembered and realised, that no, it actually wasn’t my fault.

I am at home now, with a very swollen leg, somewhat worried about being sued by the lady over her shoulder (the car owner somehow doesn’t worry me, even if I have to pay for that bump it will be pennies — it’s barely visible), very happy to have a boyfriend to call in an event like that (one that comes over within 15 minutes, takes me home, makes me tea and sandwiches and after going back to work mails to find out if I am okay) and quite dizzy and generally sore after my adrenaline level went down. But I am also very excited about my first encounter with the Amsterdam police, who were helpful, nice, kind, friendly, professional, warm, funny and somehow made me feel a bit less scared that I will be automatically declared guilty of all crimes in the area in the last three months due to not speaking Dutch well enough. And… it was my first fall, and I haven’t broken any bones, none of my limbs has been cut off and I only lost the skin on my palm, not my face. I’m still a lucky bastard.

Charlie Brooker for Guardian:

DVD and book purchases fall into two main categories: the ones you buy because you really want to watch them, and the ones you buy because you vaguely think you should. Two years ago I bought Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, partly because I’d heard it was a good book and an easy read, but mainly because I figured reading it would make me cleverer ? or at the very least, make me seem a bit cleverer to anyone sitting opposite me on the tube. I never read it. A few months ago, having forgotten I already owned a copy, I bought it again. This means I haven’t read it twice. [...]

Last week I watched the first part of Electric Dreams, the 1900 House-style TV show where a family lives with old technology for several weeks. For episode one, they were stranded in the 1970s, with no internet, no DVDs or videos, and only three channels on the TV. It’s fair to say the kids weren’t massively impressed. It was all a bit Guantánamo for their liking. But to me the limited options looked blissful. [...]

Here’s what I want: I want to be told what to read, watch and listen to. I want my hands tied. I want a cultural diet. I want a government employee to turn up on my doorstep once a month, carrying a single book for me to read. I want all my TV channels removed and replaced by a single electro-pipe delivering one programme or movie a day. If I don’t watch it, it gets replaced by the following day’s selection. I want all my MP3s deleted and replaced with one unskippable radio station playing one song after the other. And every time I think about complaining, I want a minotaur to punch me in the kidneys and remind me how it was before.

In short: I’ve tried more. It’s awful. I want less, and I want it now.

I thought I was among the selected few who felt like this. I have way too much choice, way too many DVDs and books I bought because I sort of thought that perhaps one day I will have time to read/watch them, and my attention span is about half a Youtube video long. Glad to see there are others, especially when they are as eloquent about it as Mr Brooker.

(Thanks to Dennis.)

 1   1   3  ONLY LOVE CAN BREAK YOUR HEART (RICHARD X BETA VERSION)
            Saint Etienne
 2   2   5  THIS MOMENTARY
            Delphic



 3   !   1  SPLITTING THE ATOM
            Massive Attack
 4   4   3  UPRISING
            Muse
 5   6  11  BOX N' LOCKS
            Mpho
 6   3   6  FORWARDS/BACKWARDS
            Annie Lennox feat. DJ Earworm
 7  15   2  A GIFT
            Basia
 8   8   3  MAKE ME
            Janet Jackson
 9   5   8  ONE MORE CHANCE
            Bloc Party
10   !   1  MILLION DOLLAR BILL (FREEMASONS/ORIGINAL MIXES)
            Whitney Houston
 (more...)

I used to hate my body.

I used to do insane diets where I would only eat cabbage soup for a week. Well, for five days. After five days of that I would devour a pizza with double cheese and mayonnaise sauce and drink high-sugar apple juice from a carton. After five days of cabbage soup the last thing I wanted was another two days of cabbage soup.

(This, by the way, is how yo-yo effect happens.)

I used to go to the gym and jump on the cardio machine with a goal such as “burn 530 calories in 30 minutes”. If I only did 528, it didn’t count as a workout, I thought I didn’t do enough. That I was a fat lazy git who failed. Failed, failed, failed. And I would go home and drink wine, because, you know, that’s something failed gits do. And I would eat a pizza, because, well, I worked out so I deserve a treat, right. And I would end up in a vicious circle: eat crap, feel guilty, work out, feel a failure, eat crap, feel guilty, etc.

I can’t recall a specific turning point where the vicious circle turned into a lovely circle (this phrase is shamelessly stolen from Hannah with whom I had an amazing chat today). It had to do with therapy and Magical Training Courses, generally, and the most important bit was getting rid of guilt as a part of my life altogether. That brought the realisation that I am not a failure for burning 528 calories instead of 530; that I am a major winner of Grand Prix of Amazingness for burning 528 calories instead of 0. That I am not a failure for lifting 45 kg and not making it to 50; that I am a major success for being at the gym and lifting anything at all while there are people who don’t lift anything else but TV remote. And that food isn’t a God-sent torture device meant to be used for self-punishment; it is something I can use to fuel my amazing, strong, powerful body which at the age of thirty two is in better shape than it has ever been before.

Nowadays my breakfast on a weekday is a protein shake with oatmeal. Not because I am punishing myself; on the contrary, I am rewarding myself. It tastes like Nesquik cocoa with biscuit crumbs in it. It makes me feel like a kid indulging on sweets when mom isn’t looking. And it happens to be low-fat, high-protein and full of slow-burning carbs, which is the best thing you could possibly have in the morning. If I am feeling very adventurous, I add some fruit. Because, dammit, I’m worth it.

Sometimes in the evening I drink. (A workmate was recently shocked to discover I drink beer. Oh, had she known. LOL.) But I don’t drink because I hate myself and I want to punish myself; I drink because it’s an enjoyable thing to do, and then I stop in time to eat something and have tea before going to sleep. As a result, I haven’t had a single hangover in almost two years — my last one was in December 2007 when I visited Poland, drank 748724 beers with an old friend, then decided cherry vodka would round the evening up nicely. There’s a lesson in there my friends, and that lesson is: cherry vodka is so much nicer when it goes in than when it goes out.

I don’t have the super-toned body that Madonna has, and I probably never will. That would require much more motivation and determination than I have. I still love pizza and a pint of guinness. But I have a body that makes me proud and happy, and it makes my boyfriend happy too, and to tell you the truth, that’s quite enough.