I hate it when I get a random song stuck in my head, even worse when said song is not something useful like the national anthem, or sexy like ‘Let’s get it on…’. My sister once had the KCB tune stuck in her head for weeks, she’d hum it at the oddest times, often unaware, which was a bit of a problem seeing as how she was working for Barclays at the time, can you say awkward? Today’s soundtrack has been lodged firmly in my brain since the Sunday before last when I heard it on CapitalFM in the morning. There I was minding my own business, when the song came on, the distinctive harmonica slowly pulling me away from the paper I was previously engrossed in, sucking me in with Mr Wonder
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear,
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee,
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife,
In five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure a year in a life?
The song is ‘Seasons of Love’, off the soundtrack for the musical ‘Rent’, and apparently now known to all as an AIDS anthem, at least according to google. I am willing to bet that there are a few blank stares right now, but listen to it first before you write me off. If the first 33 seconds don’t ring a bell and get you all melancholic, then lenga this one, it’s not for you. This is one of those sing-along numbers that I will seldom admit to loving in public, but you watch me sing in the confines of my house, I even play air harmonica, if there’s such a thing.
Five hundred twenty five thousand moments so dear,
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee,
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife,
In five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure a year in a life?
The song is ‘Seasons of Love’, off the soundtrack for the musical ‘Rent’, and apparently now known to all as an AIDS anthem, at least according to google. I am willing to bet that there are a few blank stares right now, but listen to it first before you write me off. If the first 33 seconds don’t ring a bell and get you all melancholic, then lenga this one, it’s not for you. This is one of those sing-along numbers that I will seldom admit to loving in public, but you watch me sing in the confines of my house, I even play air harmonica, if there’s such a thing.
I’ve been doing this blogging thing for a year today. That’s right, 12 long months (minus the odd 2 weeks here and there), five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes (that’s American for 525,600 by the way), that’s the number of minutes in a Gregorian non-leap year. (And that’s a completely useless bit of trivia that may one day earn you a date. You can thank me later.) In that time, I have written 91 posts, on boxing to Whitney and everything in between, including a memorable post about wanking, and the one about Jaaaayyyysssuuuussss. Approximately 1350 people have visited this site, but that number must be discounted by 200, those are the unlucky bastards who’ve landed here after googling ‘naked whores’, ‘hot 49 year olds’ and ‘Nairobi Dunia Wiki Hii
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty five thousand journeys to plan,
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure a life of a woman or a man?
In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried,
In the bridges he burned, or the way that she died,
Five hundred twenty five thousand journeys to plan,
Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes,
How do you measure a life of a woman or a man?
In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried,
In the bridges he burned, or the way that she died,
Is it just me or has this year been muchos dramatic? That’s the problem with blogging about my life and obsessively analysing every little detail, sometimes it starts to feel like I’m walking around with an open wound, naked, in acid rain. It’s a bit much, no? Don’t worry, you’re allowed to agree. I’ve been happy, sad, angry, depressed, scared, excited, frustrated, randy, frigid, hung-over, high, melancholic, optimistic…maybe optimistic is a bit of an overstatement…I think the only thing I haven’t been is pregnant. I’ve chronicled pretty much every single fucking emotion I’ve had, or haven’t had, and you, my lovelies, have graciously sat through it all. Give yourselves a hand, that act of kindness alone should have earned you direct entry into heaven by now, but if it doesn’t, you can rest pretty in the knowledge that we shall burn together, pale chini. Hmmm… that sounded much more heart-warming in my head. Moving swiftly along.
In as much as the never ending dredging can get overwhelming, I have to admit this one thing, that ‘getting it all out’ racket actually works. I have never felt so calm and clear-headed before, its like I got myself a new pair of glasses, with the right prescription, and now I can finally see what’s going on. Well, kinda, if I was truly better, I wouldn’t need the specs at all, would I? I know I’m always bitching about the self-help crap idiots keep trying to sell us, but it turns out that talking about the shit going on in your head is a good thing. I just gagged a little writing that, but there it is, my singular attempt at humble pie. I’m not saying go for therapy or anything like that, just talk to someone, anyone, even yourself. Look how well it worked for me, am I not the sanest, most eloquent blogger you know? No? Not buying it? Ah well...
So an anniversary post is supposed to be a combination of a pat on the back for a job well done, a thanksgiving ode to all that have gotten you to that point and a shout out to your most outstanding mafans, and a promise for the future. This post shall be none of those.
While I would love to engage in some self stroking of the egotistical variety, because a little self-stroking never hurts, it would appear that the posts I’m most proud of are the worst read. No really, worst. With the exception of July, which was a strange conflation of introspection and zeitgeist, almost every other post that I’ve written looking inward is, for the most part, barely read. But that’s a good thing, I like that the instances where I have, to my mind, revealed most about myself remain ignored, hidden almost. For that reason, no back-slapping, I am not going to talk about those babies. Similarly, talking about the posts you folks like would be pointless as well, because you already like them, no? My solution, everybody clap for yourself. You good? Let’s move on.
While I would love to engage in some self stroking of the egotistical variety, because a little self-stroking never hurts, it would appear that the posts I’m most proud of are the worst read. No really, worst. With the exception of July, which was a strange conflation of introspection and zeitgeist, almost every other post that I’ve written looking inward is, for the most part, barely read. But that’s a good thing, I like that the instances where I have, to my mind, revealed most about myself remain ignored, hidden almost. For that reason, no back-slapping, I am not going to talk about those babies. Similarly, talking about the posts you folks like would be pointless as well, because you already like them, no? My solution, everybody clap for yourself. You good? Let’s move on.
As for the giving of many thanks, I hate it when other bloggers do it and forget to mention me, even though they usually don’t know of my existence, I feel left out, like there’s the A crowd, then there’s lil’ ol’ me. I know, I got issues, but that’s why I have a blog, no? That said, I must show gratitude, lest you think me a mannerless ingrate. I thank you kindly, each and every one of you who stops by every so often to hear what I have to say, especially you lovelies on the feed who come in immediately I post (its such a trip, every time it happens I stand up and roar, ‘I…am…Spartacus!’ That was TMI…). To all the anonymous strangers, I see you, I thank you, and I don’t mind that you choose not to say anything, I do the same thing myself, all the time. To those who take the time to comment, I thank you, you are very much appreciated, your feedback and stories (ah…the stories…) are often the fuel to this the little blog that could, even when your comments are a bit of nonsense about a knob, or the link between Ocampo and the colour of tarmac. Thank you to the many bloggers who graciously let me stalk them, occasionally laying siege to their houses, their stories, or therein lack of (I could name names, but I won’t), slake my thirst for a good tale, some stories admittedly more than others (I’m just saying, we all have bad days, no? Like this one, for instance.). Slight detour, being the egotistical bastards they are, bloggers no doubt will be upset I didn’t list each and everyone of them, but that’s why you’re on my profile, no? Look at them, they’re still pouting, big babies… Detour over. Last, and definitely least, surely I must thank the geniuses at Google, for the dodgy research they enable (long may your algorithms prosper!), and for Blogger, the most anti-social blog publishing platform in the history of blogs (some days even I can’t comment, its brilliant!).
The promise? On second thoughts, I think that one I will do. I promise to keep sharing my tales of batshit insane men with you, because you sadistic buggers love it when I meet these strange men. I promise to keep talking about things we don’t normally talk about, including bad sex, and maybe good sex. I promise to keep throwing stones at the idiot politicians and press (purely for my own benefit I realise, but at least this way, when I get busted by Mzalendo, you get to say you were here when the shit went down). I promise to piss you off every so often, just because. I promise to make you laugh, even if you’re laughing at me. And I promise to keep talking about random songs until you finally give in and play the damn things, because I am nothing if not persistent, no?
To this end, I give you a BOGOF. I’m going to play myself out to the excellent sounds of Stevie Wonder’s ‘Isn’t she lovely’, a song he wrote for his daughter, but I’ve stolen it for my bastard baby of a blog (she’s clearly female, the temperamental cow!), and for you, my lovelies…
POSTSCRIPT
I had to delete the lyrics to the second track, as well as delete it from my playlist (just in case), because apparently I have infringed on Mr Wonder’s copyrights. Who knew talking about a song would cause this much trouble? I wait to see what will happen next, but if you find me gone on Monday, now you know why. Meanwhile, Blogger support, now that you’re here, care to sort out the many issues with the comments? Just a thought.
POSTSCRIPT
I had to delete the lyrics to the second track, as well as delete it from my playlist (just in case), because apparently I have infringed on Mr Wonder’s copyrights. Who knew talking about a song would cause this much trouble? I wait to see what will happen next, but if you find me gone on Monday, now you know why. Meanwhile, Blogger support, now that you’re here, care to sort out the many issues with the comments? Just a thought.
