IM jamming (ja man)
I was doing the old Instant Message thing with Adam this morning, when he sent me a couple of songs from a band I'd never heard of before. I'm now officially placing The Moldy Peaches in my "so good I feel the need to preach of their strawberry scented goodness to the unconverted" box. All of which means that you, as a loyal and attractive reader of my blog, are now required to be mildy interested in their existence.

You can listen to one of their songs, the very cool "Steak for Chicken," by clicking here.

I love this band, and have loved them for almost 3 hours now so what are you waiting for? I have the Album on order, why don't you?.

So I've played games with people over the Internet before, but I've never listened to the same music with them before. We started the songs at the same time and IMed bits of lyrics and comments on releative coolness of the band, as the songs played in sync. Trust me, it was much more fun, and far less pathetically dweebish than it sounds. You should try it some time.

Bringing it home here folks, the real reason for posting all of this trivia -- One of the band members, the slightly scary Kimya Dawson (who looks suspiciously like the wife of an ex-workmate of mine) has her own Diaryland blog. And what's more it's pretty entertaining, so pop on over and take a look.

Keeping you all up to date
For the record, there is still no news regarding the Coventry job. Yes, I am thoroughly annoyed.

But, being the glass is half full guy that I am, there is always a bright side. I had promised to whip off to visit Justin and Ramona and baby Selina in Germany if I got the job, but that would have meant missing Mahler's Eighth at the Proms on Saturday night. Getting drunk on German beer while sitting at a lakeside cafe versus Mahler conducted by Sir Simon Rattle.

Not the kind of decision I'm good at making.

Spamwatch
Among the usual assortment of ads from Nigerian officals offering 50% of a fortune in return for your bank account number, folks offering legal herbal highs (and lengths), breast augmenters, get out of debt schemers and the like, my friend Adam today received what must rank amongst the oddest Spam messages ever sent. He forwarded it to me and now I'm going to pass it on to you. This is just too bizzare.

Do you suppose they really mean it? Adam's not too sure, and asks, quite rightly, "... am I being naive or has the world officially gone bonkers?!?"

Anyhow, here it is. Judge for yourself...

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War on terror: Taking it to the nursery
All boys know instinctively that when they go to meet Granny at the airport there will be a toy secreted somewhere on her person. It's in the genes. But when George's grandmother returned to the UK from a trip to Los Angeles, she also brought with her more than just a toy. She brought a tale of woe.

Judy Powell knew just what to get her seven year old grandson, an exciting new G.I. Joe action figure. She couldn't wait to surprise him with it, but just before her departure from LAX, cautious Customs Agents decided to confiscate the plastic hero's tiny machine gun.

“I explained what had happened, but he just kept shaking his head saying it was silly and ‘Don’t those people understand the gun was a toy? and couldn’t shoot’.”

It's a new world out there, and we all have to make some concessions in the name of security; even seven year-old boys.

Barbie and Ken were unavailable for comment. You can read the full story here.

Bandwagon jumping is now officially a sport
As a part of my never ending quest to jump on every bandwagon, to slavishly enjoin myself to any Fadish Blogspheric Meme, and to leave no notion unborrowed, I present unto you My Blogtree Pedigree.

Share and enjoy.

(Via Chain of Daisies)

It's officially "early next week"
Don't phone me unless you mean it.

Just don't let them breed
Did you hear the one about the South London couple who spent their savings on a once in a lifetime trip to Sydney? Apparently they're going to Australia next time. Click here for the whole pathetic story, or, if you don't have RealVideo, click here for Reuters' take on things.

So close to Jesus she's number 3 on his speed dial
Mrs. Betty Bowers, that rock of inspiration, has been thinking about those poor miners in Pennsylvania. In her September newsletter, which just arrived like a fresh summer's breeze in my inbox, she has the following to say:

I'm sure that all of you were (seriously) as relieved as I to see the nine miners in Pennsylvania rise to the surface like Lazarus – alive. I was almost as pleased to note that they have now lived long enough to strike a deal with Disney (of course, their true reward will come when they overcome their gratitude for being alive long enough to sue the mining company!) Diligent, selfless souls toiled around the clock to rescue those miners. What a heroic effort by humanity! Of course, once the miners were actually saved, God jumped in and took all the credit.

Every night on the news in the past several weeks, someone has been attributing the rescues of miners and kidnap victims to the Lord. As a consequence, people with less faith than mine – well, people – have allowed themselves a dangerous lapse into the folly of logic. They wonder: "If God is all-powerful, always watching and inclined to intervene, isn't it axiomatic that if God always gets credit for those who live, He should also get the blame for those who die?"

As a True Christian, I know to greet the specter of annoying logic with intrusive inquires about the speaker's personal appearance, a flurry of overly loud recitations or, if there are no witnesses (be mindful of security cameras), a withering slap with a soft Italian kid glove. Some of you, however, might not be so cagey or conversant in the wiles employed to avoid intrusive scrutiny.

So, mind your Ps and Qs and leave the joie d'après vivre to Betty.

The pharoah of beers
According to this BBC story, Japanese Brewer Kirin (named after me, dontcha know) is producing a limited amount of beer based on a four and a half thousand year old Ancient Egyptian recipe. They're calling this dark, Barley-based brew Old Kingdom Beer. It contains no Hopps and according the folks at Kirin, tastes a little like white wine.

Yum, Ra.

(Via Pop-Up Toaster)

Bach to the Proms
I went to my first Prom concert of the year last night. For any American's, let me just explain that "The BBC Proms" have nothing to do with gawky High School students in ill-fitting tuxedos, but rather are an annual series of some 70+ classical concerts which take place each night of the Summer in London's Royal Albert Hall.

Yes, you can pay for moderately priced seats (as I mistakenly did last night), but the best and most enjoyable way to go is To Prom. That is, queue up on the day for one of the hundreds of £4 standing room seats in the oval centre of the arena. The atmosphere in the cauldron of the arena is electric, and you soon discover that these Prommers are among the most dedicated and knowledgeable music fans in the world.

Last night I went to see Bach's St. Matthews Passion. Clocking in at nearly four hours (including interval) I made the decision to go for a seat. Standing for four hours might get a tad uncomfortable, I reasoned. I got a pretty nice seat in The Choir section (behind the stage) and settled down to enjoy. What I failed to consider, however, was my damned left knee.

After three hours of being crimped up with no legroom and being unable to straighten or even move it, my dodgy joint began to play up. The final hour brought new and previously unsuspected definitions of agony. I sat there, tears of pain streaming down my face, desperately hoping that any onlookers would think me some sensitive soul moved by the beauty of the music. But, as glorious as the music was (I love the big choral works like St Matthew's Passion), I heard very little of the second half. In fact, all my brain heard was this constant refrain.

"Oh god, let it be over soon. I have to stand up. Do you think anyone would notice if I stood up now? Oh, the pain, the pain. Oooph!!! What if I squeeze my knee like this? Aaaarrgh! OK, what if I squeeze the knee of that cute girl sitting next to me? Ooooh, that was uncalled for, after all I'm in enough pain as it is without that smack!"

OK, so I made up the last bit, but you get the idea.

I don't know if you've ever found yourself actively willing something to be over; with all your heart and soul you try to somehow make time speed up, but in actual fact time seems to slow down. One hour takes ten, and pretty soon now becomes pretty much forever.

Oh, the pain, the pain.

Prom from the Arena floor or make sure you get an aisle seat. I've learnt my lesson.

Anyhow, if you take a look to the right, under the Notes to Self heading you can see a list of some of the Proms concerts which have sparked my interest this year. Those I won't attend I will be listening to. The BBC Radio 3 broadcast of each concert is also simulcast on the web, so no matter where you are in the world, you can listen in. Pain free.