A New Pope

Well there it is. We have a 78 year old Benedict XVI. And will he be a wise and worldy man? Nope (it rhymes). Though I'm sure he is wonderful if you know him personally, and probably blind enough not to question discrepancies in the petty cash, I very much doubt he really knows what goes on in the real world. Certainly if he continues in the conservative mean of John Paul II and carries on forbidding the use of condoms he will be doing the planet no favours.

"Dear brothers and sisters after the great Pope, John Paul II, the cardinals have elected me, a simple and humble worker in the Lord's vineyard."

Does the Lord really consider Earth a Vineyard I wonder?

Nothing Less Than Everything

Nothing Less Than Everything is the next Songfight that I probably won't enter. It's the cyan fight, which is apt seeing as how useful a vial of cyanic acid could be. Too painful, though swift. Were I ever to 'top' off, I would like to do it in a... ummm... pleasant fashion; with tweating birds, flowers and nymphs in attendance, not frothing at the mouth in extreme pain.
Damn the fightmaster. If it were the magenta fight the above twaddle wouldn't exist. Instead I could waffle on about camp things like dresses and mincing and angst.

So anyway; I've written a nice song about love. and though the lyrics aren't finished, and it's raw, check it out... Go on. You know you want to. ;-)

Reality - A sharp slap in the face.

I watched an episode of CSI last night. The Miami version with Horatio (who is Cat's hero). The plot involved a woman who was poisoned with a radioactive isotope in her orange juice and suddenly found she only had five days to live.
It made me think. If I was told I had five days what would I do? The short answer, after an all to brief panic attack, would be record an album... A month to live? The same, but abroad in the sun. A year to live? The same... Etc.
It made me realise music is what I want to 'do', to leave behind. Maybe some poetry too, and possibly a novel if I get lucky. I don't want to shuffle of this planet leaving nothing behind except a bitter ghost, moanng at having been 'a good boy', up to date with mortgage and taxes.
Then I realised I am finite. Each day that rolls by with nothing accomplished except a few invoicable hours is a FUCKING WASTE. Each of these days is sand that will never run though the glass again.
I know all this, yet why am I seemingly incapable of doing anything about it?
A cheery point to ponder.

Well Hi there!

And the days shoot by with the turning of the sky...
No songfight entry this week, or last week either, though I did both write for, and record 'Digital Chimera' and 'Ancient'. These can be found (aficionado's only please) here, though beware, they are demo's and not even vaguely polished.
Speaking of which I am supposed to be a web designer and yet have no proper site. This situation, being reminiscent of 'Coals to Newcastle', 'Grandmothers and Eggs, or some such, will be rectified shortly by a fully blown 'thingy' to which I will probably move this blog as well.
I love this free association lark! Having mentioned Grandmothers I must tell you (oh audience of 1) my Grandmother was on TV the other night. BBC 4 had a program about the early days of Television, and my Grandmother, who had a show of her own in the 1950's, was the first featured segment. Hughie Greens 'Double your money was the second. It was very, VERY dated, and stilted. Then it was live.
The sun is out, the birds are singing, and life goes on... And on. Oh to win the lottery!