To round off my first day back in the world of blogging, I have a few questions.
Can there possibly be a better job than being a librarian? Well, besides working in Top Gear, but that's a given. Shuffling around with your cuppa, tidying up a few jumbled books, sorting 300 cd's and take half of them home to listen to them, stamp some newspapers and shuffle home?
Why does the elevator in my building suddenly smell clean and fresh, like newly laundered clothes, when it's smelled like a well used suspensory since I moved in over two months ago?
Can there possibly be anything more annoying then having road work done next to your building?... For months!
And lastly, will I wake up tomorrow and find my livingroom and kitchen magically cleaned, tidied up, organized and hoovered like James May had gone berserk on ecstasy in it?
I know some of these questions have the answer "no" or even "hell no". But I ask anyway. That's me. Ambitious but rubbish.
Monday, June 23, 2008
And...
... as proof of my obsession: I just realized what LastFM revealed to be my latest played tracks on iTunes: Part 1 of Richard Hammonds book "On the Edge" on audio book, a song named "No Cars Go" and the BodyRockers, supposedly Hammonds favorite driving song.
Oh, spiffing!
So, after a long, long period of silence, it's finally time for an update on my status of life.
These days I'm going through the wierdest sets of emotions I've ever experienced.
I'm bored out of my wits, suffer constant anxiety, barely manage to eat more then once or twice a day, and trying to distract myself from... well, me. My brain has gone into survival mode, and been through a thought process that went something like this: "Oh god, you are now so bored that I will make you go into a unhealthy obsession about Top Gear, just to save you from certain death by boredom." And there you have it; I've developed an obsession with Top Gear and Richard Hammond and have now I've watched over 3 seasons these past 4-5 days.
Me and obsessing isn't anything new, I tend to get one or two of these periods a year. Past subjects of my obsessiveness has been Michael Jackson, Lord of the Rings (and Elijah Wood), Harry Potter books, trying to learn the Elvish language, Viking age clothing, Depeche Mode (and Dave Gahan), and the latest - Top Gear.
It all started innocently enough with me discovering that I had season 8 hidden away on my external hard drive. "Ooh yay, something to watch when I get bored, which I am!" So I plowed through it in a couple of days, laughing myself to tears. 2 middle-aged and one short bloke cocking about, bickering and swearing in posh English is apparently my cup of tea. Disturbingly enough.
And somewhere during these 7 episodes my mind started to wander a bit. "That Hammond really doesn't hurt your eye, does he? And he's short, like me. And he's funny. And charming. And has really big puppy-eyes. And has sexy hands..." And there we are: I had managed to find someone new to obsess about IN the show I was already.. rather fond of. In the words of James May: "Permission to say oh, cock."
So - how and why can a 22 year old lass from Norway possibly be interested in a motoring show? Well, I blame my upbringing. My dad and brother owns a garage together, so I'm sort of used to being around cars. I've helped my brother (more like watched him, really) strip and rebuild a MGB and a VW Beetle (probably to the disgust of Clarkson, Hammond and May if they'd known about it or could be bothered to care). And consequently I feel that any family who owns less than 2 motor vehicles per person is weird. I can't say I know much about cars, or any sort of motor powered engine whatsoever, but I do think I might know more then the average 22 years old female. I know that a car having a V8 means that it has an engine with 8 sylinders originally placed in such a way that they formed a V shape, and that it is the only engine worth putting in anything. Sadly, my BMW doesn't have one. But I know where it's alternator is. I've learned that I'm not the only person in the world to name my car - Richard Hammond does it too ( I do love "Oliver"). I know that when your car makes that horrid screeching sound when it runs and/or starts up, you need to tighten your fanbelt. I can change my own tires and check that my car has enough oil and water, and I want to learn how to change the oil myself. ...But my brother won't let me. I know a rear wheel driven German car really isn't any good for anything during the winter besides practicing figure skating and giving me grey hairs at the age of 22. I know the difference between understeer and oversteer: if your car does a smaller turn then the actual road, it oversteers, if it does a wider one, it understeers . I actually know what WRC means (I went to watch Rally Norway), and I actually watched Petter Solberg win it in 2003, standing in my living room, waving my arms and being on the brink of tears. Oh, and I know one more thing, but this is probably more of an opinion: The 1967 Shelby GT 500 is sex on wheels. "Gone in 60 seconds" taught me that. - Enough showing off. Some of these tidbits of knowledge really isn't very useful, but not much of the information I've accumulated during the years actually are.
The other reason I can think of is the "3 blokes cocking around"-bit. My sister introduced me quite early to british humor in the form of Monty Python and Fawlty Towers. And I still to this day cannot see John Cleese without imagining him doing the Silly Walk, or see any member of the Monty Python without reliving the fish slapping dance in my head. So, from an early age I was taught to like middle aged British men who were aggressive, lacked all sense of logic and generally went about their day cocking about.
So, in short: I blame John Cleese and my brother and father's choice of careers for now being totally obsessed with Top Gear. Logical, innit?
These days I'm going through the wierdest sets of emotions I've ever experienced.
I'm bored out of my wits, suffer constant anxiety, barely manage to eat more then once or twice a day, and trying to distract myself from... well, me. My brain has gone into survival mode, and been through a thought process that went something like this: "Oh god, you are now so bored that I will make you go into a unhealthy obsession about Top Gear, just to save you from certain death by boredom." And there you have it; I've developed an obsession with Top Gear and Richard Hammond and have now I've watched over 3 seasons these past 4-5 days.
Me and obsessing isn't anything new, I tend to get one or two of these periods a year. Past subjects of my obsessiveness has been Michael Jackson, Lord of the Rings (and Elijah Wood), Harry Potter books, trying to learn the Elvish language, Viking age clothing, Depeche Mode (and Dave Gahan), and the latest - Top Gear.
It all started innocently enough with me discovering that I had season 8 hidden away on my external hard drive. "Ooh yay, something to watch when I get bored, which I am!" So I plowed through it in a couple of days, laughing myself to tears. 2 middle-aged and one short bloke cocking about, bickering and swearing in posh English is apparently my cup of tea. Disturbingly enough.
And somewhere during these 7 episodes my mind started to wander a bit. "That Hammond really doesn't hurt your eye, does he? And he's short, like me. And he's funny. And charming. And has really big puppy-eyes. And has sexy hands..." And there we are: I had managed to find someone new to obsess about IN the show I was already.. rather fond of. In the words of James May: "Permission to say oh, cock."
So - how and why can a 22 year old lass from Norway possibly be interested in a motoring show? Well, I blame my upbringing. My dad and brother owns a garage together, so I'm sort of used to being around cars. I've helped my brother (more like watched him, really) strip and rebuild a MGB and a VW Beetle (probably to the disgust of Clarkson, Hammond and May if they'd known about it or could be bothered to care). And consequently I feel that any family who owns less than 2 motor vehicles per person is weird. I can't say I know much about cars, or any sort of motor powered engine whatsoever, but I do think I might know more then the average 22 years old female. I know that a car having a V8 means that it has an engine with 8 sylinders originally placed in such a way that they formed a V shape, and that it is the only engine worth putting in anything. Sadly, my BMW doesn't have one. But I know where it's alternator is. I've learned that I'm not the only person in the world to name my car - Richard Hammond does it too ( I do love "Oliver"). I know that when your car makes that horrid screeching sound when it runs and/or starts up, you need to tighten your fanbelt. I can change my own tires and check that my car has enough oil and water, and I want to learn how to change the oil myself. ...But my brother won't let me. I know a rear wheel driven German car really isn't any good for anything during the winter besides practicing figure skating and giving me grey hairs at the age of 22. I know the difference between understeer and oversteer: if your car does a smaller turn then the actual road, it oversteers, if it does a wider one, it understeers . I actually know what WRC means (I went to watch Rally Norway), and I actually watched Petter Solberg win it in 2003, standing in my living room, waving my arms and being on the brink of tears. Oh, and I know one more thing, but this is probably more of an opinion: The 1967 Shelby GT 500 is sex on wheels. "Gone in 60 seconds" taught me that. - Enough showing off. Some of these tidbits of knowledge really isn't very useful, but not much of the information I've accumulated during the years actually are.
The other reason I can think of is the "3 blokes cocking around"-bit. My sister introduced me quite early to british humor in the form of Monty Python and Fawlty Towers. And I still to this day cannot see John Cleese without imagining him doing the Silly Walk, or see any member of the Monty Python without reliving the fish slapping dance in my head. So, from an early age I was taught to like middle aged British men who were aggressive, lacked all sense of logic and generally went about their day cocking about.
So, in short: I blame John Cleese and my brother and father's choice of careers for now being totally obsessed with Top Gear. Logical, innit?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)