No surprises for the true metal fans here, with Scandinavia having the highest density of metal bands per population. Those long, dark, polar nights are ideal for getting some proper headbanging going.
(Source.)
Music
Loverly coconuts
A long weekend ahead of us, nice hot weather, so what better way to start it all with some classic eighties summer pop?
Donna Summer
Donna Summer, dead at 63. Seriously, fuck cancer.
Lola
There’s an interesting discussion about “Lola” on Andrew Hickey’s blog, mainly about whether or not it’s problematic in its depiction of trans people:
I’ve dreaded writing about this song, because it’s witty, clever, and one of the catchiest things Ray Davies ever wrote, but it also perpetuates some negative stereotypes about trans people. However, it also shows more respect to trans people than any other pop song I could think of
Which might just be laying too much weight on what’s largely an ironic song gently mocking a young boy having his first encounter with what I always thought was a male transvestite, what with the last line of the song being “But I know what I am I’m glad I’m a man and so is Lola”. It’s the old story of boy meets girl, boy discovers girl is also a boy, boy discovers he couldn’t care less: well, nobody’s perfect.
If you look at it unfavourably, I guess you could say that it enacts that hoary old homo and transphobic fear of straight men being “tricked” into having sex with somebody who’s “really” a man, something that used to be a staple of bad American raunch comedies (or even the Police Academy series).
But I think that’s completely missing the point of “Lola”, which is really about love conquering all, gender not mattering and becoming fluid anyway (“Girls will be boys and boys will be girls, It’s a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world except for Lola”). It’s all done with a wink and a smile, but at its heart it is accepting of trans people more than you could say it is damaging.
The long dark teatime of the soul
Half a year. Six months. Twentysix weeks. It feels like forever; it also feels like yesterday that Sandra died. It’s just not something I can get used to: it still feels like she should be there, she’s just gone out of the room for a bit. Every day I want to call her on my lunch break, every time when I watch a tv show or listen to a radio programme we used to follow together I want to ask her what she thinks about it, every time I read a book that I think she would like, I want to tell her she shouldn’t read it, as she hated having books recommended to her.
The weekends are the worst; during the week work can be busy enough that I don’t really think about her, but in the weekends there’s too much time and space for the memories and grief to come back. It’s not so much that I spent my weekends staring and sighing, more that literally everything in the house and garden reminds me of Sand. Worse, even the local supermarket makes me think of her as I try to remember her advice on cooking and such. Pathetic, I know.
What I also miss is the structure in my life, a goal. Living alone after having spent the better part of a decade living together with somebody you love deeply is so different from just living on your own. When you’re a couple you live for each other as much as for yourself, at least if you it properly, but now what do I have: my job? My hobbies? The cats? All very nice, for sure, but it doesn’t fill my life like Sandra did. And that’s what I miss the most, having somebody there who makes you feel like what Ella sings about and who you can do the same to.