I quit my job (finished yesterday) so now there's no excuse not to write.
Except Christmas...
And then the New Year...
And the trip to Tassie mid-January.
And so on and so forth and... why does my 18-year-old daughter like the Bloody Beetroots when they sound like fingernails being scraped down a chalkboard?
I thought I was so cool and hip until today. I like Kanye West and the Hilltop Hoods. I can listen to hip hop and appreciate the finer rhyming couplets (see my Christmas mixed dozen for Flight of the Conchords' wonderful send-up of the genre - watch it on YouTube).
But this morning I felt postively ancient. My daughter is going to see the Bloody Beetroots tonight at a club in town. As we drove to a trendy inner-Sydney cafe (my choice 'cos I'm cool) to bond over coffee and panini, she plugged in her iPod and I was subjected to the monotonous trance-dance whir of two Italian DJs who wear masks. How Eurovision is that?
Imagine being stuck in a tree with 1000 cicadas going full bore. That's what the BBs sound like. Un-bloodybeetroot-bearable. I'd rather listen to 'the best of Iron Maiden' on repeat for 24 hours than endure this eccy-induced dirge.
AAArrrgggghhHHHHH. I'm turning into my mother.
No comments:
Post a Comment