Well we're in the hole now!
I have been suffering from amateur-writer's block lately. That has never ever EVER happened to me before. Usually, the words just flow. I suspect it is because I care more about the digital footprints I leave behind these days. You see, I have this website counter implemented in the background of this site, and I can see how people come through to my site. This week, the visitors were mostly people from around the world who had googled my name. I can't deny, I felt week in the knees, and not in the romantic, freshly-fallen-in-love kind of way, but the ohmygod-there's-a-creepy-stalker-following-me kind of way. Shite.
But the reason for this post, the spark for the free word-flowing if you will, was the Eurovision song contest. The first preliminaries were last night and as much as I think this contest is getting out of hand in the area of the rediculous, I always watch, Lay's sour cream & onion in hand. The songs were bad, OK, tolerable and completely horrible. And what do you know, we got through. Iceland acctually got through. When they started holding theses preliminaries, as opposed to cramming all 40-something nations together into one giant competition night, Icelanders as a nation were fairly certain that we would never ever get to migrate to the final competition night, and the popular opinion was that the Eastern block was to blame; that they'd formed some sort of voting 'mafia', only voting for their neighbours in the contest, no matter how rubbish the songs were etc. Needless to say, Scandinavians do exactly the same thing, and the rest don't really care enough to form conspiracy theories.
The explanation for Eastern Europe's dominance in the competition for the past few years may be as simple as they care enough to vote, and that neighbouring countries have similar tastes in songs.
But anyway.
Our representative, the cute-as-a-button Jóhanna (or Yohanna, to the rest of the continent) did admirably under pressure, did her bit flawlessly and came out on top. Of course, we all yelled when she got the final spot and now Eurovision-parties are being organised wherever there are Icelandairs and then beer close by.
Obviously, I'm no exception. Have managed to convince the grandparents to babysit the little tyke and off we go to the general bad-song merriment. Fantabulous.
The only drawback is that if this is the year we acctually manage to win, for the first time since we started competing in 1986 or 7, we won't be able to afford hosting the blasted event. We neither have the venue nor the resources.
If the unexpected would happen during this year of resession and financial betrayal, I suggest we move the competition to the Westman Islands and hold it in unison with the legendary Þjóðhátíð during the bank holiday weekend in August.
Why the hell not?
Lastly, my embarrassing fascination with Robert Pattinson inexplicably continues. Mostly, I'm curious about him. Am embarrassed for his behalf on the title 'sex-symbol' although I'm sure he's [secretly] enjoying it (and yes, many happy returns on the 23rd birthday). But mostly, it annoys me that I, a person, cannot get in touch with other persons that happen to be named 'actors', 'sex-symbols', 'philanthropists' or even 'hand-bag designers', just because they're unapproachable due to some arbitrary social status. Oh, and the length of a continent plus ocean.
So that's why I joined Twitter. And realised that there are copycats and fakes galore, ruining the experience for me. So I'm getting in touch with real people instead, and trying to make head, tail or fin of this phenomenon.
Well, baby's bawlin' it's head off.
Later.
EddaK.
I have been suffering from amateur-writer's block lately. That has never ever EVER happened to me before. Usually, the words just flow. I suspect it is because I care more about the digital footprints I leave behind these days. You see, I have this website counter implemented in the background of this site, and I can see how people come through to my site. This week, the visitors were mostly people from around the world who had googled my name. I can't deny, I felt week in the knees, and not in the romantic, freshly-fallen-in-love kind of way, but the ohmygod-there's-a-creepy-stalker-following-me kind of way. Shite.
But the reason for this post, the spark for the free word-flowing if you will, was the Eurovision song contest. The first preliminaries were last night and as much as I think this contest is getting out of hand in the area of the rediculous, I always watch, Lay's sour cream & onion in hand. The songs were bad, OK, tolerable and completely horrible. And what do you know, we got through. Iceland acctually got through. When they started holding theses preliminaries, as opposed to cramming all 40-something nations together into one giant competition night, Icelanders as a nation were fairly certain that we would never ever get to migrate to the final competition night, and the popular opinion was that the Eastern block was to blame; that they'd formed some sort of voting 'mafia', only voting for their neighbours in the contest, no matter how rubbish the songs were etc. Needless to say, Scandinavians do exactly the same thing, and the rest don't really care enough to form conspiracy theories.
The explanation for Eastern Europe's dominance in the competition for the past few years may be as simple as they care enough to vote, and that neighbouring countries have similar tastes in songs.
But anyway.
Our representative, the cute-as-a-button Jóhanna (or Yohanna, to the rest of the continent) did admirably under pressure, did her bit flawlessly and came out on top. Of course, we all yelled when she got the final spot and now Eurovision-parties are being organised wherever there are Icelandairs and then beer close by.
Obviously, I'm no exception. Have managed to convince the grandparents to babysit the little tyke and off we go to the general bad-song merriment. Fantabulous.
The only drawback is that if this is the year we acctually manage to win, for the first time since we started competing in 1986 or 7, we won't be able to afford hosting the blasted event. We neither have the venue nor the resources.
If the unexpected would happen during this year of resession and financial betrayal, I suggest we move the competition to the Westman Islands and hold it in unison with the legendary Þjóðhátíð during the bank holiday weekend in August.
Why the hell not?
Lastly, my embarrassing fascination with Robert Pattinson inexplicably continues. Mostly, I'm curious about him. Am embarrassed for his behalf on the title 'sex-symbol' although I'm sure he's [secretly] enjoying it (and yes, many happy returns on the 23rd birthday). But mostly, it annoys me that I, a person, cannot get in touch with other persons that happen to be named 'actors', 'sex-symbols', 'philanthropists' or even 'hand-bag designers', just because they're unapproachable due to some arbitrary social status. Oh, and the length of a continent plus ocean.
So that's why I joined Twitter. And realised that there are copycats and fakes galore, ruining the experience for me. So I'm getting in touch with real people instead, and trying to make head, tail or fin of this phenomenon.
Well, baby's bawlin' it's head off.
Later.
EddaK.
Færslur
0 whispers:
Sendu inn athugasemd