At Least You're Not a Crab, Frozen For Viewing Pleasure

This Friday was perhaps the first time I have ever been genuinely counting down to the release of a new song by an artist I like - I tend to count down to the release of books, or the end of school, or the days left until the weekend, but nothing else. This Friday, though, was the beginning of a new age of Gaga and since I, like, love her (and her brown eyes), I was looking forward to it.

Upon first listening I was more or less unimpressed, but I have since done an imitation of radio overplay by repeating it over and over and have effectively forced myself to come round. I love Gaga and am therefore prepared to accept this song as part of her progression. As a rule, I have liked the darker side of her former albums more than the radio-fodder, so if Born This Way is of a similar vein to Bad Romance and Poker Face, then I can probably anticipate a few more I Like It Rough's and Speechless..es... to be thrown in the mix. And, who am I kidding, I LOVE Alejandro. And who am I to talk about radio fodder? I went to the Backstreet Boy's concert. Recently. And LOVED it.

Oh, hey, look, I just became a music reviewer. Shame. On a blog that's supposed to be about Japan... In news that crosses both genres, Taylor Swift is in Osaka. Oh Em Gee. (I am feigning irony, I would actually really like to be at this concert. In fact, I would sincerely like to be at the concert of ANY major international act in Japan, simply because I have a feeling that the Japan Mindset would manifest itself in the Japanese Mosh Pit, and everyone would just sort of stand and sway and smile, and I would only need the frenetic action of my feet, and could eschew elbowing entirely, in order to get to the front and witness Taylor's lovely wee self with mine own eyes)(This is actually a matter of some importance to me, given that when I was fortunate enough to see Gaga live in Auckland, and pushy enough to get to the very front row, I then passed out in the middle of Alejandro and had to be toted away by a long-suffering bouncer. And then I ate chips with Lady Hawke)(I really shouldn't blog on Sundays, its painfully poor writing and I keep putting apostrophes where they OUGHT NOT BE and offending The Principles of Structured Writing on many, many levels).

So I know I promised photos of Big White Things but Manfriend just purchased a new, phallic camera and insisted on taking all the shots (Me with Snowy Wolves; Me With Snowy Castle, Me with Snowy Stingray, Me with Japanese Baby, Me with Mulled Wine, Me with More Mulled Wine), which I was more than amenable to because I was having a Good Hair Day, but now all the photos, along with his sweet-smelling self, have departed for Niseko, and I am left with no visual aids with which to sustain your attention. The plight of The Lazy Photographer.

Here's one though, because The Fact of The iPhone means that occasionally I am texting/Twittering/playing Words with Friends when I walk past something photogenic, like fish cruelly suspended in ice, and it is the work of a finger to take a picture and then forget about it. For accuracy's sake (because this blog is nothing if not factual) it should be noted that this picture comes from the Ice Festival rather than Snow Festival, a fact that you could probably have deduced on your own, given that Ice is Transparent and Snow is Not, but I like to ensure clarity in all walks of life. That said, it's not wholly impossible that the 12 meter high sculpture of a Chinese Temple wasn't positively TEEMING with dead frozen fish, but I have no photographic evidence to support this with.

See? Possibly entirely devoid of marine life.

So yeah. The long weekend has ticked on past. I spent altogether too much of it Looking At Cold Things, but a satisfying portion of it Eating Hot Things. As I have mentioned, Manfriend has departed in his little black shoebox, taking with him all hope that I might eat a sensible dinner. This weekend I tried my hand at the creation of Valentine's chocolates, all of which were more or less a total failure, in that they are ugly, though still delicious. So I have maybe thirty tiny deformed chocolates filling the shelves of my fridge that must needs be disposed of before someone comes over and surveys sadly my total inability to Melt Chocolate And Pour It Into Moulds So That It Resembles Something You Might Give To Someone To Tell Them That You Love Them Instead of Looking Like The Droppings Of A Cancerous Rabbit.

Want one?

This week at school might feasibly push me over the edge of sanity and into the Abyss of Madness. It is Speaking Test week, meaning that I have to ask 120 students "Do You Enjoy Swimming?" and watch as they immediately forget every single word of English they ever learnt. One fellow JET had the immeasurable pleasure of watching one petrified student Literally Pee His Pants out of pure terror. Here's hoping I have that same joy. At least it will break up the monotony.

Have a good week, lovers. You're on the right track.