Tuesday, August 22, 2006
I've had an inner-ear infection since about Sunday. It's been terrible.
One of the symptoms is Vertigo and my head has been to a lesser or greater extent spinning since Sunday evening.
Yesterday I couldn't read and kept bumping into things at home. Today is a bit better (I'm back at work) but I'm still woozy and absurdly have gotten used to reading the swaying monitor in front of me.
At first I thought it was some sort of food poisoning and(not uncharacteristically) freaked out.
So Anita and I jumped in the car at 04:30 on Monday morning and zoomed off to a nearby hospital.
Hospitals are unpleasant at the worst of times, but on a Monday pre-dawn morning when the night staff are sourly watching for each tick of the clock and feeling like I'm on the precipice of the mother of all hangovers it's downright yucky.
One of the nurses commented to the attending doctor[1] that perhaps I should see a shrink (it all being in my head etc. etc.).
She had noticed that my admittance form showed my being on medication.
If I hadn't been so woozy as to continuously just about fall off the bed I would have stumbled over there and given her a piece of my mind[2].
In the end I was sent home with a prescription for an antibiotic and a sick-leave certificate.
This left me spending Monday either on the couch or on the floor, depending on the motion of the ocean.
Having spent this time vaguely croozing daytime TV (including an episode of Dallas) one thing that I can now definitively say[3] that I've idenfitied THE SINGLE WORST artist[4] in the history of recorded music (thanks to VH1).
Yes, it's Enya.
My goodness - she's awful.
Twee, banal, neophytical compositions plucked out on the same frickin synthesizer since 1988.
She is incapable of any sort of mood, range or sound beyond the ethereal kack she displayed so breathtakingly on her debut single: Orinoco Flow.
Enyuck
And the lyrics, oh my, the lyrics.
[1] In a sophomoric whisper which the cloth screen into which I had been admitted didn't even begin to dampen.
[2] And probably a piece of my dinner deposited on her squeeky-soled shoes as well.
[3] And this is big - I don't easily settle questions of music[5].
[4] Though I don't think that she even deserves such a distinguished epitaph.
[5] Especially not questions that involve worsts or bests[6].
[6] The only other such question that I'm satisfied to have settled (in my own mind at least) is for greatest recorded guitar solo of all time: Cherub Rock - Smashing Pumkins.
One of the symptoms is Vertigo and my head has been to a lesser or greater extent spinning since Sunday evening.
Yesterday I couldn't read and kept bumping into things at home. Today is a bit better (I'm back at work) but I'm still woozy and absurdly have gotten used to reading the swaying monitor in front of me.
At first I thought it was some sort of food poisoning and(not uncharacteristically) freaked out.
So Anita and I jumped in the car at 04:30 on Monday morning and zoomed off to a nearby hospital.
Hospitals are unpleasant at the worst of times, but on a Monday pre-dawn morning when the night staff are sourly watching for each tick of the clock and feeling like I'm on the precipice of the mother of all hangovers it's downright yucky.
One of the nurses commented to the attending doctor[1] that perhaps I should see a shrink (it all being in my head etc. etc.).
She had noticed that my admittance form showed my being on medication.
If I hadn't been so woozy as to continuously just about fall off the bed I would have stumbled over there and given her a piece of my mind[2].
In the end I was sent home with a prescription for an antibiotic and a sick-leave certificate.
This left me spending Monday either on the couch or on the floor, depending on the motion of the ocean.
Having spent this time vaguely croozing daytime TV (including an episode of Dallas) one thing that I can now definitively say[3] that I've idenfitied THE SINGLE WORST artist[4] in the history of recorded music (thanks to VH1).
Yes, it's Enya.
My goodness - she's awful.
Twee, banal, neophytical compositions plucked out on the same frickin synthesizer since 1988.
She is incapable of any sort of mood, range or sound beyond the ethereal kack she displayed so breathtakingly on her debut single: Orinoco Flow.
EnyuckAnd the lyrics, oh my, the lyrics.
Let me sail, let me sail,
Let the orinoco flow,
Let me reach, let me beach
On the shores of Tripoli.
Let me sail, let me sail,
Let me crash upon your shore,
Let me reach, let me beach
Far beyond the Yellow Sea.
From Bissau to Palau - in the shade of Avalon,
From Fiji to Tiree and the Isles of Ebony,
From Peru to Cebu hear the power of Babylon,
From Bali to Cali - far beneath the Coral Sea.
From the North to the South,
Ebudà into Khartoum,
From the deep sea of Clouds
To the island of the moon,
Carry me on the waves
To the lands I've never been,
Carry me on the waves
To the lands I've never seen.
We can sail, we can sail...
We can steer, we can near
With Rob Dickins at the wheel,
We can sigh, say goodbye
Ross and his dependencies
We can sail, we can sail...
[1] In a sophomoric whisper which the cloth screen into which I had been admitted didn't even begin to dampen.
[2] And probably a piece of my dinner deposited on her squeeky-soled shoes as well.
[3] And this is big - I don't easily settle questions of music[5].
[4] Though I don't think that she even deserves such a distinguished epitaph.
[5] Especially not questions that involve worsts or bests[6].
[6] The only other such question that I'm satisfied to have settled (in my own mind at least) is for greatest recorded guitar solo of all time: Cherub Rock - Smashing Pumkins.
// posted by werner @ 3:29:00 pm 
