Why are there so many songs about rainbows?

Why are there so many songs about rainbows
And what's on the other side?
Rainbows are visions, but only illusions,
And rainbows have nothing to hide.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it
I know they're wrong, wait and see.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that
And someone believed it,
And look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing?
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.

All of us under its spell,
We know that it's probably magic....

Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it.
Is it something that I'm supposed to be?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers and me.
La, la la, La, la la la, La Laa, la la, La, La la laaaaaaa

(reprise from "The Muppet Movie"):

Why are there so many songs about rainbows?
That's part of what rainbows do.
Rainbows are memories, sweet dream reminders --
What is it you'd like to do?
All of us watching and wishing we'd find it,
I know you're watching it, too.
Someday you'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and you!

The Cure.

If my reading of anatomy is correct, then I am almost certainly a "boy". I have all the requisite bits needed for the job. Otherwise my clitoris is out of control.

I find it quite apt that The Cure should be bothered writing a song about my sex. I think they have covered some good ground. The opening riff sums up a lot about pent up desire in the modern man. The first attempt at an apology (for the break-up?) is one that is attempted to be brushed under the carpet with lies......

Let's be blunt, the main message of the tune is that we (men) are above feelings of weakness and certainly "don't cry" unless someone has just sacked our village and made slaves of our women folk or possibly just punched us in the face repeatedly.

Even then, I think the song's strong motif counters the idea of male tears.

The Cure were a weird old band. At times I have rejoiced in their simple interpetations of life eg. "Friday, I'm in love" or "Lovecats" Reow. Even songs like "Just like heaven" have calmed the acid (LCD. TM.) madness once or twice!

For deaths on our roads 'they' utilised "Pictures of you" which is a really touching and moving song that also goes a little way to taking the opposite view that "boys don't cry."



Pictures of you by The Cure.

i've been looking so long at these pictures of
you that i almost belive that they're real i've
been living so long with my pictures of you that
i almost believe that the pictures are all i can
feel

remembering you standing quiet in the rain as
i ran to your heart to be near and we kissed as
the sky fell in holding you close how i always
held close in your fear remembering you
running soft through the night you were bigger
and brighter than the snow and
screamed at the make-believe screamed at the
sky and you finally found all your courage to
let it all go

remembering you fallen into my arms crying
for the death of your heart you were stone
white so delicate lost in the cold you were
always so lost in the dark remembering you
how you used to be slow drowned you were
angels so much more than everything oh hold
for the last time then slip away quietly open
my eyes but i never see anything

if only i had thought of the right words i could
have hold on to your heart if only i'd thought of
the right words i wouldn't be breaking apart all
my pictures of you

Looking So long at these pictures of you but i
never hold on to your heart looking so long for
the words to be true but always just breaking
apart my pictures of you

there was nothing in the world that i ever
wanted more than to feel you deep in my heart
there was nothing in the world that i ever
wanted more than to never feel the breaking
apart all my pictures of you


But the gold old tune "Boy's don't cry" seems to be at least somewhat about my sex (or lack there of) and reflects a deeper understanding of the male psychology.

Namely, that we will always be "boys."

Pass me the darts.
It's your shout.
She's a moll.
I bet I can nail this.
Is that the best you've got?
My bombs are bigger than your bombs.
My God is more powerful that your God.
My race is superior to your race.
My arse and your face.


Sad.

Single (again..)

Hope I win the pubican's purse tonight.


It may not be easy being green but it is not easy being single again either.

Cuteness and light.

In the immortal words of Kermit the frog... “time’s fun when you’re having flies.”

As 2008 comes to an end, I thought it appropriate to put a blog entry up for my lovely girlfriend, very possibly the only person I know who ever reads these short pages.

Well, now that we have established my intended audience, let me recount the ways I love you.

You are drop-dead gorgeous, sexy, vivacious, intelligent, funny, huggable, caring, generous, talented and I also love your smell!

You make me so happy.

I can’t wait to see you again.

X.

I like beer.

MSSQL versus MYSQL...Round 7! They're getting tired!

BAM!
MYSQL is into the round early with what looks like it could be a knockout punch!

MSSQL certainly does look pretty groggy there Mike! And with the second "ten" count that sees us to the end of round 7, let's see how MYSQL pulled up after the round.

For those of you looking for the function Round()

Here is it's usage:
SELECT ROUND(x, y)

Rounds the argument x to y decimal places.

eg. ROUND(10.254323,2) = 10.25

Another email from a mate abroad in Dublin town...

THE DUBLIN REPORT:

BUSKERS, BEGGARS & BEES

Firstly, Irish bees: I don・t know what they put in the pollen here, but the bees are ginormous. If Elvis was a bee, he・d be an irish bee. Big fat buggers going from flower to flower like mums in Four Wheel Drives dropping their kids off at school. They emerge from the bell of one flower, slightly wobbly like a fat drunk bracing himself by the doorway of a pub after a gutful, then wobble through the air like the same drunk disappearing down the road looking for takeaway. Not a patch on our lithe industrious aussie bees, no, these blokes are big and clumsy and lazy. I am now convinced that the main reason for the Irish Famine of the 1840s was because the bees were eating all their potatos. Why oh why, I ask myself, didn・t people catch and eat the bees. One hive could have fed the whole of Galway for a week!

And speaking of stings, it is now time to talk of Grafton St Mall. Actually, it・s not the plethora of buskers and beggars that you mind, it・s the outrageous prices in the shops. I honestly don・t think I・ve seen a broader variety than the buskers in Grafton St. There are folkie singers,Latin American trumpeters, bluesy slide guitarists, string quartets, smoky sax players, jugglers, fire eaters, escapologists, acrobats, old drunk blokes singing Molly Malone with less than accomplished tin whistle accompaniment from their old drinking mate, there・s a bloke who curls up into a small ball and wears a Chinese dog outfit over himself, and my very favourite ・ the living statues: one woman is painted and attired entirely in gold and she stands completely still until some small child is prompted to drop a coin in the case at her feet. She then slowly comes to life, gracefully taps the kid on her head with a golden wand, then returns to her frozen pose. The kid is enchanted, and the goddess is a euro richer.There・s another bloke stands still like a statue, dressed in all sorts of mad baubles and medals and holding a baton; someone drops a coin in his slot (I have not gone close enough to work out exactly where his slot is), and suddenly there・s a whirl of music and he・s a manic conductor doing a little dance and honking horns for all of 30 seconds, then he freezes again.There・s another bloke dressed entirely in black with traces of birdshit on him, and he takes the exact pose of the James Joyce statue. He doesn・t do anything, just stands there in the exact pose of Joyce ・ except that Joyce was quite a dapper small fella and this bloke has a beer gut the size of a granny flat hanging out. There are two blokes who dress in suits but wear cow masks, and they just sit on a pair of toilet seats they brought with them, beneath a sign proclaiming Moo On A Loo, and read their paper. People walk past, throw a coin in their case, and they don・t even acknowledge them. The prize winner of all buskers though is someone I didn・t even see the other day. All there was was a hat in the middle of the street ・ no busker to be seen, and noone that I could see who looked like he was the owner of the hat. But there were coins in the hat, and when I stopped to look, the occasional passerby would drop a coin in it, and from the amount in the hat, whoever owned it was doing very nicely thank you very much. I don・t know whether you would classify this as minimalist busking, or actually begging, whatever it was it was a nice little earner.

Most beggars are extremely polite. If you walk past without acknowledging them they・ll still say thank you or bless you. Not surprising really, because the competition is fierce. There is a hell of a lot of beggars out there. Lots of Roma(gypsey) women with babies, and if they have any other kiddies they strategically place them at regular intervals further down the street. One bloke I passed a few times of a nightime would sleep in the same doorway with his hat out for donations and a cute little white bitzer dog snuggling into him. I did at one stage, taken by the pathos of the scene, take some coin out of my pocket and lean down to drop them into the bloke・s hat, but then the dog snarled and growled and bared its teeth and I backed off quickly. No wonder the poor bloke is living in the street and can・t afford a feed. There・s another fella I noticed who always takes the same spot around the corner, and all the people working in the area obviously know him. They・ll make their donation and talk about the weather or whatever, and he・ll make small talk, and they・ll keep walking on without hardly slowing up, almost like it・s the daily routine ・ same as getting a newspaper or whatever.

In spite of the booming economy, the gap between rich and poor is enormous, and there are a lot of people over here doing it pretty hard. What came as a surprise and an education though was that Ireland has its own ethnic minority. Commonly called Travellers, used to be known as tinkers, derogatively called knackers, and often confused with gypsies, these people call themselves Pavee, and have their own language and culture and can be traced back for at least 800 years. If you saw the movie ・Snatch・, that was what the Brad Pitt character and his mates were supposed to be. Their culture was always to be on the move, like gypsies,but they are discriminated against, and lots of local councils stuck boulders in the way of the turn-offs to their traditional camping areas, and the government insists that to get welfare benefits they have to be in one place, so their vans and caravans are pulled up, often for years, on verges in the suburbs, or bigger bits of land by industrial estates. The strange thing is that while everyone was against the English, they were left pretty much to themselves ・ it・s since independence that most of the discrimination became entrenched. And the same problems that face the koori folk at home are encountered by the pavee ・ illiteracy, lower life rates, pressure to assimilate, prejudices like they can・t be trusted, they・re drunks, lazy, etc.

Ah, the more things change・. From our ritzy sixth floor apartment we can look out at the industrial estate beyond our road, and when we first moved in there was a pavee group of about 4 vans parked on a grassy verge outside a bus depot ・ of an evening you・d see a few of the kids kicking a ball around and one or two adults wandering from one van to another - but only last night I noticed that the grass verge had been concreted over into a carpark, and the pavee family had gone. And god knows when this happened, it may have been yesterday, it may have been a week ago ・ it is very much like the pavee are becoming invisible.

And on that happy yet educational note, we shall wave goodbye yet again from not so sunny Dublin (yesterday was the first in 63 days when it didn・t rain), and say au revoir (gaelic for ・goodbye・)

Good on you Gordo!