So, just last week, the question was put to me whether there is ever any communication confusion between myself and E due to accents, vocabulary etc. My answer was that it was mostly misunderstanding on my own part due to the rapidity with which the Welsh accent can be dispatched.
However, an incident has occurred which makes me feel less like I need either a hearing aid (which I might) or a translator.
As we all know, E is a rugby fan. He is not very much a football/soccer fan. His term for football/soccer is 'Wendy Ball', as in 'Oh, there is no need to go there; they are just showing the Wendy Ball.' (meaning, 'for sissies', or other gamist points of view) The other day, as my poor feetsies were pitiful from the wrinkled-up inside soles of my boots and I needed a short rest, we went into a pub, and when E returned to the table, I said, 'Well, sorry we had to come in here.. they are showing the Wendy Ball...' To which E replied in genuine confusion, 'What?'
Conversation continued thus:
A: 'The Wendy Ball...?'
E: 'Windy Baw?????'
A: 'Yeah. The Wendy Ball...' (with slight rise in intonation as to question sanity)
E: 'Windy Baw' (with slight downtone as to question sanity)
A: 'WENDY BALLLLLLLL'
E: 'WINDY BAWWWWW?'
A: 'Yes. You know, Wendy Ball!'
E: 'What is Windy Baw?'
A: 'Ummmm....' (points at t.v.)
E: 'Ooohhh! Wehhhhhndeee Bawllllll' (with far-too-exaggerated vowels)
A: 'Well, yeah! That is what I said....' (with a 'y' in sayudd just for emphasis)
We shall push forward in our linguistic efforts.
Wee shore weeyull, shuggah!
Sunday, 27 January 2008
Monday, 21 January 2008
Armadillos in Amarillo
That song is still here...
That 'Is This the Way to Amarillo' song. It has been in every pantomime I have been to so far, this year's rendition involving a ship called the HMS Armadillo. (You can just guess where this took us -- a clapping, singing, swaying mayhem. That is where. I am so ashamed.) I cannot seem to get away from it, and my protestations have caused people to tell me this is a British song. My instincts are all against this being true, but Clem and Eamonn are very proud to call me wrong. They do relent that an American wrote it (Neil Sedaka), but put their lower jaws out in a rather prideful way that a Tony Christie released it first in 1971.
Wikipedia says this song 'remains generally unknown in the United States' -- but I remember listening to it on KWKH in the '70s and there are a few of you out there who remember this, so help me! Was this some random British bloke singing about losing Marie in Amarillo? Fie, I say, FIE!
This is all very distressing.
*******
On another, perhaps more realistic, distressing note (in a positive way. Is this the chemical imbalance coming out?), Charlie Wilson's War was very enjoyable this evening. It is the second movie involving Afghanistan which I have seen in the past two weeks (the other being The Kite Runner). I shall have to investigate some history now (since I wasn't the most aware child from 1987-oh, two Thursdays ago), but it is a shame that the US went in and 'changed the world' and then 'f---ed up the end game.' It is interesting to me, although my claim to fame is not as a global analyst, that the same thing might happen again and we might eff off out of where we have 'saved' (if indeed we want to use the verb, since we really don't know what the hecks is happening -- good or bad.)... Just not sure. But Philip Seymour Hoffman does continue to impress me, in a begrudging sort of way.
And for those who have not seen The Kite Runner, your pitiful little problems in life will seem as important as they truly are when you see this (and I am about to start the book, as there are lots of things left out apparently). While the main character irritated the bejeezus out of me for most of the movie, it was entirely relvant to his character and later decisions. Very poignant for us comfortable US children of the '70s.
That 'Is This the Way to Amarillo' song. It has been in every pantomime I have been to so far, this year's rendition involving a ship called the HMS Armadillo. (You can just guess where this took us -- a clapping, singing, swaying mayhem. That is where. I am so ashamed.) I cannot seem to get away from it, and my protestations have caused people to tell me this is a British song. My instincts are all against this being true, but Clem and Eamonn are very proud to call me wrong. They do relent that an American wrote it (Neil Sedaka), but put their lower jaws out in a rather prideful way that a Tony Christie released it first in 1971.
Wikipedia says this song 'remains generally unknown in the United States' -- but I remember listening to it on KWKH in the '70s and there are a few of you out there who remember this, so help me! Was this some random British bloke singing about losing Marie in Amarillo? Fie, I say, FIE!
This is all very distressing.
*******
On another, perhaps more realistic, distressing note (in a positive way. Is this the chemical imbalance coming out?), Charlie Wilson's War was very enjoyable this evening. It is the second movie involving Afghanistan which I have seen in the past two weeks (the other being The Kite Runner). I shall have to investigate some history now (since I wasn't the most aware child from 1987-oh, two Thursdays ago), but it is a shame that the US went in and 'changed the world' and then 'f---ed up the end game.' It is interesting to me, although my claim to fame is not as a global analyst, that the same thing might happen again and we might eff off out of where we have 'saved' (if indeed we want to use the verb, since we really don't know what the hecks is happening -- good or bad.)... Just not sure. But Philip Seymour Hoffman does continue to impress me, in a begrudging sort of way.
And for those who have not seen The Kite Runner, your pitiful little problems in life will seem as important as they truly are when you see this (and I am about to start the book, as there are lots of things left out apparently). While the main character irritated the bejeezus out of me for most of the movie, it was entirely relvant to his character and later decisions. Very poignant for us comfortable US children of the '70s.
Saturday, 12 January 2008
No Pants 2k8
Just about now, my illustrious and creative Cousine L. is roaming through NYC with no pants, and I am so proud! If only I were there (and 20 pounds thinner), we could make family history. Or infamy. And that would make us giggle!
Today is the 7th Annual No Pants! Subway Ride, and this year, there are 10 locations participating.
NOTE: This is 'pants' in the American sense, Dawny :)
Requirements for participation are:
1) Willingness to take pants off on subway
2) Ability to keep straight face about it (this would be the part where I might falter)
Not to objectivise L., but rumour has it she will have black boyshort underpants on.
Today is the 7th Annual No Pants! Subway Ride, and this year, there are 10 locations participating.
NOTE: This is 'pants' in the American sense, Dawny :)
Requirements for participation are:
1) Willingness to take pants off on subway
2) Ability to keep straight face about it (this would be the part where I might falter)
Not to objectivise L., but rumour has it she will have black boyshort underpants on.
Buttermilk and barns
My reason for dawdling in getting blogging in the new year is that I am in denial that it has actually begun. However, I am very much looking forward to writing dates this year, as 8 is one of my favourite digits to write. (Hello, my name is Amrie, and I like to do drawerings of numbers... were you looking at my bum?)
*******
What this country needs is more buttermilk. Buttermilk is only sold in these 1/2 pint non-resealable containers and is really too thick to be drunk, this probably being the reason that acquaintances recoil in horror at the mention that one might miss drinking buttermilk. These poor souls don't know what they are missing -- mmmm, mmm, good! (This reaction also extends to my fellow Americans in the office, although they are from questionable locales of Ohio and Oregon, where buttermilk drinking appears to be punishable by law.) I am going to go with the thickness of the buttermilk being the justifiable reason that my New Year cornbread stuck to the pan. Other NYD fare included a sort of soupey-type concoction with peas and lentils made with left over phea-duck-en from Christmas. Eamonn has informed me that one is meant to put baking soda in when cooking cabbage -- is this true?
*******
The 3000-piece puzzle of Venice on Ascention Day has been abandoned after the holly-day. It was a bit of an ambitious task and when one has a fairly tiny floor to begin with, it becomes slightly annoying to have the odd puzzle piece stuck to the bottom of your foot.
Working for an educational institution is really quite nice at the holiday time, since you get an actual holiday, instead of an unreasonable teaser of paid leave (i.e., Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year's Day only). This allowed me to completely ruin my body clock and find it horrible challenging to emerge into the early dark cold on 2 January. But we don't like to complain :)
During the holiday period of telly advertising, which on the positive side, does not begin in earnest nearly as obnoxiously early as in the US (I mean, August is really too ridiculous to be able to appreciate carols), I made an observation of linguistic interest. For shops that are trying to target the 'sensible' shopper, producers use Scottish accents. Morrison's is the one that springs to mind because their ads are still on post-holiday, but there are others. Yorkshire accents are used for adverts for things that are homey and cosy. It is just interesting to note. I find that I am starting to be able to pick these things up, and it is cool to notice one's ear-volution. titter
*******
And now, on to the barn topic (which is really not the actual subject, but for alliterative purposes, you know...).
For several years now, I have been wrinkly-nosed about farmed chicken (and I know the issue extends to other meats as well), after reading an enlightening article in The New Yorker, which unfortunately was then misplaced and which I have been completely unable to locate since. The memorable parts of this article were the conditions in which chickens 'live' and the effects that antibiotics and growth hormones are having on the hormonal composition of society as a whole, most notably, early puberty and complications arising from this.
The chicken industry was highlighted in The Independent and other media over the past week or so, and Jamie Oliver (aka, The Naked Chef to my BBC America-viewer readers) hosted a disturbing and informative show last evening, Jamie's Fowl Dinners. It was grim and even worse than the images I already had regarding farming and how conditions are driven by consumer demand for ever cheaper meat -- I mean, do you really think that a whole chicken that is £2.50 is going to be anything that you want to put into your body?
Pound for pound, chicken that we eat is cheaper than some dog food. Something is terrifically awry here...
He brought in actual machinery and live chickens and demonstrated most of the aspects of life and death -- including:
* gassing on live television of male chicks, since they are no use in egg production
* slaughtering a chicken through electrocution and bleeding it out through its mouth
* MRM production (this means 'mechanically recovered meat') -- this is done using the carcasses of egg-laying chickens after they have reached their prime, generally a year (the average lifespan of a normal chicken is 8-10 years).
After the breasts are cut off for use in those lovely ready-made microwave meals, the legs are cut off for exportation to Europe, and the feet and necks are cut off for exportation to China, the carcasses are put into a huge vat, after which they are pressed with a multi-ton weight to squish out all that can be squished through sausage tube holes in the bottom, to create a 'paste-like and batter-like meat product', according to Wikipedia. This is used to make various things like hotdogs and other processed foods. yum. My personal habit is to avoid anything that uses a food or beverage noun followed by the word 'product' -- blech!
A few salient facts for people who don't want to have to go and read about it:
* lifespan of a meat-bred chicken: 38 days (from chick to slaughter weight)
* price per chicken that a farmer gets for a meat-bred chicken: 3 pence
* broken eggs are made into separate consumables known as 'wet egg' products (there is that 'product' word again), including the delectable-looking long egg. ewww
I must work hard so as to be able to afford my own personal organic farm... and I am really quite serious. I shall also make my own buttermilk and have you all 'round for dinner.
*******
What this country needs is more buttermilk. Buttermilk is only sold in these 1/2 pint non-resealable containers and is really too thick to be drunk, this probably being the reason that acquaintances recoil in horror at the mention that one might miss drinking buttermilk. These poor souls don't know what they are missing -- mmmm, mmm, good! (This reaction also extends to my fellow Americans in the office, although they are from questionable locales of Ohio and Oregon, where buttermilk drinking appears to be punishable by law.) I am going to go with the thickness of the buttermilk being the justifiable reason that my New Year cornbread stuck to the pan. Other NYD fare included a sort of soupey-type concoction with peas and lentils made with left over phea-duck-en from Christmas. Eamonn has informed me that one is meant to put baking soda in when cooking cabbage -- is this true?
*******
The 3000-piece puzzle of Venice on Ascention Day has been abandoned after the holly-day. It was a bit of an ambitious task and when one has a fairly tiny floor to begin with, it becomes slightly annoying to have the odd puzzle piece stuck to the bottom of your foot.
Working for an educational institution is really quite nice at the holiday time, since you get an actual holiday, instead of an unreasonable teaser of paid leave (i.e., Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year's Day only). This allowed me to completely ruin my body clock and find it horrible challenging to emerge into the early dark cold on 2 January. But we don't like to complain :)
During the holiday period of telly advertising, which on the positive side, does not begin in earnest nearly as obnoxiously early as in the US (I mean, August is really too ridiculous to be able to appreciate carols), I made an observation of linguistic interest. For shops that are trying to target the 'sensible' shopper, producers use Scottish accents. Morrison's is the one that springs to mind because their ads are still on post-holiday, but there are others. Yorkshire accents are used for adverts for things that are homey and cosy. It is just interesting to note. I find that I am starting to be able to pick these things up, and it is cool to notice one's ear-volution. titter
*******
And now, on to the barn topic (which is really not the actual subject, but for alliterative purposes, you know...).
For several years now, I have been wrinkly-nosed about farmed chicken (and I know the issue extends to other meats as well), after reading an enlightening article in The New Yorker, which unfortunately was then misplaced and which I have been completely unable to locate since. The memorable parts of this article were the conditions in which chickens 'live' and the effects that antibiotics and growth hormones are having on the hormonal composition of society as a whole, most notably, early puberty and complications arising from this.
The chicken industry was highlighted in The Independent and other media over the past week or so, and Jamie Oliver (aka, The Naked Chef to my BBC America-viewer readers) hosted a disturbing and informative show last evening, Jamie's Fowl Dinners. It was grim and even worse than the images I already had regarding farming and how conditions are driven by consumer demand for ever cheaper meat -- I mean, do you really think that a whole chicken that is £2.50 is going to be anything that you want to put into your body?
Pound for pound, chicken that we eat is cheaper than some dog food. Something is terrifically awry here...
He brought in actual machinery and live chickens and demonstrated most of the aspects of life and death -- including:
* gassing on live television of male chicks, since they are no use in egg production
* slaughtering a chicken through electrocution and bleeding it out through its mouth
* MRM production (this means 'mechanically recovered meat') -- this is done using the carcasses of egg-laying chickens after they have reached their prime, generally a year (the average lifespan of a normal chicken is 8-10 years).
After the breasts are cut off for use in those lovely ready-made microwave meals, the legs are cut off for exportation to Europe, and the feet and necks are cut off for exportation to China, the carcasses are put into a huge vat, after which they are pressed with a multi-ton weight to squish out all that can be squished through sausage tube holes in the bottom, to create a 'paste-like and batter-like meat product', according to Wikipedia. This is used to make various things like hotdogs and other processed foods. yum. My personal habit is to avoid anything that uses a food or beverage noun followed by the word 'product' -- blech!
A few salient facts for people who don't want to have to go and read about it:
* lifespan of a meat-bred chicken: 38 days (from chick to slaughter weight)
* price per chicken that a farmer gets for a meat-bred chicken: 3 pence
* broken eggs are made into separate consumables known as 'wet egg' products (there is that 'product' word again), including the delectable-looking long egg. ewww
I must work hard so as to be able to afford my own personal organic farm... and I am really quite serious. I shall also make my own buttermilk and have you all 'round for dinner.
Saturday, 29 December 2007
Cords
My philosophic venture forth today is to propose that there are few things that can render a relatively sane person (note my use of the adverb relatively) completely blind with rage and bleeding profanity and insanity than wrestling with power cords and other useless compilations of wiring encased in plastic or rubber and which lead to various electrical/telephonic dust-collectors.
My current panting (and repentant prayers for my utterances) is the result of a space-saving plan for a calm and entertaining productivity on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. For the past few months, the phone/internet ridiculosity of plastic has sat quite unattractively (and dining-inhibitingly) on my tiny table in the kitchen. Wires in five-mile proliferation were just hanging all over the place at the foot of the table, and I hated them daily (so I had to pile some Miracle Gro potting soil bags in front of them, which admittedly did not help the dining experience either).
Well, in a burst of inspiration, it seemed a good idea to scootch my dresser into the kitchen next to the back door, this allowing me to hide these unbecoming wires and add a nice lamp into kitchen ambience (as overhead lighting makes me feel ill). A secondary benefit of said lamp idea would be to partly hide the phone connection wire which hangs from approximately the height of my nose and down to the floor (what idiot engineer did that I would certainly like to smack heartily).
From the floor level, this absurd wire has been trailed and tacked along the dustboard towards the doorway to the rest of the house, makes a right turn at doorway, goes under doorway to end at next corner of the room. One additional absurdity of this assemblage is enough dust collected on a bi-weekly basis (hidden between cord and dustboard and in particular piles at the tack points) to create a new Adam -- and maybe even an Eve.
Dresser was scootched in small increments due to my rebellious and completely unfestive back. And it was good. And Amrie was pleased with her idea.
It was good until she attempted to corral these damnable cords. When one would get untangled and corralled in a little twist-tie, the plastic phone base would go shooting off in another direction, crash to the floor and lose its power lead. Power lead would then have to be disentangled (from the phone lines and other two power cords) and reattached to the base, at which point the phone line would get itself back stuck in the threading tacks. And then you try to unhitch it, only to find that you are instead tugging and detaching the cable lead which is also attached to dustboards with those annoying tacks and which leads from nowhere and to nowhere. Why it is here is a mystery, but the kitchen grease and dust sticking to it indicate antiquity. When you tug on this lead, it does not come unhitched easily, leaving the tacks on the wall, it detaches the tacks leaving 1/4-inch diameter holes in the wall. (These can be shoved back in with the hope they go unnoticed as 'damage'.) Then the internet box falls over on its face, jerking the phone line to the back of the trashcan quite inconveniently. Imagine various brooms and mops are also falling out of the doorway corner next to this melee and clanging into the metal trashcan (rubbish bin) in a most unsettling manner. This whole process was repeated several times.
At long last, five miles of cords, phone lines, etc. were simply shoved under the back of the dresser in a fitful swivet. However, in yet another demonstration of engineering genius, the stupid power plugs are of varying shapes and sizes, preventing any stowage of the power strip underneath anything. Why some clever electrical creator cannot invent a unified prototype for power plugs is beyond me. And I do NOT wish to hear any silly excuses like ampage or wattage or something silly. If 'they' can continue to create smaller and smaller memory storage and tinier and tinier MP3 players, surely some gorgeous geek can get to work on this and help the aesthetics of homes around the world.
And then my tea was cold.
Now I need a lie down and some Hetty Wainthropp Investigates.
And some fudge.
My current panting (and repentant prayers for my utterances) is the result of a space-saving plan for a calm and entertaining productivity on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. For the past few months, the phone/internet ridiculosity of plastic has sat quite unattractively (and dining-inhibitingly) on my tiny table in the kitchen. Wires in five-mile proliferation were just hanging all over the place at the foot of the table, and I hated them daily (so I had to pile some Miracle Gro potting soil bags in front of them, which admittedly did not help the dining experience either).
Well, in a burst of inspiration, it seemed a good idea to scootch my dresser into the kitchen next to the back door, this allowing me to hide these unbecoming wires and add a nice lamp into kitchen ambience (as overhead lighting makes me feel ill). A secondary benefit of said lamp idea would be to partly hide the phone connection wire which hangs from approximately the height of my nose and down to the floor (what idiot engineer did that I would certainly like to smack heartily).
From the floor level, this absurd wire has been trailed and tacked along the dustboard towards the doorway to the rest of the house, makes a right turn at doorway, goes under doorway to end at next corner of the room. One additional absurdity of this assemblage is enough dust collected on a bi-weekly basis (hidden between cord and dustboard and in particular piles at the tack points) to create a new Adam -- and maybe even an Eve.
Dresser was scootched in small increments due to my rebellious and completely unfestive back. And it was good. And Amrie was pleased with her idea.
It was good until she attempted to corral these damnable cords. When one would get untangled and corralled in a little twist-tie, the plastic phone base would go shooting off in another direction, crash to the floor and lose its power lead. Power lead would then have to be disentangled (from the phone lines and other two power cords) and reattached to the base, at which point the phone line would get itself back stuck in the threading tacks. And then you try to unhitch it, only to find that you are instead tugging and detaching the cable lead which is also attached to dustboards with those annoying tacks and which leads from nowhere and to nowhere. Why it is here is a mystery, but the kitchen grease and dust sticking to it indicate antiquity. When you tug on this lead, it does not come unhitched easily, leaving the tacks on the wall, it detaches the tacks leaving 1/4-inch diameter holes in the wall. (These can be shoved back in with the hope they go unnoticed as 'damage'.) Then the internet box falls over on its face, jerking the phone line to the back of the trashcan quite inconveniently. Imagine various brooms and mops are also falling out of the doorway corner next to this melee and clanging into the metal trashcan (rubbish bin) in a most unsettling manner. This whole process was repeated several times.
At long last, five miles of cords, phone lines, etc. were simply shoved under the back of the dresser in a fitful swivet. However, in yet another demonstration of engineering genius, the stupid power plugs are of varying shapes and sizes, preventing any stowage of the power strip underneath anything. Why some clever electrical creator cannot invent a unified prototype for power plugs is beyond me. And I do NOT wish to hear any silly excuses like ampage or wattage or something silly. If 'they' can continue to create smaller and smaller memory storage and tinier and tinier MP3 players, surely some gorgeous geek can get to work on this and help the aesthetics of homes around the world.
And then my tea was cold.
Now I need a lie down and some Hetty Wainthropp Investigates.
And some fudge.
Thursday, 27 December 2007
The Magic Flute
Have just gone to see Kenneth Branagh's adaptation of The Magic Flute (de Zauberflote), and it is to be highly recommended. It is a lovely film and has an awful lot of very long pan shots -- this is an amazing display of technology and mostly is not obviously enhanced (although admittedly when the earth was healing itself from the ravages of war, i managed to not be fooled). The opening single-shot sequence during the overture is probably close to five minutes.
It is a strong statement against man's violence against man, is very dismissive of created cultural and racial boundaries, and supportive of Faith and Fate. Although I have seen The Magic Flute on stage before, I had not gotten the idea of the flute as an alternative phallic representation -- instead of the expected knife or gun, this is an image of man using power in a different way. It (the flute) even makes the men put down their guns as they are coming out of the top of the trench. V. interesting.
There is more than a bit of humourous spark (due no doubt to Stephen Fry co-authoring the screenplay and English libretto). One raised eyebrow, however, has to do with some of the stretches in reality suspension: the flying birds sequence is a little too much like the hallucination of Pink Elephants on Parade in Dumbo. But then, who am I to say?
It could do with an intermission, perhaps, although this might be avoided if there weren't so many flipping adverts at the beginning...
This was also the first time I have gone to a film at the newly restored Cinema City, which is a five minute walk from my house. It opened in October, right before I left for a month, and is an arthouse theatre, showing a wider selection of shorter runs, which is very nice! Seats are plush and comfortable, which was good since my back is being horribly self-centred this week.
It is an interesting building, which in part dates from the 14th century. There is evidence of earlier buildings there, and even a ditch below the current courtyard, which dates from before the 1066 Norman Conquest; this is thought to represent a boundary ditch at the western edge of the Anglo-Scandanavian town, which had as its centre the Tombland marketplace (now in front of the Cathedral). I could type everything in the brochure, or perhaps interested readers could click here and read about the building's history :)
It is a strong statement against man's violence against man, is very dismissive of created cultural and racial boundaries, and supportive of Faith and Fate. Although I have seen The Magic Flute on stage before, I had not gotten the idea of the flute as an alternative phallic representation -- instead of the expected knife or gun, this is an image of man using power in a different way. It (the flute) even makes the men put down their guns as they are coming out of the top of the trench. V. interesting.
There is more than a bit of humourous spark (due no doubt to Stephen Fry co-authoring the screenplay and English libretto). One raised eyebrow, however, has to do with some of the stretches in reality suspension: the flying birds sequence is a little too much like the hallucination of Pink Elephants on Parade in Dumbo. But then, who am I to say?
It could do with an intermission, perhaps, although this might be avoided if there weren't so many flipping adverts at the beginning...
This was also the first time I have gone to a film at the newly restored Cinema City, which is a five minute walk from my house. It opened in October, right before I left for a month, and is an arthouse theatre, showing a wider selection of shorter runs, which is very nice! Seats are plush and comfortable, which was good since my back is being horribly self-centred this week.
It is an interesting building, which in part dates from the 14th century. There is evidence of earlier buildings there, and even a ditch below the current courtyard, which dates from before the 1066 Norman Conquest; this is thought to represent a boundary ditch at the western edge of the Anglo-Scandanavian town, which had as its centre the Tombland marketplace (now in front of the Cathedral). I could type everything in the brochure, or perhaps interested readers could click here and read about the building's history :)
Saturday, 15 December 2007
Elves
Now, this may end in wet pants (in the British and American senses), but for a little Christmas cheer, you should enjoy this (be sure and enable sound): ElfYourself.
As readers can see, Dawny has been rawther an industrious little elf today. Excellent job!
(It should be noted that Dawn is the sexy elf on the left; I am the elf that is completely out of rhythm; Matthew has an impressive bustline; and Steffi the Elf is totally into being a loon)
As readers can see, Dawny has been rawther an industrious little elf today. Excellent job!
(It should be noted that Dawn is the sexy elf on the left; I am the elf that is completely out of rhythm; Matthew has an impressive bustline; and Steffi the Elf is totally into being a loon)
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