My final anti-cupid suggestion isn't quite a love letter...more a sentence...a sprinkling of words...a banner statement, if you will...

Though...in an attempt to prove that I'm not a complete curmudgeon when it comes to the under-dressed child with the bow and arrow...I'm including a rather sweet rendition of Never Tear Us Apart with today's post...

Santa's visit to the Hebden hacienda was a little late this year. I blame all those mince pies and cookies...the fact that Rudolph, at his advanced age, has to be moving a little more slowly these days...and that Christmas, this year, was coming from Holland (well, the gift portion at least). Sad to say, it had reached the stage where I was beginning to think that the Grinch had finally managed to succeed in his felonious aspirations...or that the post office (aka Santa's Not So Helpful Little Helper) had lost my package.

Then, suddenly, it arrived...a walnut iWood...whose classic form is the perfect juxtaposition to all that technological wizardry crammed inside the phone. The icing on this particular slice of Christmas cake...the buttons for sound levels...or to turn the phone off...are also carved from wood....a detail that's immensely pleasing.

It's a shame that this video looks like Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love girls are relaxing after a hard day playing air guitar...because it makes it difficult to fully appreciate Malcolm McClaren's take on Puccini's Madame Butterfly...

None of which...as is my rambling way...really has anything to do with the delightful simplicity of James Perse's framed bolero (apart from it's vaguely Lepidoptera-ish back view)...except that I find them both charming, in their own way...

My "musical phase" was short-lived...the combination of near-total tone deafness...a small gap in between my front teeth (which caused my trumpet to create a tone strangely at odds with the rest of the band)...and a brief flirtation with a spanish guitar...an instrument (some would add that, in my hands, the words "of torture" could be inserted here) that I never regretted parting from until I saw these guitar plectrums by artist David Shrigley. I just need to keep reminding myself that amusing guitar picks doth not a musician make...

This...I'll admit somewhat vaguely...ties in with my Dolly-Parton-9-to-5 post from the other day. A band called Tame Impala...which unfortunately makes me think 'questionable Chevy' instead of 'African antelope'...decides that the best video to go along with their particular brand of psychedelic hypno-groove melodic rock music is Patrick McGoohan as The Prisoner (think 1960's countercultural, psychological, spy fiction teledrama).

I sincerely hope that Mr. McGoohan's estate is making some money from this because, if not, this is a travesty with no meaning whatsoever...

As you now by now, I love a pun...the further something falls into the ghastly, murky, depths of pun-dom...visual or verbal...the happier I am. So, really, how could I resist this speaker? I'm sorry...I truly am...but I have to do this..."It's da bomb!"

Or...how to waste a perfectly good Saturday...

The Angry Birds iPhone app...

And a young, drunk, Oliver Reed playing a young, drunk, psychopath in Hammer House of Horror's Paranoiac (alongside Janette Scott who, as those of you who are Rocky Horror Picture Show fans will know, fought a "Triffid that spits poison and kills")...

On the road again...not to New York...but I haven't found too many songs about Minneapolis...and Gil Scott-Heron's 'New York Is Killing Me' (on constant rotation) is currently keeping me sane in airport lounges.

"...word-sniffing...is an addiction, like glue - or snow - sniffing in a somewhat less destructive way, physically if not economically. As an addict, I am almost guiltily interested in converts to my own illness..." - M.F.K. Fisher

Sign #324 that you may have an obsessive personality...listening to the same song, on a loop, until requested to "shut the hell up!"

At this point I've karaoke'd in numerous seedy, and generally depressing, bars...on a ship midway across the Atlantic...and in front of a few hundred people at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival...I confess, I'm addicted to forcing people to listen to my terrible singing. Which is why I think I need to get a copy of APC's karaoke dvd...think of the blissfully awful havoc I could wreak with Police and Thieves, Sheena is a Punk Rocker, or (God help me) Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love. If things get too bad anyone left in the room can just focus on the accompanying images...filmed off the coast of Greenland from the prow of the 'Tara', a boat specially constructed for polar exploration.

For the last fifteen years or so Mr. Heb has been, via the mixes he provided...first on tape and then, as technology advanced, on CD...my personal purveyor of percussion. Of course, I get lazy...and let too much time go by before I actually sample the bounty he provides...then, as is the case with the song below, I become so addicted that I have to play it on a continuous loop...

I don't often write about music...and I don't go to many live shows any more...the first because this is, predominantly, a fashion blog...the second because, as pathetic as it may be, I actually like to sit down at a show (as opposed to standing around for a few hours or being shoved back and forth like a lemming about to go over the edge). I like comfort with my music...there, I've said it, let the "you're missing out on the full experience unless you're standing next to a cockroach or perched on top of a trashcan" music gods rain down on me.

Having said that, Mr. Heb and I actually dragged ourselves out last night for a little entertainment, courtesy of Pegboy and Screeching Weasel (performing under the umbrella of 'Riot Fest'...though, to be honest, the event organizer should realize that by the time they've subjected the men to what is essentially a full-body search...and rather genteelly asked the ladies to submit to a handbag frisk...a lot of the potential for riot is gone...perhaps they should just call it 'Mildly Upset With the Potential to Have an Argument Fest' and have done with it).

Regardless of which...there’s something infinitely satisfying about a wall of sound hitting you...so loud that your heart seems to beat in time to the music and your ears ring for a sustained period of time after you leave the show...and if it's vintage punk that causes this sensation, all the better.

If Roman gods wore dresses...which I suppose, in a way, they did...I could see Hermes wearing this little number...with its studded shoulders and accompanying wings...to an evening out at a Screeching Weasel gig (an affair that this little Heb will be attending in the near future). On a less deity driven plain it would also work rather well with a turtleneck and tights...

“`Come, come,' said Tom's father, `at your time of life,
There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake
It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife'
`Why, so it is, father - whose wife shall I take?'”

I've raved about Blogotheque before...and their unique take on the music video...featuring bands playing in streets, bars, parks, public transportation, and a host of other locations...so apologies for the repetition. However, I couldn't not mention (oh God, my excitement caused a double negative) their recordings with Tom Jones. The videos are much larger on their site so you can fully appreciate the black and gold ensemble worthy of an editor at Paris Vogue...the shots of Mr. Jones' hotel room...and all other minutiae. The attached is more than large enough however to completely enjoy the music...

Tom Jones - If He Should Ever Leave You - A Take Away Show from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

After much heming and hawing I've finally decided to upgrade my iPod (1st generation mini) for something with a little more entertainment value (a 16GB iTouch). And by "much h&h" I mean about...oh, 8 months...because, though I will sell my soul for certain items of clothing I categorize electronics with things like vacuum cleaners or getting the plumber in to fix a leaky faucet...from a practical standpoint they're better value for money than a lot of my purchases, they just lack excitement. The ironic part of all this is that, like my mini, I'll probably use this to death...I certainly plan on traveling quite a bit this year and the touch should preserve my sanity during the countless hours spent sitting in airports. Of course I couldn't leave the thing unadorned...and engraving was free...so I had a little quote added to the back...now I need to check out the apps store to see what fashion apps are available.

If you happen to be in Leeds this evening you can catch the opening night performance (and world premiere) of "Skin Deep"...a new satirical operetta about the search for "perfection" via plastic surgery. Now, personally, I'm a fan of anything that ridicules the cult of perfection...though I will admit to sharing the common morbid voyeuristic fascination with plastic surgery victims (it's like slowing down to glance at roadkill on the highway...you know you shouldn't look...and it's going to make you sick...but you just can't help yourself).

The heart of the matter though is that I can't imagine why anyone would allow themselves to be cut open unless it was a matter of life and death...much less hand over vast sums of money for the privilege. Of course, people want to look their best but, isn't that the point, that it's their best? Neither a doctor nor society's ideal but the best that they can reasonably attain with what they've got.

Of course, now I'm curious about your thoughts on going under the knife. Do you consider it a viable option in the fight against aging...a magic pill for those with low self esteem...or a step towards a society of flawless, identikit, mirror images (lacking in individuality and boring beyond all belief)?

Anytime I'm in one of those melancholy moods...or as Holly Golightly put it, having a touch of the "mean reds"...I'll listen to The Best of Chet Baker Sings...not because I know it will pep me up but because if you're going to be depressed you may as well wallow in it...and few things will tug at the heartstrings as much as Mr. Baker singing 'The Thrill Is Gone' or 'There Will Never Be Another You'.

Which is why I was interested to see the t-shirt that Paul Smith had designed for the re-release of the Bruce Weber movie "Let's Get Lost" (which documents Baker's life). It's not really my style (and therefore not a potential purchase) but I was mystified by the accompanying text..."Not available to US customers due to customs shipping restrictions". Is anyone else confused...this is a t-shirt...what possible customs rules can it violate? Are they scared that anyone touching the package will develop 'jazz hands'?

I usually try not to do "what the hell?" posts...mainly because one man's meat is another man's poison and...who am I to judge? Which was a great sentiment...until I came face to face with a picture of Antipodium's Vile body jumper. I can't decide if this is some kind of (very obscure) Evelyn Waugh tribute...or a reference to that fact that no-one is going to look good dressed in what is essentially a variation of a 1920's bathing suit with buttons on the nipples...either way I can't think of a more fitting name.