Darkside Lightside

I think I'm a bad judge of character. I have been musing over various people in my life -- friends, lovers, those who've shown me love, or come close -- and realised, not for the first time, that so many people occupy a strange grey area. I'm not saying I'm friends with all the wrong people, but that a lot of people I know I am really not sure if they are good or evil.

I can't go into many specific names -- damn you, blogger, for being so easily found in search engines -- but there are individuals that I can't quite work out. I have a friend who has apparently claimed his older brother sexually abused him, as a child. This is disturbing, because it means one of the two of them is seriously disturbed. Either someone is lying about it -- which is sick -- or it really happened, and we're sitting and talking quite happily with a pervert. Unfortunately, general opinion leans towards someone being a liar.

Then there's people like Deb, whom I have never really got a handle on. I don't think she led me on, but she certainly knew at the time I liked her... Sometimes when I talk to her, just her and me, I get this weird vibe like she wants me to kiss her -- but I tried that at New Year and she didn't go for it at all. I'll upload here about the *one* night with her... I mentioned to Jon -- and luckily, I know he's not evil -- and he said he thinks she's a bit of a tease, since she's apparently carrying on in some context with our friend Dave.

I've mentioned it before, and one late night -- when I'd sneaked out of the house while my parents were asleep to go play pool with Deb -- I asked her "So are you shagging Dave, or what?" and she was insulted at the suggestion, said they were just friends. But they have been spending time in his bedroom together with the light out when they think nobody is home. Which leads me to Dave: friend or foe. He knows perfectly well I was in love with Deb, or something like it, and one night we walked home in the rain and I poured my soul out to him, in my verbal-diahrhea drunken way, about all of my feelings for her. And then it seemed like he moved right on in there.

So that's two people sort of in one, Dave and Deb. Is she evil and manipulative and a tease and just likes to dangle the idea of her in front of me and watch me jump for it? Or is she just confused, not sure what she wants, lonely and in need of friends -- and possibly sleeping with Dave, but that's between her and her boyfriend. and Dave. And what about Dave -- is it any concern of his if a girl he likes is also liked by a friend of his? I think Dave has a very dark side he keeps hidden, but who am I to criticise? I have fantasised about burning his house down, just because "I saw her first". Obviously, I should point out for anyone wondering, I never actually would do that -- in a year or two I won't even remember what it was all about. But all the same, the idea floats to the surface of my consciousness.

Then there's people like Jade, whom I meet and seem perfectly nice and friendly and then she drops me like I'm something slightly less welcome than nose-picking.

And the list goes on and on, people I'm close to whom sometimes I think are good, and sometimes I think are evil and manipulative, and never being really sure. And thinking I'll just go live in a cave somewhere on my own instead. Because I know I'm no better, I wonder about myself as well -- am I a good person, do I mean well and try not to do anybody any harm? Do I try and live according to karmic laws and noble truths and sevenfold paths, or do I just hurt people and manipulate people into getting my own way?

A few weeks back, I was with San and she was lazily tracing the lines on my hand. She was shocked by it, she practically sat up and paid attention when she turned to me and said "You have a really bad temper" no kidding, I said. But she said she'd never seen it. "And you have a jealousy line than runs almost the entire length of your palm", remember wanting to burn down Dave's house? Thinking about Macbeth in work, and if I would get promoted if I murdered colleagues... I keep these things hidden.

I was considering this week changing my user pic -- that the whole Star Wars jedi/dark side metaphor for working in the media was wearing a little thin. The joke wasn't so funny, and I was using lightly something that was quite serious, the nature of being evil. But then I'm reminded of what dwells within me, and I feel it's maybe not so far from the truth -- sometimes I really feel the picture represents me.

At the end of the day, who do you know how to trust if you're not even sure about yourself?

STOP PRESS!

In a dramatic break with tradition I just got a text from Philippa -- replying to a message sent to her much earlier in the week. I sent her a message calling her a slacker and asking her if she would like to go to a comedy club with me this weekend. As is normal, I heard nothing back -- and sulked a bit, because I had asked a direct question.

Now I am sat at my desk thinking about starting some work and my phone beeps. Expecting it to be one of my friends, I almost ignored it -- but instead I check the message and it is the much sought-after Philippa herself, responding "comedy sounds good, let me know the details" -- also saying tomorrow night is best for her. Luckily for me, since I have invited almost everyone I know round to my house this evening.

The bad news is, the flyer I had for free tickets to a nearby comedy club is only valid for Fridays. The good news is lastminute.com has some reasonably priced tickets for Covent Garden... I'm letting her know her options and trying to wipe the smile off my face.

Update:-
It seems she only wanted to go when she thought it was free, says she is broke and might not be able to afford to move. I explained the free ticket offer is only for Fridays, or offered to pay for her tomorrow -- in exchange for dinner at some later date. She refused. Says she "only just remembered" that she is meant to be meeting her sister's friend tomorrow, oh what a disorganised ditz she is...

That has certainly wiped the smile off my face. Next time, don't be so fucking eager.

Update 2:-
I have one week left of my contract at the agency, and now it seems this time it might not be extended. In a week's time I might be rejoining the dole queue.

Update 3:-
My friends are no longer coming over tonight, it seems the pub was a more attractive option for them, so they're going there instead.

You take your car to work, I'll take my board

San's gone to Argentina. It's weird; I don't see her every day, I don't talk to her every day -- hell, I don't even want to talk to her every day. So why then does it feel lonely that she's gone? It reminds me a little of last year, when she went to university in Maryland -- London felt weird without her in it. Like somehow this living, breathing city of however-many thousand people was missing a vital part. I'd get on the tube, and it would feel so weird to just pass by Kings Cross -- sometimes I felt like asking her younger sister if she wanted to hang out. But I never got quite that weird about it. Now San's on holiday visiting one of her friends from when she was in Towson, it's just a short holiday even if she is technically now on the other side of the world.

Yesterday morning she called me from the airport while I was still in bed, I then spent the rest of the day thinking of her. Wondering where she was -- was she now changing planes in Barcelona, was she settling down on the plane, was she picking up her luggage in South America. I don't even know the time difference for Argentina. I woke this morning to a text message from her, she'd met her friend and they were going out to eat. I replied saying it was nice to know she was safe.

Back here at my desk in East London, it's a warm sunny morning and I'm calling a smoothie bought at the station my breakfast for the day. It's pretty good, and probably more fruit in one go than I have had in the last month. Instead of starting my work, and drafting out letters to celebrities, I'm checking my emails and longing for surf. Yesterday morning's Urban Junkies mail out detailed a company in the city that do weekend surf getaways -- you catch the bus Friday night after work, and they have you back in time before you start work again on Monday morning. I love the idea of that -- are you watching the football at the weekend, maybe having a barbecue, no you're going surfing straight from work.

I don't know why, because I suck at surfing. Seriously. I am perhaps the worst surfer to ever grace a long board, and barely made it to my feet during a whole week at a surf camp in Portugal last year. Though I blame the lack of swell for that. This morning Pure Vacations have sent me a surf update, describing another surf house in Portugal -- it does sound more organised than my experience last year, with everyone sitting down to a meal in the evening. Last year I felt left out since I was about the only non-German speaker, so this one sounds more inclusive -- and the place is in a slightly more urban setting.

But it's all by the by, until I get paid employment I have to think twice before I so much as go to the pub, let alone skip the country...

Highlights

I can't be arsed to make this long or introspective, so recent stuff in summary format. A bit like watching highlights of the world cup games later in the evening.

Philippa: I texted Philippa on Saturday. She replied. She quit her job in the pub, after the boss came onto her. She says she has been "dossing" since then and is considering moving to the Lake District. I told her not to move to the North -- for the unspoken selfish reason I won't see her if she does. And while I'm encouraged that she was warm and friendly in the few messages we exchanged, I'm a little put out that if she hasn't been working why didn't she ask me to hang out. She's worth some continued attention though.

Jade: Fuck knows. That about sums up about everything to do with her. She seems to have deliberately and actively given me the brush off, without having the balls to actually tell me so or why.

Fiona: Emailing me fairly regularly, and called me the other day just to chat. I'm trying to get her ino the Great Lakes Myth Society, since she likes poetry and her music a little quirky. Wants to meet up.

Lyndsay: Apparently both alive and well -- or at least alive. Responded to an email I sent her, asking if she was still alive, saying she doesn't have internet at home. She is checking her emails on her mobile phone, so I give her limited sympathy for not talking to me in months. She says she is moving to England. Oh my god.

Work: Some drama lately that brought up the idea that some work experience
might have to leave. If I have to leave I'd be effectively unemployed, so need to start chasing more recruitment consultancies this week about registering. They still seem pretty happy with my work, but don't seem about to offer me a job.

Home: My parents are away for a week. I wish I had taken this week as holiday to just sit around in my underwear and drink beer all day. But if I get a job soon, I will do that the next time they go on holiday.

Foo Fighters, Hyde Park

Sometimes I have trouble with…connecting. It’s very hard to explain the feeling, I don’t know what it is or when it started or what it means, but sometimes I have... difficulties. I feel being distant and apart almost from everything, including myself.
Bang in the center of my skull, there's a strange coolness.
For a time in Leicester I was writing about feeling “body-snatched” like some alien entity was in control of my body and I was just a passive observer. I would have to look up exactly when this is to be able to say if it was in any way related the drugs I was on for depression. Either way, I consider the feeling now a kind of scar from depression – depression never really leaves you, even if you aren’t actively depressed it’s always there, in some distant synapse, waiting to re-emerge like an LSD flashback.

Lately I’ve been to a number of gigs and where I had once lived and breathed live music, I have instead felt numb. Have watched the bands perform on stage to surging, ecstatic crowds – but I’ve felt cold and unmoved. I can list excuses – REM at Brixton disappointed me because it was such an exclusive fan-club gig that I didn’t know most of the songs they played, or that Pearl Jam at the Astoria had played so many new songs I hadn’t heard… But I can think of several other times and the excuses about headaches or unfamiliar material wear thin.

Yesterday was Foo Fighters in London’s Hyde Park – the biggest gig they have ever played, they said. It was nine years ago this summer that I saw them play at the V Festival in Chelmsford, it was my first-ever festival and I still wear my “Disintegrator Pistol” t-shirt I bought on the day.

Yesterday was like a mini-festival, since there were ‘special guests’ supporting – including Motorhead, Queens of the Stone Age, Angels & Airwaves and Juliette & The Licks. Juliette Lewis’ punk band was surprisingly good, reminding me of a slightly catchier version of Babes in Toyland. The other guests are barely worth mentioning, but when Foo Fighters took the stage there was no sign of my detachment.

Predictably starting the set with “In Your Honour”, it was a song that will never make my favourites but set up the rest of the show for improvement. I wasn’t let down, I can’t even recall how long the band played for but they neatly avoided playing songs from the mellow second disco of their latest effort, instead concentrating on crowd-pleasers like Breakout, Monkey Wrench, Times Like These, Best of You and Learn To Fly. If I’d had my way they would have played twice as long and included some older singles like For All the Cows and I’ll Stick Around, or mixed it up with songs like Up in Arms and MIA, but the more material a band has the less chance there is they will play all of your favourite songs – and last night it was more than enough that I loved the songs they did play.

The band left the stage, and San asked me “Is that the end?” as it all went quiet – I reassured her that they wouldn’t get out alive if they didn’t play Everlong as an encore. Without fail they returned and did their duty to the fans – although a one-song encore was disappointing, as I said before they could have played for twice as long without boring me.

It's times like these you learn to live again.

Monday night

Monday night I had a date -- or a sort-of date, I'm never really sure how you tell -- with Jade.

I got to the bar earlier -- a strange little place that Jade had described as like wandering into a time warp and finding yourself in the south of France in the 1960s. She's suggested the bar for it's table football, but hadn't bargained that they would be showing the USA/Czech Republic world cup game. I got there fairly early so took advantage of the happy hour. I was nervous about meeting her, I couldn't concentrate on the football and without my glasses I couldn't read the team names or scores on the TV. Sometimes I forget I need glasses since I almost never wear them -- Armani frames and they're probably buried under my desk, somewhere. That's the thing though, I'm short-sighted and rarely required to read anything at a distance -- it's debatable if I even need them for driving.

Anyway, the bar had a great atmosphere -- a sort of mediterranean feel that with the heat outside reminded me of surfing in Portugal last summer. I was clean cut, well dressed and carefully looking at every girl who walked in, and matching them to the pictures of Jade in my head I was struggling to remember. One girl in particular I was fairly sure was her, I made eye contact with her deliberately and smiled, but she showed no signs of recognition. I tried again when she passed me on her way back from the bar, and still she didn't catch on. I watched her sit down outside as if she was waiting for someone, and wondered how long I should leave it before approaching her. I was still early and enjoying a cold bottle of Brahma, so figured it could wait.

Then Jade walked in, we recognised each other instantly and she hugged me enthusiastically. I asked her if she wanted a drink or to go somewhere else -- since we wanted to talk, we went somewhere quieter.

We had a good evening, a few drinks, lots of conversation and as these dates tend to go I found her interesting and appealing. After a couple of hours of drinking and talking I asked her if she wanted another drink, it seemed natural enough to want to carry on. She said actually she had to shoot, she hadn't eaten and stuff but it was really great meeting me. Hugged me enthusiastically again, and left. I remember standing for a minute with a feeling like "What the hell just happened?". I was a bit put out -- like, sure she had to eat but what about me? She knew I had come straight from work, couldn't we have eaten somewhere together? But anyway, she said she'd email me and I went home.

Politely, I sent her an email when I got in -- just a line or two saying I was home safely, despite getting a bit lost on way to the station -- and I'd talk to her later. Maybe that's against date rules, perhaps I should have left it a few days but I thought it only polite to let her know I was safe and it wasn't like I was calling her. I didn't hear anything in reply on Tuesday, nor for most of Wednesday until it ocurred to me that although I got home safely, how do I know if she did? I sent her an email saying I expected she was busy, but just checking she got home safely. She replied a short while later saying she'd just been really busy -- so busy she was able to reply within about 30 minutes, apparently. She also said she was going away but she'll give me a buzz when she gets back.

What bothers me is it just feels like she's acting like Philippa. We meet, we get on well, we have a good time, we say we'll meet up again soon and then nothing. If someone didn't like me I'd rather they say "I had a nice time but I'd rather not see you again" or "I don't want a relationship right now" to which I'd respond "That's cool, I'm happy to be just friends" -- since I am. Instead I'm left wondering what I do wrong -- should I actually ignore them first for a couple of days, and not let them know I'm safe? Maybe it's before that, maybe the date themselves just aren't interesting enough -- although Philippa can hardly criticise me for the few hours we had together which involved taking her to the hospital.

It's difficult to know what to make of Jade. She told me a lot about herself which given the length of time I've known her may or may not be true -- I've no reason to believe she didn't go to Oxford, isn't a lwayer, and doesn't actually live right round the corner to where I work. Scratch that last one, that one I'm not sure about it -- she mentioned the road, which is quite well known in art circles or whatever in London -- and I said "hey small world, I work [here]", which as I say is right round the corner. She has never commented on this -- not wow, that is funny, not I don't know your road, no comment at all. Like perhaps she doesn't live there at all...

I really don't know what's going on. And if you're wondering about Philippa, I left the ball in her court the last time I asked her if she was working at the weekend and she didn't reply. I guess it was going nowhere.

Thank you, MySpace

I've never been a huge fan of MySpace, and don't even remember why I was on it killing time tonight. But there I was, and I noticed how I could import contacts from my gmail -- surprisingly I found a whole bunch of friends were on there I'd never thought to look for. Among them was Lyndsay, whom I haven't heard from in months and I'm no closer to knowing how she is -- that wasn't the interesting thing though. I found Kath, whom I haven't spoken to in forever. The fun thing was looking at her pictures and her profile almost as a stranger -- and not remembering why I was ever so infatuated with her.

The week in review

I didn't get the job I was interviewed for last week. I was told I'd probably hear by the end of the day on the Friday, and I think it took repreated calls to the recruitment consultancy before I heard anything -- on Tuesday. Apparently they really liked me, yadda yadda, but had felt that I tried too hard to give them the right answers and they didn't see enough of my personality. I guess they have a point, and my heart was never really in it.

Speaking of hearts being in it, or whatever, I've heard nothing from Philippa all week which in itself is nothing unusual -- but she didn't even acknowledge or reply when I asked her around the middle of the week if she had plans for the weekend. There's a hundred different explanations as to why this might be without any of it being a reflection on me, but I just can't be arsed. So, fairwell to the charming and funny anitpodean Philippa -- unless circumstances change, and she contacts me, these will be the last words I write for. Not that it matters, since a young lady named Jade wants to meet for cocktails and table football on Monday, and Fi is asking me if I want to meet her coffee.

Work is largely uneventful -- calling fashion journalists and talking to them about what they're shooting for the October issue and shaking your head to yourself as you talk utter rubbish. Or trying to convince journalists writing features that a dishwasher tablet would go well with a piece about summer barbecues. One of my colleagues this week commented she thought it would be "really cool" if I could get a permanent job there, which I take as a compliment -- I feel at home there, and would like to stay if I could. But it's rarely that easy.

There's little else to say. Last week's fears of a chemical attack on London appear to have been perhaps misguided -- after the tabloid headings screaming "find the bomb" and claiming it was a race against time to find the chemical weapon that was definitely out there. The two men arrested are released without charge, after the police found nothing at their home. Sometimes it's very difficult to know what's really going on.

Musical Monday (#5)

"The car's on fire, and there's no driver at the wheel
And the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides
And a dark wind blows..."

Godspeed You Black Emperor! (or Godspeed You! Black Emperor, depending on when in their career you are talking about, apparently) are difficult to try and pin down. A friend of mine once asked, somewhat concerned, if they were "Satanic" -- but I think it was probably the "black emperor" part that gave him that impression. What he makes of the Rolling Stones "Satanic Majesty" I don't know...

I know very little about the band, other than that they are Canadian -- and that much you can gather yourself from the narrator's voice. Reading about them reveals little more than you can infer from their music, and reputation. The band formed in 1993 with three members, has had as many as 15 at one point, but more consistently has nine. They are currently on an 'indefinite hiatus'.

Almost everything about the band in theory makes me want to hate them. A band named after an obscure Japanese documentary made in the 70s, making records with vast, sweeping movements including instruments like bagpipes and glockenspiels and who generally refuse interviews to the mainstream media. You want to tell them to lighten up.

But the album F# A# (Infinity) is an epic, post-rock masterpiece and I could care less about what silly names their side projects have, or how arty they are -- all I care about is the music, and how it makes me feel. And for me, the music sounds like a post-apocalypse Spaghetti Western.

Politically, their music reminds me of the anarchist Edward Abbey -- perhaps the references to "leering billboards" remind me of "falling billboards, falling in flames" of his 'Direct Action Committee', and maybe one influenced the other. It's probably unsurprising the band were once detained and questioned on suspicion of being terrorists.

Uneasy, difficult, and even a little disturbing -- The Dead Flag Blues narrates a nightmarish apocalypse, but juxtaposes the destruction with the phrase "I said, 'Kiss me, you're beautiful...These are truly the last days".

What's not to like?

And so it continues

Things continue much as ever for me. I've lost track how many days or weeks I have been working in PR now, but I actually enjoy it more the longer I do it -- because naturally I become more experienced, and am given slightly more taxing jobs to do. Although to their credit they have never had me making tea or doing the photocopying, I have spent entire days sorting clothing for one reason or another, or putting stuff in boxes. But for every day like that there are the media days when you get to meet all the journalists you have been stalking on the phone. Of course, I would like to be working on accounts where I meet journalists from magazines I actually read, rather than Glamour and Vogue, but one day at a time.

Last Friday I took the morning off work, since I had a job interview first thing, before which I had to meet with my recruitment consultancy to be briefed on the company and what questions to expect to be asked, and then after the interview I arranged to meet with a different recruitment consultancy.

The interview was unremarkable. I haven't heard anything back -- either Friday or today -- about it, despite calling my 'consultant' this morning, and leaving a message with a colleague of hers since she was in a meeting. That's probably not a good sign -- but I didn't have my heart set on the position. It was business-to-business PR rather than the consumer PR I do at the moment, and although it was IT based (or perhaps because it was) their client list meant little to me. But the offices were nice, the guys I met who interviewed me were friendly enough and interesting and I liked the sound of the company and the job enough from it to think I could do it well, and do it happily. This is a world away from when I texted San on route saying I didn't know if I even wanted the stupid job -- but I think that was more frustration at having to change about 3 times on the tube for what would have been a 15 minute walk.

After the interview I had two hours before my appointment, and took some time out to just sit in a park in the sun and read the end of Alex Garland's The Coma, and then a copy of Q magazine I'd swiped from the office at work. There's never a shortage of magazines when you work in PR.

San suggested meeting for lunch, but the timing was inconvenient for me and I wanted some space from her. When I asked Philippa if she was free at all over the weekend, it seemed timing was inconvenient for her, too. That's just how these things go. Maybe I'll see one or other of them this weekend, and maybe I won't. Maybe I'll get a call about an interview this week or next, and again -- maybe I won't...

Serial Killer Sunday (#4)

After a series of brutal killings, dating back to the 1970s and continuing as long as the early 1990s, Dennis Rader pleaded guilty to his crimes in 2005. He made no apologies at the time.

Dennis Rader, 59 at the time of his arrest in 2005, was president of his local church and a Boy Scout leader. He was also married with two children, and worked for the city as supervisor of the Compliance Department. Unlike some of the other killers I have written about, I haven't found anything to suggest Rader's childhood -- or indeed his everyday life -- was at all unsual. He graduated from high school, achieved Associate's and Bachelor's degrees from university and served briefly in the Air Force.

Until 2004, the BTK killer -- as he liked to be called, standing for "bind, torture, kill" -- was an unsolved mystery. He had been silent since the early 1990s, and it was speculated that he had most likely either died or was in prison. Exactly why he did stop killing and communicating is unclear, but in 2004 he broke his silence -- inspired by a recently-published book about him, "Nightmare in Wichita" by Robert Beattie.

What Rader does share with other mass murderers like this is his arrogance, and an obsessive desire for attention. Like Jack the Ripper and David Berkowitz, Rader wrote letters to the police and the media -- sometimes complaining about a lack of media interest, and suggesting a list of nicknames for himself. In one of his letters Rader explained that he didn't often get the urge to kill, that it wasn't continuous for him, and he would return to his normal life like anyone else. He also compared himself to various other infamous serial killers, including the Son of Sam, Ted Bundy and the Boston Strangler, among others.

Rader was meticulous in his planning of his kills. He would choose a victim almost at random from the street, and then stalk them until he knew the pattern of their lives. He would then break into their homes, cut the phone line, and wait for the victim to return home. It might be significant he had worked for a time installing security systems in people's homes.

If Rader had been able to keep quiet he might have got away with the murders, but as mentioned earlier he started sending letters to the press again, bringing up the unsolved crimes and taunting them. The police followed advice given by the FBI and encouraged him to keep talking, to keep making contact and making drops -- packages of symbolic items, like dolls with their limbs bound, or items like victims driving licences. One such drop was a cereal box, which Rader dropped into the back of a pickup truck in a car park. The driver had found the box and thrown it away, not realising what it was until Rader later asked in a latter to the media what had happened to it. Security camera footage of the car park caught Rader on film making the drop, although it wasn't good enough to make him out his own car was identified.

Rader's fatal mistake was believing he was stringing along the police and the media with his letters. He would send them an entirely fictional autobiography and make up false details of his life, arrogantly believing he was in control. When his missives were published he would be encouraged to send more, and Rader asked if it would be safe to send a floppy disk. What response he was expecting I don't know -- but he believed the police when they told him it was fine.

The last package contained a letter, some jewellery and a purple diskette. When analysed, the disk contained file information including the Christ Lutheran Church in Wichita and the name "Dennis". It didn't take long to find that Dennis Rader was current president of the church, or that he drove the same black Jeep cherokee seen in the security camera footage of the earlier drop.

Rader unederestimated the advances that had been made since his first murders -- access to DNA swabs from his daughter showed a familiar match to the semen found at murder scenes, along with his DNA found under the fingernails of a victim. The BTK strangler pleaded guilty to ten counts of murder, and was sentenced to 175 years in prison without parole.

But what really caught Rader was not advances in technology or forensics, but his own egotism. He couldn't bear to be forgotten, and he wanted to keep the media interested. But most of all, he reportedly couldn't get over that he was lied to by the police about the floppy disk -- his egotism went so far that he thought they were his friends.

What's the deal with my brain

I got off the train in West London, and saw I had 15 minutes before I had to meet her. Time enough to make sure I knew where we were meeting, and then to look for a Mexican restaurant I had received some info about in a text message.

It was a warm and sunny day, and I was in no hurry as I wandered down the road looking at the people and the buildings around me, looking for numbers on the buildings. I got as far as 300-something before I gave up, I was looking for 800-something and guessed finding it would be too long a walk. So I wandered as leisurely back to the "Chop Chop Noodle Restaurant".
I wasn't waiting long before a pretty girl with an antipodean accent was standing there speaking my name.

In a dramatic twist of fate, the girl I spent last week sulking over contacted me Saturday. Far from having lost interest, she'd just been a slacker, and said she wanted to meet up. I texted her Sunday morning after I got up, and we made plans to meet for a sort of late lunch while she was on her break from work.

Middle of last week -- at work in the pub -- I looked at the rota for this week, and saw I had been scheduled to work 12 - 7 today. I was already working 5 - 1 Saturday night/Sunday morning and despite the bank holiday Monday, wanted two actual days off. So I said to Laura "I can't work on Sunday, I made plans before the rota went up". I was a little irritated when she demanded to know what my plans were, as if they had to be judged on if they were worthy of the day off. In hindsight, she was probably just taking a friendly interest. I lied, and told her I was meeting a random girl I know from New Zealand who has just moved to London.

The week wore on, and it seemed like I wasn't going to hear from this particular young lady again, and I wondered if I'd tempted fate by making up a proposed meeting with her. It did occur to me that it was entirely possible she hadn't got my last message, or if she was just being slack it might prompt her to reply. I had given up hope and got over it by the time I got in from work at 3am on Sunday morning. And saw her email, giving my her phone number.

There's not a whole lot to say. We met and had lunch and talked and got on pretty well. She is charming, smart and funny and I enjoy her company, and she made several references to us seeing more of each other -- like how next time she'd get the bill, and maybe going out for Thai food as our next project.

It's all very new and there is my usual tendency to overthink it all. Does she like me in 'that' way? Do I like her in 'that' way? Does it even matter? Was it a date or just good company? What about next time, if there is one?

When I left her she said to send her a text later, so I did when I got home. I told her I'd got home safely and I'd enjoyed spending time with her and she was good company. I didn't hear anything back, but I think I'm starting to get an idea of what kind of a person she is -- and she's not great with answering emails and texts.
But that just means I'll have to see more of her.

O is the loneliest number

Is there a more disappointing message than "0 new. Displaying 0 of 0"?

The briefest spark of anticipation, of hope -- and excitement despite yourself, and then the sunken heart sensation with the almost inevitable outcome. Silence was there, and nothing more.

It's like waiting for the phone to ring, it's like waiting for the post to come. But it's harder than that, or it's worse than that, because of that damn anticipation.

You make your excuses for her. She has to go to internet cafes. She might be broke. But, deep down, you think you know; she has lost interest. And you want to ask her, what did you do wrong? Like a rejected job application, you want to ask for feedback.

Did you write too much, ramble on too much? Maybe you didn't ask her enough questions -- making up for that now, haha.

Locigally, you realise, it's probably really not you. Nothing you did wrong. Maybe it was things you did right? She could have felt bad that she didn't have the time to show you the same attention. Myabe it wasn't ever a decision consciously made -- life just got in the way, and you got left out.

Before you ever really got let in.

Drinks, conversations

Late last week, San came back to London.

Thursday was a strange day, first I took a 90 minute lunch break in order to hot foot it over to the west end and meet a glamorous Charley for lunch. I say we met for lunch, but what amounted to something like a 30 minute journey to/from my office in both directions left us with little time for frivolities such as food. Instead, I led her aimlessly off down Oxford Street in search of any random pub. And they don't get much more random than a pub named "The Cock" that didn't sell any recognisable or traditional brands, instead only imported European ones. It was still cheaper than local pubs to me though, which was good enough. The pub was small and badly lit, and contrary to how you might expect from its epithet was frequented by what appeared to be labourers on their lunch break. We barely had time for one drink before I had to leave again.

Back at the office nobody seemed to notice I'd been gone about twice as long as normal -- nobody was frantically searching for me, nor had even commented or asked after me, apparently. I don't know which was better.

Towards the end of the day I got a message from San, asking if I wanted to meet her for a drink after work. I told her sure, on the condition she came to me and was at the bar for six. I knew perfectly well I wouldn't be leaving the office before six, and that the pub at the station was at least 10 minutes away. I was still there for about 15 minutes before San arrived, and since it was a sunny evening half of the city was having the same idea about a swift one before going home. I missed my intended train, talking and drinking with San in the evening sun -- although again, it was just one hurried drink.

On the train home I was inspired to text San. I told her that all she needed to do was admit she had made a mistake [dumping me] and that she was retarded for me, and maybe we'd take it from there. Of course, she was unwilling to say any such thing. We talked back and forth and came to no firm conclusions other than that there are obvious feelings still there, but neither of us wants to get hurt again nor were particularly eager to get back together. This left us unsure as to what exactly we -- or I -- did want that was any different. So we continue to see each other here and there as friends and talk a lot but don't know anything more than that.

San sent me a message today telling me that apparently her Mum didn't realise we'd ever broken up. Now I think about it, it stands to reason -- I was never quite sure what to say when her Mum would mention to me she hadn't seen me around much recently. I never wanted to say "Since your daughter dumped me, you mean?" but it still seemed an odd thing to say, with San having lived in Maryland and Leicester more than London. It makes more sense now. Apparently she was bemused why we still see each other, why anyone would stay friends with their ex. She probably doesn't know why we share a bed when I stay either, for that matter.

And after Fiona's message the other week I did get around to talking to her. She called me again the enxt night, and I missed her call when I didn't hear the phone ring. I sent her a message asking her to call again; and she did. I was sat in the garden of the pub in the dark with my friends, so when she called I wandered off, walking about and occasionally sitting down on tables on my own while we chatted. It was good. It felt like old times, just talking about nothing -- my work, her work, all the mundane things -- and laughing together and laughing at each other. Eventually she had to go, and the end of the conversation was more difficult -- not knowing what to say other than "bye, then". I told her not to leave it two years before she calls me again this time. After I hung up the phone I noticed it was a full moon, and was tempted to send her a message mentioning it, and how it will be seven years on a full moon this June since we met.

But I thought better of it.

Musical Monday (#4)

I'm taking a different approach to today's Musical Monday, in part inspired by the approach taken in Melbourne Stories. Talking about specific bands you might not know isn't going to last me very long, I'm not indie enough to have a large and obscure record collection and I'd be pretty much dried up after Godspeed, You Black Emperor! -- even though I do still intend to write about their post-apocalyptic spaghetti western sound. Instead, I will this week -- and maybe in future -- base Musical Monday around songs I love.

This week; Bob Dylan's Tangled Up in Blue.

First of all what I love most about the song, is everything. Then what I next love about it is the narrative -- Dylan tells a complex story of love and loss over countless years and locations, with coincidences and betrayals all interwoven.

I am inspired by the lines near the beginning of the song:
"She was married when we first met; soon to be divorced
I helped her out of a jam, I guess, but I used a little too much force"

I imagine him helping her get out of a possibly abusive relationship -- and accidentally using "a little too much force" on her partner. Perhaps from there they can't be together, so they "split up on a dark sad night, both agreeing it was best".

The song seems to chart how the narrator travels and lives and they coincidentally meet over the years -- like how she was working in a "topless place" when he stops in for a drink, but the two of them aren't sure they recognise each other, and he almost leaves without talking to her.

It's a song about love, he meets various women over the years but there's this one he never forgets -- the song ends with him setting off, resolved to "get to her somehow" -- although there seems a melancholy to it, like he realises he might not reach her, and they always did see it "from a different point of view". Even if it's never explained what "it" is.

Musically, the song sounds like classic Dylan -- slow, simple and folky, with Dylan's trademark strangled singing.

Hey jealousy

"Attachment leads to jealousy. The shadow of greed, that is."

There is Alcoholics Anonymous, for people with drinking problems. There are also similar support groups for those with gambling addictions. I expect there are probably groups or support of some kind for most vices. But I somehow doubt there are any for feelings of jealousy.

I've written before of the idea or concept of not having a soul, but this is something quite different from that -- it's darker and uglier, and I'm disturbed by my own thoughts. I jokingly make references to the dark side with PR and live journal, but this really does feel like it; there's a part of me that is still dark and angry and jealous.

I get jealous of other people's relationships; I'll find out that two coworkers are now an item, and even though I've never given either of them more than a passing thought, there's a dark stirring of resentment towards them. When I dreamed San had moved on and found someone new, there was sadness I wrote about; but there was also this feeling too.

Or how I really wanted to burn Dave's house down, because of jealousy of him and Deb -- whatever there was, or is, between them I don't know, but didn't like it.

It's not just then, at work when someone new is brought in as work experience there's a flare of animosity towards them -- before I've even spoken to them. As for my colleague on the paid work experience contract, I'll feel he is direct compeition and in my head I draw comparisons to Macbeth where his quest for power is soaked in the blood of the people above him.

It can all be very disturbing.

Serial Killer Sunday

I realise these last couple of weeks I have sort of dropped the ball on Serial Killer Sunday -- not because of a lack of interest, either on my part or on the part of any readers, but because I'm not sure where to take it. The original idea for it was to be a kind of approach like Musical Monday, drawing on the idea from Natural Born Killers; with the media making killers into celebrities. When it started though, I decided to play it straighter than that -- real people's lives have been affected, and it would be wrong to joke about it.

However, what I am doing with it isn't very original -- it's nothing you can't find anywhere else on the web, except for the occasional commentary from me.

While I want to continue with it, I'm not sure what it should be. Straight accounts of each of the individuals and their crimes are available on countless sites, from wikipedia to various serial killer pages and books. But it would be wrong to 'promote' the killers too (as opposed to promoting The Killers, who probably have a very dedicated PR team), even in a semi-ironic way. This leaves me looking for a third option, if I am to continue with the straight reporting then I need to be bringing more of myself and my own writing into it -- more personal commentary or reaction perhaps.

Anyway, last week's absent Musical Monday was not related to this; I just didn't get round to it.

You'll be in my dreams today

Last night I dreamed San had a new boyfriend. I presume it was a boyfriend, but now that I think of it, I don't remember that it was actually specified. I don't remember meeting this other person, or actually being told about them.

I do remember, though, asking San; "But what about us?"
And even now, I can clearly visualise how she looked in my dream. She looked at me with such genuine sadness -- but it was sad because she knew it hurt me, and didn't want to hurt me.
And she said: "You know there is no 'us'."

And that's it, that's all I remember of the dream -- probably all there was, because that brief exchange said everything it needed to. I still felt sad today, at work, I knew it wasn't real but at the same time; it kind of is. There isn't really an "us" any more, even if we make plans for the summer involving zoos and late night jazz clubs and movies and stuff, and even if we spend time together and feels like back when we were together and thingd were good. Despite all of that, the not wanting to acknowledge it and not wanting to try and label it, there is still no us -- she still could say, "Sorry I can't meet you that day, I'm going out with my boyfriend".

I have that same option, of course. And as I've said before, I'm certainly not in love with San if I am fantasising about other girls, or chasing other girls or even just not even being sure of wanting to be with her. San has broken my heart and messed up my head too many times for me to ever be sure we could make it work.

"I no longer love her, that's certain. But maybe I love her?
Love is so short; forgetting is so long."

I'm trying to work out what it is then. Is it just the thought of an ex moving on? Instead of them becoming a nun and never going outside again, instead choosing to take a vow of silence, in mourning for what is lost. Or perhaps it is just not wanting to be the one who is single when she's moved on? Maybe it's just sad having to admit when something is really, finally over.

Though that said, I was planning to write a post along the lines of; "How do you know when your last kiss is the last for good?" until I mentioned it to my friends, and they said except in circumstances involving death, how can you ever be sure it was the last? I'm pretty sure the last time I kissed Fiona will have been the last ever, but who can say what might happen in 50 years? So it's hard to write something off as completely over. Plus, generally when I accept someone is gone and get over it, they come back again. But when you're still secretly hoping they might, they won't, because you've not accepted it yet.

Incidentally, I wanted to tell San all day about the dream -- but was scared she'd say it was true. Until she mentioned making friends with some girl she met in the library, who wanted to fix San up with her friend. She didn't specify male or female -- so a bit like in my dream. So in response I did tell her.
In reply she merely said "Dreams are funny things. *hug*..." and proceeded to ask if her new man was perhaps David Duchovney.

There's not really any clever way to tie this all together at the end, no great realisation that I don't already know, no great epiphany. I know that I have to let her go emotionally, and probably that until I do I won't be able to move on. But what's new there?

Thursday's interview

I mentioned early last week that I had a job interview. How it all came about, and where it went from "ok, you have an interview" was all a little strange.

The agency I contacted naturally wanted me to come in and register with them, and we would have tried to arrange some mutually convenient time. As it happened the consultant I was corresponding with said she didn't have time, and instead broke all the rules by briefing me on the job and putting me forward for the interview before I was registered -- and before we had even met.

The interview was Thursday, and since we had only arranged things to begin with on Tuesday, there hadn't been much time to get details worked out. I called Emma -- the consultant -- on Thursday and after we discussed me, what I am doing, how I have got here, what the job and the company were like, we had some of the strangest conversation I have ever had. She wanted to know what I looked like, because we are meant to have met -- and on the offchance they asked her. Would you just like me to email you a picture instead, I asked. She laughed and said sure, but I wasn't sure. So I'm sat at my desk, trying to keep my voice down, and saying
"Well...uhhh...this is weird. But...umm...I'm 5'8 with short brown hair, and grey/blue eyes..."
and she'd be saying "What? I can't hear you, it's a bad line, can you speak up?"
"I'm wearing a black suit and a blue shirt..."
It was very weird.

Then in case I should be asked, she described herself in an email for me. In her own words; 5'8 with wavy blonde hair, green eyes, slim (but more Kate Winslet than Kate Moss), and she had been told she looked like Drew Barrymore; although she didn't see it herself.
I guess that's how you get a job as a recruitment consultant; being able to sell yourself.

I turned up promptly and smartly dressed at the interview -- impressive since I was trying to tie my tie while on the tube to Leicester Square. I was kept waiting the usual few minutes and took the opportunity to look through a large portfolio left out, including press coverage of all the agency's work. After a little while I was met by a woman called Ellie. I enthusiastically shook her hand, expecting her to lead me to a room where I would then meet the interviewer. But no.

It seems God has a sense of humour; if I thought I was unprepared having only had one evening to prepare, it turned out they were expecting me on Friday -- and the woman I was meant to see was in a meeting. I also thought originally the interview had been arranged for Friday as well, until I had checked the confirmation when it arrived and seen it was Thursday. I decided it best not to mention this, in case I looked unprofessional turning up on the wrong day.

The interview went reasonably well. I was told to play up my creative side, because it was something they put a lot of importance on, and I impressed them when they asked why I wanted to work there and I was able to talk about being project based and it's a bold move that is paying off. Ellie looked very pleased and perhaps a little proud of her company and said yes, it was working very well. I'd also been told to be enthusiastic, and "bouncing off the walls" -- enthusiasm I can do, within reason, but short of having too much cherry coke I was never going to bounce off the walls. Incidentally, I once wrote a poem which included the lines "gonna have some fun, gonna get so high, gonna [have to] scrape me off the ceiling" which was about having too much cherry coke.

I just reread the poem and found it also included the line "got my mask to hide my feelings". It's surprising sometimes to look back at something like that and realise how unhappy you were. Or when I emailed the girl I mention in my karma post, and she made reference to being glad I was still alive -- I was so intense when she had known me and seemed likely to self destruct.

Anyway, after the interview I called Emma the consultant and she assured me the company had been told I was coming on Thursday. I expected to hear something on Friday, some kind of initial reaction even it was just that they wanted to see me again when they were expecting me, but I didn't hear a word. Either way, I am going to be staying at my company now until at least until the end of May -- and the longer I stay working there, the more employable I will.

I wish I had done this years ago, but back then I didn't realise I would want to work in PR. It's funny how these things go, if anything it's reassuring me that life might not ever work out the way you expect or plan it, but that's not necessarily bad.

Monday, May 12. 8.15pm

(copied from my moleskine notebook journal)

Week three in PR starts largely without event or remark. I pay myself on the back for making a good impression with a colleague (basically, I emailed her and asked if she needed help with stuff I had previously been working on -- despite knowing she had someone else on work experience to help her. Turned out she figured she could use some help, and was flattered I asked.)

I've got an interview with another -- possibly rival? -- PR firm later this week, and I'm excited. I might be what they are looking for, and it sounds like what I want, too. It might also interest my company, inspire them to offer me something to stay with them. It's unlikely, but an idea all the same. It would amuse me greatly if getting a job turned out to be this easy -- surely, it can't be and it won't be, but maybe the time is just right?

I need to really do my homework -- research the company and its clients and their campaigns, know my job, know myself and know why I want a job there. All during tomorrow, I have just realised.

Commuting and working in the city isn't so terrible, though I'd like to move closer perhaps, it'a not the big bad I imagined it to be.

Musical Monday (#3)

Suicide Bid -- once called a "UK punk and ska super group" in the music press -- were formed in 2005 from three of the former members of punk band The Filaments.

From there they were able to use their reputation and contacts to recruit members of some of the most significant punk bands of recent years, including King Prawn, Ex-Cathedra, The P.A.I.N, Inner Terrestrials, Deathskulls, Sonic Boom 6 and Operation Nailbomb.

Their debut album -- This Is The Generation -- mixes reggae punk reminiscent of the Clash with dub beats and political lyrics. Originally more of a project than an actual band, Suicide Bid have surprised themselves with interest from major labels, playing Radio 1's Maida Vale and are now recording their first full-length album.

Without sounding like a PR piece, Suicide Bid are a breath of fresh air in what sometimes seems like an industry dominated by image and bands more interested in sounding like each other than pushing boundaries.

The political content of songs like Turning a Blind Eye or Don't Lie Down ("They'll kill the planet just to make a profit/This is the generation that has to stop it") is offset by the haunting saxophone or the driving reggae bass lines. They might just be too edgy and challenging to ever really break properly into the mainstream, the poetry striking a little too close and the music too intricate to appeal to the masses. But don't let that out you off -- this is something very special.


This Is the Generation -Dont Lie Down.mp3

Increasingly desperate

I have been trying desperately to avoid looking at my bank account balance. I know this is stupid, that there isn't more money in there from just not looking or I can't make it last longer by not knowing, I just didn't want to know. I should have realised how close to the edge I am, considering how much my travel into London costs me. I have reclaimed the expenses, of course, but that doesn't change that I'm not actually earning anything. I don't know how long I can go on working without pay for, but then I don't know how long they want me to, either.

Earlier in the week I learned that one of my colleagues and fellow intern had been offered a contract. I'm hazy on how much work experience he has done to date, but I know he likes the company; it's a major company with lots of big accounts and lots of jobs, but as he says; there is a lot of competition for the jobs, too. Being nosy, the next day I found his contract -- wholly by accident. And I found it wasn't a job offer at all, but instead an offer of paid work experience for three months, at a rate of £100 a week. I don't know if that is exclusive of travel expenses, because I spend at least £70 a week on travel and it wouldn't be very feasible. On the other hand, I'm currently working for even less than that, so it would be a step in the right direction.

I enjoy the company and I enjoy the work, and I think I could be very happy doing the job. But that's not really up to me.

In the meantime I need to try and find a way to make some money. First to go has to be the snowboard, but who the hell wants to buy a snowboard at the start of the summer? Perhaps I should have planned ahead a little better before I bought the bloody thing. I am also trying to isolate from my bank statements my car insurance payments, since when I got the car late last year my Dad agreed to pay the tax and insurance for a year as a joint birthday/christmas present -- but to date I have been paying for it.

All of this is just a short-term solution, the reality is I need a job that is paying me real money, and I need it right away. I've sent my CV and a covering letter to a couple of London-based agencies that deal with recruitment in PR, so the hope is either a job may come from one of those, or that my company will be compelled to offer me something more substantial rather than let me go. I don't know how much I mean to them, there is a greater supply of interns than there is demand, and I might just be another face they will forget in no time at all.

Serial Killer Sunday (#3)

Well-spoken, mild-mannered, good-looking and educated Ted Bundy is often seen as the archetypical psychopath -- and along with his total inability to relate to other people these qualities made him extremely dangerous.

Responsible for more than 30 murders in the mid- to late- 1970s, Bundy was introverted and shy, although academically gifted, and was generally well-liked by the people around him. He was also the first mass murderer to be referred to as a "serial killer".

Born Theodore Robert Cowell to the unwed Eleanor Cowell in 1946, Bundy spent the first years of his life living with his grandparents, believing they were his parents, and his Mother to be his sister. Bundy never knew his biological Father, although he took the name of Johnnie Bundy, whom his Mother married when he was 4 years old.

As a young teenager Bundy already had a history of shoplifting, theft and was an aspiring con artist, he also claimed to have spied on girls dressing through their windows.

Bundy's first recognised (there is speculation he may have killed or attacked women earlier) victim on January 4, 1974 barely survived, after he attacked her with a crowbar while she was asleep. The pattern was repeated with an attack on another young woman, also a student the University of Washington, but this time Bundy kidnapped her.

Growing more bold, Bundy went from attacking women in their apartments at night to stalking and killing them in the park -- he claimed at least eight victims between January and July, reaching a climax when he kidnapped two young women in broad daylight from the Lake Sammamish State Park, near Seattle. Around this time Bundy was also volunteering for the Seattle suicide crisis center, a role that seems both out of character and coldly manipulative.

It has been said that Bundy's crimes are particularly abhorrent because he often preyed on the good nature of people -- he was remembered as a charming young man with his arm in a sling, who approached people asking for their help with his boat. It was like he punished people for being willing to help him out, and it's this behaviour, an almost total lack of empathy or conscience that seems to identify him as a psychopath.

Moving to Utah to attend law school in the Autumn of 1974, Bundy brutally killed two young girls in October, before just over a week later attacking and attempting to kidnap a woman, who managed to escape. Bundy had approached her, claiming to be a police officer, and lured her to his car -- she escaped when he tried to handcuff her, despite being concussed after he hit her with a blunt object he'd hidden in the car.

Bundy was arrested in the summer of 1975 after his car was identified as stolen, and in 1976 he was sentenced to 15 years for kidnapping. In 1977, Bundy was taken to Colorado to stand trial for murder. However, he escaped by jumping from a second floor window after he was allowed to visit the courthouse's law library during a recess. With an injured ankle, Bundy wasn't able to make it very far and was arrested again a week later.

While awaiting trial in December, Bundy managed to escape again -- this time by cutting a hole in the ceiling of his cell, walking out the front door and stealing a car. By January, Bundy had made it to Florida -- via Denver, Chicago, Ann Arbor and Atlanta. He promptly began killing again, fatally attacking two young women asleep in their sorority house and injuring two others. He abducted and killed a young girl in early February before he was again caught driving a stolen car.

Despite being on trial for murder, Bundy remained popular, receiving fan letters from young women, and even marrying a coworker in the courtroom, during the trial. In a display of over-confidence or arrogance, Bundy refused the five court-appointed lawyers and chose instead to represent himself. He was sentenced to death in 1982, but his influence even seemed to appeal to the Judge, who made a point of telling Bundy:
"You're a bright young man. You'd have made a good lawyer, and I'd have loved to have you practice in front of me, but you went the wrong way, partner" -- and to take care of himself.

It's ironic perhaps to tell someone to look after themselves right after you sentence them to death.

While on death row, Bundy confessed to further murders and later offered to help detectives working on the case of the Green River Killer. Bundy's insights were largely unhelpful, and perhaps motivated more out of arrogance and a desire for attention -- apparently the detectives hadn't expected him to be much help, but had instead hoped to get details of unsolved murders Bundy was expected of. Bundy later confessed to a further eight unsolved murders, and is believed to have been trying to manipulate his confessions into a stay of execution by promising more details "later".

Along with offering more confessions, Bundy also later started referring to other selves and a part of himself he called "the entity" -- but not until he was appealing his death sentence. In a final television interview blamed his actions on violent pornography warping his mind, and warned against sexualised violence in the media. This is worth mentioning only because Bundy hadn't ever mentioned pornography before, and none was ever found on searches of his home. Instead it seems he was manipulative and unrepentant to the end, when he had to be forcibly dragged from his cell. On January 24, 1989, Bundy was executed in the electric chair. Crowds outside with banners reading "Burn, Bundy, Burn" cheered the news of his death.

Retracing my karma

"My party piece:
I strike, then from the moment when the matchstick
conjures up its light, to when the brightness moves
beyond its means, and dies, I say the story
of my life -

dates and places, torches I carried,
a cast of names and faces, those
who showed me love, or came close,
the changes I made, the lessons I learnt -"
(extract from untitled poem, by Simon Armitage)

Sometimes I talk of regrets in my life; mistakes in judgment, lapses in concentration or just decisions made that I have in hindsight felt were made wrongly. However, it occurred to me lately when I talk of these things that there are parts I am leaving out.

Months ago, late on a random Saturday night I ended up sitting in a pub with Deb and some assorted other people, including a very quiet guy that worked in the kitchen of the pub I worked in, and a friend of his who happened to be a boy I went to school with. We went to school together, but I'd probably be safe in saying we were never friends -- in fact, I would go far as saying I bullied him. From the age of 11 to probably about 16 or so, I was a dick to him. Most people were, and I guess I didn't think for myself -- he was just the kid whose clothes didn't fit, who had a bad haircut, but it wasn't only that. I think part of what annoyed me is that sometimes if you were talking to him individually, he could be okay. You could have a normal conversation about music, but in public -- if there were other people around -- he acted weird, played up to it. Perhaps he wanted the attention, even if it was negative attention? I don't know. Anyway, the point is that I believe I treated him badly. Although in the years since we left school our paths have crossed on several occasions and we have been friendly and polite to each other, it's nagged at me.

Then this one night, someone went to introduce us and he stopped them and said we had gone to school together. I agreed, we had -- and I turned to him and said that I was sorry for being such a complete arse to him at school. I told him that I had no excuse for my behaviour, that it was inexcusable, and for what it was worth I was sorry.

He said it clearly couldn't have been that bad, since he couldn't remember it. I don't believe it, I didn't believe it, and I think his eyes said something different. Either way, he said he remembered I made him a compilation tape of something or another and we had talked about music. I figure if he clearly doesn't hold a grudge against me, and I have told him I'm sorry, then I can consider it closed. Resolved, you might say. And like Earl Hickey I can cross him off my list.

In a conversation with Charley last weekend, the context I don't recall now, I remembered a girl I had gone to school with -- someone else treated badly. I decided to carry on with crossing people off my list, and sent an email to the address I thought I could remember for her -- just asking if it was still her address, because I wanted to reach her.

After almost a week I got a reply confirming it was indeed her address, and asking who I was.

I wasn't sure -- and to be honest, still aren't entirely convinced -- I was doing the right thing, but I emailed her clearing up who I was, and laying out exactly why I was emailing her. I apologised for messing with her head and generally behaving badly towards her for years, and hoped she would forgive me. I didn't honestly expect her to still harbour bad feelings about it, but I have never before apologised to her either.
For what it's worth, she says she forgave me years ago -- water under the bridge and all of that. Now I have to decide if I want anything further to do with her, since I had no desire to try and rekindle any friendship, but am wary of just disappearing again.

The whole concept of karma in Buddhism troubles me. I sort of get it -- every action having an equal and opposite reaction, the illusion of separateness, and so with it what you do to someone else you are doing to yourself, in a way. But I have always had issue with when bad things seem to happen undeserved to a good person -- the old lady who gets knocked over by a fleeing shoplifter, maybe hits her head or breaks something, what did she do to deserve that? But just the same, when I look back, I think of bullying a boy at school and wonder if it has anything to do with why my own life was later made miserable. I look at the girl who I treated badly and would never give a chance to, and consider if it has any relation to my failed relationships.

I don't believe it does, but I also think it's important to recognise bad things you have done and trying to make amends. It's a step towards universal compassion.

Things I’ll never say

San and I were talking over the weekend, about diaries and life and I asked her if she still kept up with her own online diary. She said it hadn’t been written in for a while, because writing about things means she has to think about them and face them and bring them into the open and deal with them. And there were some things she just didn’t want to do that with. I didn’t press her on details. But sometimes I think I know, because there are things I’ll never say. Like when we spend time together it can feel just like back in the old days when we were still a couple – sometimes it’s better. We’ve both grown up a bit since the days of when I was living in Leicester and seeing her all the time, San has grown out of acting like a princess and maybe I’ve grown out of letting her be one. She also takes more of an interest in world events now – she’ll surprise me with it and I’ll ask her who she is and what she has she done with San.
And sometimes when we see a film together, or we go to see John Hegley together, and things are just good I’ll consider going back.

But you can’t ever go back. This is the girl who broke my heart one time too many –who told me she didn’t love me and couldn’t be with me on more than one occasion. If things feel good between us now, if there is perhaps something unspoken hanging in the air, it’s because we’re not together and there’s no need to know where things are going. There’s no need to feel anything, because we’re just friends now – even if I do still consider getting a flat with her if I get a permanent job in London.

I know we can’t be together, because even when we were together I think we were always both kind of, sort of, looking for someone better or something more. And I know now we still are. It wouldn’t be right to be with San if, like last night, a cute girl catches my eye across the bar, and I get embarrassed and smile and look away when she looks at me. If even if I didn’t act on it – didn’t get the chance to act on it – that doesn’t change the desire. And what about people like Deb, who every time she hugs me I don’t want to let her go and when she looks at me a certain way I just want to kiss her. Or Lyndsay – months now with no contact, but still a flame flickering somewhere in my mind, like the postcard I sent her from France comparing her to the morning sun on the Alps. All of these thoughts and feelings and desires would still be there.

And as I say, San broke my heart one time too many – there comes a time when you have to stop, and say to yourself that there is no guarantee the cycle won’t continue and she won’t do it again in a month, or six months’ time. I guess she knows this too, if it’s even something she thinks about.

Serial Killer Sunday (#2)

#"I'll make a shoehorn outta your skin
I'll make a lampshade of durable skin
And oh, don't you know that I'm always feelin' able
When I'm sittin' home and I'm carving out your navel#
Skinned by Blind Melon

Born Edward Theodore on 27 August 1906 to George and Augusta Gein. The younger brother of Henry Gein, Ed Gein has been the inspiration behind many memorable movie serial killers -- including Norman Bates in Psycho, Leatherface in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Buffalo Bill in The Silence of the Lambs. The latter is one of the more accurate portrayals of the mass murderer who made 'suits' from the skin of his victims, and made ornaments out of their skulls.

Gein's childhood is almost undoubtedly where it all began -- although as ever with this type of depravity, one can't help but wonder if someone could just be born bad. Gein's father, George Gein, was a hopeless and timid alcoholic while his mother, Augusta, was feverishly puritanic and endlessly warned her sons against the sins of the flesh, and the inherent evil of women. Although she had their best interests at heart with her dire warnings of the pits of hell, and preached of the evils of alcohol and lust, one can't help but feel it may have been taken a little too far.

Gein's brother Henry died four years after their father died of a heart attack. By all accounts, Henry grew up fine and wanted a normal life of his own -- perhaps a wife and family, and to move away. He apparently also made the mistake of bad-mouthing their mother to his younger brother. In 1944 the fire service were called to a bursh fire at the Gein farm. On their arrival, Gein claimed his brother was missing, although he lead them to where his body lay. The cause of death was put down as asphxiation from the smoke.

Gein spent the next year living alone with his mother in their farmhouse, and the inspiration for the movie Psycho apparently comes from their relationship, where Augusta would tell her son what a waste he was and compare him to his father, in between praising him and letting him share her bed. Her death from cancer a year later, following a series of strokes, probably didn't do Gein's mental stability a lot of good.

With the assistance of an accomplice, known only as Gus, who worked at a local cemetary, Gein mutilated the bodies of a number of women. He apparently favoured the older, plump women who reminded him of his own mother -- and it was from these that he began making his gruesome trophies. The details of these I won't go into here, there are some things I just won't talk about in public, after all.

In a move that may have been inevitable, when 'Gus' was moved to an old people's home and could no longer help Gein with his nocturnal activities -- which, incidentally, went unnoticed, Gein moved from grave robbing to murder.

A number of missing persons in the area were left unsolved after bodies were never found, and although after his arrest Gein was later a suspect, he denied killing more than two people.

Gein spent 10 years in a mental institution, before being declared mentally competent to stand trial for his crimes. Despite being found guilty, it was ruled that he had been insane at the time of the murders and he was sent back to hospital where he was apparently a model patient. He died of cancer in 1984, and was buried alongside his mother in the same cemetary he had desecrated during his lifetime.

Day two

At the end of day two in the PR internship things are good. Strangely, for someone who is used to getting out of bed normally no earlier than 9 or 10, I am not struggling too much with 6.30 starts. It helps that I sleep on public transport, so I grab a window seat on the train into London and doze until we arrive.

The office is a very cool place. I felt a little silly yesterday, turning up in my smart black suit and white shirt to find that it really was smart casual, not even smart, but blue jeans casual. They reassured me I did the right thing wearing a suit though, because if it had been the other way around... Everyone seems friendly, people introduce themselves and ask how long I'm around for and you have conversations like you haven't only met for the first time that morning.

The work varies -- although I doubt any job is all interesting and exciting all of the time, it's a pretty fast-paced environment and not too unlike journalism. But rather than pages to fill and editors to satisfy there are accounts and presentations and all sorts of things to organise. In the course of a day I might be researching stuff, looking for up-market bars and private clubs around the country, then spend some time putting mail shots into envelopes, then later on be calling journalists to try and convince them they want to be writing a feature about a new washing up liquid.

It feels strange calling newspapers. I was given a list of people to call and told what to say, and they warned me journalists could be rude and asked me if I had spoken to any before. "I kind of worked as a journalist, for a while" I say, and they understand. I know how it is. But I'm still surprised when I talk to one and am trying to sound enthusiastic about being from whatever detergent company (even though technically, I'm sort of not) and they say in a bored voice, tired of dealing with PR people: "What are you flogging, then?". But it's not like that, and that same weary journalist takes half an interest when you explain and puts you in touch with someone else.

When I was being asked to do some research I was asked if I had ever done research before. Again, I tell someone that I sort of worked as a journalist.
"Come over to the dark side, have you?" they ask, and I laugh.
Because it's true. PR always was referred to as the dark side -- people who couldn't write a tight, punchy intro and are more interested in getting you to write about whatever product they are being paid to push, but of course it's not as simple as just that. All the same, I have been turned to the dark side of the force, I have pledged my allegiance to them, and I do enjoy my work.

Musical Monday (#2)

Musical Monday continues on a completely different train of thought to the first post. We go from the most powerful jazz musician in America, to a folk rock 5-piece from Michigan.

The Great Lakes Myth Society were formed in 2004, two months after the dissolution of their previous band, The Original Brothers and Sisters of Love.

The GLMS rekindle their love of Michigan first explored in TOBSOL, and build further on it, mixing influences such as Steeleye Span, David Bowie and a very clear sound of the Pogues. The songs range from being nostalgic, as with Isabella County, 1992, to fantastical, like with Big Jim Hawkins, where they retell the mythical Paul Bunyan's creation of the Great Lakes, by way of a fight with a giant Jim Hawkins.

One of the things I like most about the band are their poetic lyrics, which would stand out as worthy poetry even without their music; indeed it sometimes feels like the songs have been made to fit around poems. The way the lines scan and words fit to the music seem like strange choices if this isn't the case -- although the songs don't suffer for it.

Not having so much as ever visited Michigan the songs are full of intricate references I often need explaining -- luckily for me, Jamie introduced me to the music and she does understand the references, and so can explain things like why in Isabella County, 1992 there are references to being "drunk all the time" or what the "salt trucks" are in the song Red Jacket Miners.

The songs are strangely catchy -- even if some stand out more than others -- although I find I enjoy them more if I can concentrate, rather than just as background. It's difficult to know what song to include here, but I have chosen Isabella County, 1992, if only because it was one of their first songs I heard, and the one I have mentioned the most. Short of that, go their MySpace page and listen to the songs they have available to download. Or just buy their album and be done with it.


Great Lakes Myth Society -Isabella County, 1992.mp3

Serial Killer Sunday

David Berkowitz is at once one of the most complex, contradictory and enduringly fascinating serial killers. During 1976 he shot and killed six people, and wounded eight others in attacks dating back to 1975. It has been said that the media attention on serial killers prompts them to continue killing, prompting more media coverage and even more killings. Berkowitz called himself the Son of Sam after he was called it in the newspapers, and the letters he wrote were inspired by something he had read about Jack the Ripper. Cynically one could suggest that Berkowitz's own website used for his messages of remorse and faith are just part of his need for attention.

It is speculated that Berkowitz's adoption inspired in him the rage and violence that he was to later vent as the .44 caliber killer, although he apparently had a generous and caring adopted family. However, he is also the subject of much professional debate -- about his motives, his sanity and the full extent of his involvement.

During his reign of terror in New York, Berkowitz taunted the police with barely-legible but haunting letters in which he claimed he was ordered to kill by "Father Sam" -- apparently his neighbour Sam Carr, whom Berkowirz claimed was a demon -- with instructions related to him by Harvery, his neighbour's black labrador.

Berkowitz -- nicknamed the 'Son of Sam' -- was apprehended after being given a parking ticket on the night of one of his attacks. He cheerfully confessed to the murders and pleaded guilty.

He has since retracted his tales of demonic voices and evil dogs, instead giving a more straight-forward explanation of a loathing for women. Berkowitz has said, however, he was a satanist and has also claimed that his neighbour, Sam Carr's, sons John and Michael were also involved a satanic 'coven' -- among other people whose identities he hasn't revealed. John and Michael died in mysterious circumstances in 1978 and 1979. Berkowitz insists he acted alone, but "There were others who knew about them and urged me on. But I carried out the killings. I take full responsibility for my actions."

Berkowitz is a quarter-century into a prison sentence of 365 years, and has repeatedly insisted he doesn't want to be paroled. He is now a born-again Christian and author.

Serial Killer Sunday

In the vein of Musical Monday and Half-Nekkid Thursday, I bring the blogging community my own theme day: Serial Killer Sunday.

I will create the first post later on today, since right now it's 1.30am and I just spent an hour making the image for the post.

Bat country

I'm ashamed for missing Musical Monday on only the second opportunity I've had so far to take advantage of it; I realise also there has been no "News day Tuesday" or "Serial Killer Sunday". I missed Monday's because I went to London to visit San, who is home for Easter. Things are carrying on as normal in Kings Cross -- a Starbucks has opened (though I don't believe they really open, I think they're alive and they grow...) and new buildings are springing up along the skyline. The area is regenerating, all in time for the Olympics, I don't think I even saw a single burned-out car this time round. In San's house things have their own kind of normality -- San's younger sister came out to their Mum, who I don't think was really all that surprised considering the amount of time she was spending with her girl "friend".

Things carry on more or less like they always have. In San's flat I noticed a mini trampoline. "Why do you have that?" I asked. San told me her sister had bought it, and didn't ask anything more. If San had bought it, I might have tried to understand why -- but San's sister and her mum buy strange things they see on TV. Like the new water filter in the kitchen. Not satisfied with the plastic jugs you fill up and put in the fridge, now they have an electric one with indicator lights and stuff that looks like an R2 unit and doesn't chill the water like it's supposed to.

San and I went to see the film "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada", in a screening with only perhaps half a dozen other people. Described as "Part complex character study, part Peckinpah-esque border Western, part mystic epic" the film revolved around a killer being made to carry his victim's corpse to his resting place in Mexico. It was funny in places, touching in others, and sometimes just sad, and needless to say I really liked it.

So that's why I missed Musical Monday, I will try and make a belated post to make up for it tomorrow since I already picked out in advance who it will be about.

All for the experience

Last week ended with me getting phone calls from the media sales agency, and consistently missing them. I'd call back and leave a message, they'd return my call and have to leave a message. This carried on the next week on Monday, obviously with a break over the weekend -- but by Monday I had decided I didn't want to work in sales. I knew I had to call the agency, or talk to them when they called me...I just couldn't do it. In the end I chickened out, and emailed them. I didn't get a reply, but they stopped calling, and that was what I wanted. Because I was avoiding their calls though I also had to keep calling back an agency I did want to talk to -- although the story from agencies about editorial or creative work has been the same almost every time; not enough experience.

Some agencies were more interested than others, and this one in particular chatted to me about my experience and what I wanted, but expressed doubts they could find me anything. However, within minutes of hanging up the phone to one guy I got a call from one of his colleagues who had my CV and thought she might have a job opportunity for me. Reporter for a B2B international finance magazine, a junior position with writing involved from day one and gradually more responsibility and the possibility for international travel. The more she told me, the more interested I was. She said she would send the company my CV and let me know if they wanted to interview me.

The next day she called with the news; they didn't. I wasn't experienced enough -- for a junior position, and not even worth interviewing. Naturally I was pretty disappointed, and I posted a question on a jobs board of a forum asking people for advice on getting experience in the form of unpaid work. I got a few responses, one person asked if I was "at least writing". I can't very well show a prospective employer my blog -- "We like the way you talk about this girl you fancy, you're hired" -- which is partly the rationale behind the occasional commentary on current affairs. Other questions involved where I had done any internships, since apparently it's not only a great way to get experience, but also a common way for employers to find suitable employees.

This prompted me to search for internship opportunities. Initial searches, although at first promising, seemed to suggest that internships in London were mostly aimed at international students. I'm still considering my own internship abroad -- opportunities in Australia, New Zealand and Italy have caught my eye in particular. However, anything involving an antipodean trip would cost me money I don't have right now -- and to fund such a trip, I would need the ever-elusive 'real job'.

So it's just as well a London-based PR firm have now offered me the opportunity to intern for at least a month, and possibly longer. I feel slightly apprehensive that I am now quitting my job to work unpaid, but I figure it's something I can't let pass me by if I intend to ever get out from behind the bar and into something more suited to me.

The other day a guy I once went to school with and worked alongside, behind the bar, several summers ago stopped in for a drink -- apparently after work. I tried to be polite and friendly, but still show no obvious sign of recognising him. He was dressed in a suit -- which didn't suit him in the least, he always seemed scruffy, however he was dressed -- and smugly asked me; "So what are you up to now?".
"You're looking at it", I said.

Very short news round up for Saturday

It's News day...er Saturday today. Not a regular feature, at least for the day -- but the need to continue to comment on current affairs is going to be more common.

Bird flu testing keeps labs open
All eight of Scotland's laboratories that can test for bird flu are to open over the weekend to help meet the rise in referrals of dead birds.
The good news so far is that apparently further tests on other dead birds have come back negative. Call me a pessimist, but I don't expect it to last. I don't know what will become of bird flu, whether it will ever mutate to spread between people, but at the very least I think it will be a disastrous for our wildlife. At this point, only time will tell what's going to happen.

Silence on Harry lap dance claims
Clarence House has refused to comment on newspaper reports claiming Prince Harry went to a lap dancing club.
I have to say, I am morally outraged at the shocking news that the 21 year old went to a lap dancing club with some friends, and turned down a lap dance. His behaviour is disgraceful -- I mean turning down a dance, she could be a future princess. Except of course she wouldn't be, because she would have to be in some way related to him to begin with.


UKIP parks tank at Tory meeting
The UK Independence Party parked an armoured personnel carrier outside the Conservative Party's spring conference in Manchester.
Seemingly oblivious to the meaning of irony, the party take offence at being called "fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists" by the Conservative leader, and attempt to prove him wrong by turning up in a tank, and then demanding an apology. That sounds perfectly reasonable...

Following on

Following the success of Musical Monday -- or at least, it was a success to me as it gave me the opportunity to do something slightly different -- I have been toying with the idea of incorporating other themes. Ideas to date have included "News day Tuesday", where I comment on current affairs in true blogger style, and "Serial Killer Sunday"; a very similar idea to Musical Monday -- except I write about mass murderers, instead of musicians. Think "Natural Born Killers" where the media turns murderers into celebrities, or the screaming girl 'fans' of Richard Ramirez.

Unfortunately today is Wednesday and I haven't yet thought of a theme for Wednesdays. Perhaps "quiz day Wednesday" would work, but every day doesn't have to have a theme otherwise I would only be able to complain about girls or not being able to get a job on certain days. And I'm already going to break the rules today -- by talking about the news.

Man held as terrorism suspect over punk song: LONDON (Reuters) - Anti-terrorism detectives escorted a man from a plane after a taxi driver had earlier become suspicious when he started singing along to a track by punk band The Clash, police said on Wednesday.

It would seem that in these enlightened times your choice of listening material can get you arrested. While in some cases this should be encouraged, anyone who buys Robbie Williams' albums, for example, or people who vote for Pop Idol -- but I don't think there are many occasions when political content in music taken out of context should be cause to call the police.

'Detectives halted the London-bound flight at Durham Tees Valley Airport and Harraj Mann, 24, was taken off.

The taxi driver had become worried on the way to the airport because Mann had been singing along to The Clash's 1979 anthem "London Calling," which features the lyrics "Now war is declared -- and battle come down" while other lines warn of a "meltdown expected".'

Interestingly, the Hartlepool Today webportal reported the same story two days ago about the man as their local resident being taken off the plane -- but there is no mention of his music. He expressed bemusement about the whole thing. What it does mention, as you might have guessed from his name, Mr Mann is of Indian descent. I would be willing to bet that a white person playing the Clash woudln't get escorted off a plane.

It's likely the lyrics would be again misinterpreted, perhaps as white supremacist, but I think it's important that a foreign-looking man should be detained under the prevention of terrorism act because of his choice of music. He should be warned never to show any public appreciation of Rage Against the Machine.