Last week, I had a dream that I had Down's Syndrome. It sounds funny, or stupid, and in the cold light of day it seemed a mixture of both. I tried to talk to my friends about it, but unfortunately only managed to make it sound funny, at first. With a little explaining of how I felt and what I think the dream was about or influenced by, Jon at least could see what I was saying. Nick showed just how clueless he remains when he told us last night that he thought it was so funny he texted all his friends to say that I'd had a dream about having Down's Syndrome and had been apparently "disappointed" because if they'd known my parents would have had an abortion.
It's difficult to explain. For about as long as I can remember, I have felt that I wasn't just "different" to other people, but that there was actually something wrong with me. Growing up, I was always very clumsy -- I'd walk into door frames, had very bad "spatial awareness" and sense of balance. I remain clumsy to this day, but it's not considered an issue now. But as a child it was considered possibly very serious, since I have an uncle with Multiple Sclerosis and I'm told some of the early warning signs are perceived clumsiness.
That might explain why at school I would sometimes be pulled out of lessons to have tests run on me -- to check my hearing, check my balance, check my coordination -- but was never given an explanation at the time. I know so many people have said and will continue to say "I would have asked". I don't know why I didn't ask, didn't demand answers, except that just wasn't me.
I've heard told that as a child I was late to start talking -- again, it was assumed there was something wrong with me. The experts concluded there wasn't, I just didn't feel like talking. I also remember however-many visits to speech therapists -- surely by this time I was talking -- but why I was going, or what it achieved, I can't tell you. Especially as I still can't pronounce my "th" properly ("three" is the same as "free") but that's very much an Essex/London accent anyway.
In later years, there's been emotional problems. There's been depression and god knows what else, and from a medical perspective doctors never really agreed what was wrong with me. I blame it at least in part on a tendency to act out -- if you tell me I'm depressed, I will be. If you tell me I have borderline personality disorder, or bipolar depression, or whatever else label you want to give me, then I will be able to parrot fashion repeat back to you the symptoms, if that's what you want to hear.
I was watching the movie Garden State earlier this evening. In the movie, Zach Braff's character has been on medication constantly since he was a child and no longer feels anything -- until he goes home for his mother's funeral and stops taking his medication.
I have gone cold turkey from various medications myself in the past and it was not fun. In fact, it was about as fucked up as it has been possible to feel. I once had a psychiatrist cancel my prescription for anti depressants because he felt it hadn't been firmly established if I might be bipolar in which case the medication I was taking would have been completely wrong. The unfortunate thing was, I wasn't given anything else and he never returned my phone calls -- let alone make a second appointment -- so I felt like I was left to fend for myself. Anyway, the point is that it can be positively dangerous to just stop taking these kinds of medications and you should not do so without consulting your doctor who would advise you on how to gradually cut down.
The film has nothing of this -- it showed nothing of the soaring feeling of complete indestructibility I would first feel when I quit the meds, this giving way quickly to a spiralling depression and a desire to really hurt myself. Zach Braff's character seems to instead slowly begin to feel all kinds of things again, in what appears to be a smooth and almost seamless transition. I know, it's a movie -- it's not meant to be taken literally. But it annoyed me.
My dream was about feeling like there was something wrong with me. It was about finding out there was something wrong with me -- of always suspecting, and then finding out it had been kept a secret. And I do know almost for a fact that my Dad at least would consider abortion to be the kinder option for a child with Down's Sydrome -- I have no idea how well educated about the subject he is, but I remember him telling me before that the children you see with the condition are a very lucky minority who are able to live an almost normal life -- and that instead 99% of people born with the condition are so severely handicapped... Well, you get it by now.
Even if I didn't explain it very well, even if I made it sound funny at first because I didn't know how else to bring up with my friends a lingering feeling of distress from a dream, I was fucking insulted to hear Nick say how he was texting his friends about it, because it was so funny. Sometimes I think I should tell my therapist about the violent thoughts that boy inspires in me, almost without effort on his part.
As a post script... I don't know. I grow and I prove things to myself -- passing my driving test was one of the biggest achievements in my life, since my instructor when I was 17 gave up on trying to teach me. He said he had "run out of ideas to help [me]" -- but at 25 I sure showed him when I did pass my test. I'd had an instructor who wouldn't give up on me, and helped me to believe in myself. And I realised that even if I do walk into door frames and bang my head when I pick up the post off the mat, that I can still drive a car perfectly well. I am trying to rewrite the story that is my life, or who I am, in so many ways -- but clearly some issues remain in that old subconscious mind.
Friday, 16 November 2007
Thursday, 15 November 2007
John Hegley
In keeping with my attempts to write about a range of subjects and mediums, this post is about the poet, comedian and musician John Hegley.
I'm not his biographer, if you want to find out about the early years of his life in a bungalow in Luton you'll need to go elsewhere. All I'm really interested in today is the man and his words.
I've seen it said that John Hegley is too funny to ever really be taken seriously as a poet, but at the same time too talented a poet to be considered a comedian -- he exists in several worlds all at the same, without seeming to want to settle for just one.
John Hegley's poems were first introduced to me by the infamous Kath -- who is more or less responsible for my whole poetry liking, along with getting me to listen to Radiohead, wear eyeliner and love Manchester. She has a lot to answer for besides this, too, but it's all been said before and this isn't a post about girls.
When Kath first sent me John Hegley I think she told me that they were amusing, but that the poems also had a sort of deeper meaning to them. She didn't mean deeper as in spiritual or philosophical, but literally there was more than just what you saw on the surface -- like so many, Hegley sometimes uses humour to approach a serious subject. If you can cover yourself with humour sometimes you can sneak up on thinking about a more serious point without realising until it's too late.
Lost Going To Shropshire was hardly a poem with a serious message -- but it wasn't just to be thrown away, either. Hegley says himself in the poem that he likes ambiguity, and clearly he is very bright since he likes to play with words. Take for example his short poem, The Play
There are several immediately identifiable themes I can pick out running through John Hegley's work. I think the clearest of these would be dogs. There's Death of a Dog -- not surprisingly about the death of his dog, but in many ways a typical Hegley poem in that it's both funny and serious and sad and it makes you think. When distraught about the death of his dog, the young protagonist remembers something he'd read that posed the idea that if you lived forever there would be no point in trying to do anything -- because you'd be able to do everything an infinite number of times. There's too many poems for me to try and remember about his dogs specifically -- but dogs also crop up in some unusual places in his poems.
Apparently a committed Christian, Hegley also has poems about Jesus. Normally, the mention of Jesus makes me a little twitchy but he usually manages to refrain from being preachy. In Look Dad, Hegley writes about Jesus' joy of walking on water ("walking on water is God's gift to me") -- in a very funny and likeable way. He lapses briefly into French (as he sometimes does, as a nod to his own French Dad), but also throws in a reference to dogs. In Jesus Isn't Just For Christmas Hegley asks if Jesus had a dog, with the strange line of questioning:
It's a relatively serious poem -- but Hegley injects his own humour into it. The poem ends with the lines "No trial, for whatever it is the lad done -- if that's a Good Friday, I wouldn't want a bad one". It makes me laugh, but when you stop laughing you do stop to think for a minute.
Another theme that crops up with some regularity in Hegley's work is that of family. He has songs about growing up in his Luton bungalow with his siblings, about his Mum living in a mobile home, poems about the birth of his daughter (in The New Father's Mistake he mistakenly thinks the midwife has given a questionnaire meant for his wife to him, for him to fill out)-- and he has diary entries which are a kind of poetic prose about his Dad, when he was growing up. I think with a Christian perspective, the role of his Dad (his Father, as it were) is very important -- since he also becomes in a way your model for God. Maybe I'm just speaking for me, but if from a young age you hearing about "God the Father" you automatically associate the two. Whether this is good or bad I will reserve judgement on for another day.
John Hegley also likes potatoes. I don't know why, but he has various poems mentioning potatoes -- and at least one in French (French Potato Poem).
Words, the written page, don't do justice to John Hegley. You can read and enjoy his books like Dog and The Sound of Paint Drying (among many other fine works) but like anyone, you have to see him live to fully appreciate it. You have to see which poems are also songs -- as with Eddie Don't Like Furniture -- and see John Hegley rocking out a ukulele solo, you have to hear the rhythm, the tone of voice and the sardonic humour.
Unlike most poets, John Hegley is often touring -- or appearing once a month at a club in Kings Cross. If you like comedy, if you like poetry, or if you just want to be entertained he will satisfy you and more. I wish I could post every one of his poems here -- instead I can make some selected works available on request, and have uploaded some MP3 files of a couple of his performances. If you don't have the attention span for the first, I have also extracted a couple of shorter pieces from it.
John Hegley 1
John Hegley 2
Pear Shaped
Jesus Isn't Just For Christmas
I'm not his biographer, if you want to find out about the early years of his life in a bungalow in Luton you'll need to go elsewhere. All I'm really interested in today is the man and his words.
I've seen it said that John Hegley is too funny to ever really be taken seriously as a poet, but at the same time too talented a poet to be considered a comedian -- he exists in several worlds all at the same, without seeming to want to settle for just one.
John Hegley's poems were first introduced to me by the infamous Kath -- who is more or less responsible for my whole poetry liking, along with getting me to listen to Radiohead, wear eyeliner and love Manchester. She has a lot to answer for besides this, too, but it's all been said before and this isn't a post about girls.
When Kath first sent me John Hegley I think she told me that they were amusing, but that the poems also had a sort of deeper meaning to them. She didn't mean deeper as in spiritual or philosophical, but literally there was more than just what you saw on the surface -- like so many, Hegley sometimes uses humour to approach a serious subject. If you can cover yourself with humour sometimes you can sneak up on thinking about a more serious point without realising until it's too late.
Lost Going To Shropshire was hardly a poem with a serious message -- but it wasn't just to be thrown away, either. Hegley says himself in the poem that he likes ambiguity, and clearly he is very bright since he likes to play with words. Take for example his short poem, The Play
Yesterday i went to see a play in my friend’s carIt makes you smile, but you realise it's a subtle joke about the use of grammar. In his poem Mad Mum Hegley slowly reveals small pieces of information about a scene -- a scene which starts simply with someone pushing a pram and saying "my little baby", but before too long you find out it's neither a woman, nor really a baby. And although it's funny, you also realise there's a point in there about mental health. Perhaps unlike his poem/diary entry which reads "In the doctor's reception the sign read: 'Are you looking after someone over 65 with mental health problems?'. I read the sign as 'Are you looking for someone over 65 with mental health problems?'.
It was by an experimental group
Who do plays in people’s cars
There are several immediately identifiable themes I can pick out running through John Hegley's work. I think the clearest of these would be dogs. There's Death of a Dog -- not surprisingly about the death of his dog, but in many ways a typical Hegley poem in that it's both funny and serious and sad and it makes you think. When distraught about the death of his dog, the young protagonist remembers something he'd read that posed the idea that if you lived forever there would be no point in trying to do anything -- because you'd be able to do everything an infinite number of times. There's too many poems for me to try and remember about his dogs specifically -- but dogs also crop up in some unusual places in his poems.
Apparently a committed Christian, Hegley also has poems about Jesus. Normally, the mention of Jesus makes me a little twitchy but he usually manages to refrain from being preachy. In Look Dad, Hegley writes about Jesus' joy of walking on water ("walking on water is God's gift to me") -- in a very funny and likeable way. He lapses briefly into French (as he sometimes does, as a nod to his own French Dad), but also throws in a reference to dogs. In Jesus Isn't Just For Christmas Hegley asks if Jesus had a dog, with the strange line of questioning:
Did he have a dog? And was it disaster?It makes sense knowing John Hegley that he would wonder if Jesus had a dog -- but the rest of is just so far off the wall. But it works.
Breaking all its legs and going round in plaster,
Swallowed by the water, following its master,
Sinking like a stone, only sinking somewhat faster."
It's a relatively serious poem -- but Hegley injects his own humour into it. The poem ends with the lines "No trial, for whatever it is the lad done -- if that's a Good Friday, I wouldn't want a bad one". It makes me laugh, but when you stop laughing you do stop to think for a minute.
Another theme that crops up with some regularity in Hegley's work is that of family. He has songs about growing up in his Luton bungalow with his siblings, about his Mum living in a mobile home, poems about the birth of his daughter (in The New Father's Mistake he mistakenly thinks the midwife has given a questionnaire meant for his wife to him, for him to fill out)-- and he has diary entries which are a kind of poetic prose about his Dad, when he was growing up. I think with a Christian perspective, the role of his Dad (his Father, as it were) is very important -- since he also becomes in a way your model for God. Maybe I'm just speaking for me, but if from a young age you hearing about "God the Father" you automatically associate the two. Whether this is good or bad I will reserve judgement on for another day.
John Hegley also likes potatoes. I don't know why, but he has various poems mentioning potatoes -- and at least one in French (French Potato Poem).
Words, the written page, don't do justice to John Hegley. You can read and enjoy his books like Dog and The Sound of Paint Drying (among many other fine works) but like anyone, you have to see him live to fully appreciate it. You have to see which poems are also songs -- as with Eddie Don't Like Furniture -- and see John Hegley rocking out a ukulele solo, you have to hear the rhythm, the tone of voice and the sardonic humour.
Unlike most poets, John Hegley is often touring -- or appearing once a month at a club in Kings Cross. If you like comedy, if you like poetry, or if you just want to be entertained he will satisfy you and more. I wish I could post every one of his poems here -- instead I can make some selected works available on request, and have uploaded some MP3 files of a couple of his performances. If you don't have the attention span for the first, I have also extracted a couple of shorter pieces from it.
John Hegley 1
John Hegley 2
Pear Shaped
Jesus Isn't Just For Christmas
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
Lostnesses
Lost Going to Shropshire
by John Hegley
Just out of Euston
On a trip to Shrewsbury
Changing at Crewe
The announcement, “If anybody has lost anything
Please contact the guard at the back of the train”.
I like the ambiguity,
Just as I like the ambiguity in art, dance and poetry.
Passengers invade the vestibules
To check their luggage.
I imagine a queue forming at the train’s back,
With various lostnesses:
I’ve lost a glove.
I’ve lost a gland.
I lost fourteen nil at blow football in my time.
I’ve lost the ability to live purely in the moment.
Somewhere on my way back from Brixton on Thursday night, I lost my scarf. I had a brief panic on Friday morning when I thought I had lost my wallet as well, so I'm glad in a way it was only my scarf. I've also started wearing the warm, brown coat my brother gave me last year that was temporarily mislaid at a comedy club in Portsmouth.
I am punishing myself for losing the scarf by going without one for a week, so I can learn to look after my things better and really appreciate them. Though the loss of a fairly unremarkable Gap scarf has given me the opportunity to buy this one from Etsy. I've been wanting an excuse to buy it for ages, ever since it was recommended as a potential gift for my brother's birthday.
I'll post pictures once it arrives.
Monday, 12 November 2007
quasi-Musical Monday
Way back in the day, one of my favourite bloggers used to include with posts the occasional "hottie of the day". I was going to make a Musical Monday post about this artist, until I remembered that I don't actually like her music. I like her voice, and I think she's hot -- but I don't listen to her music by choice.
So anyway, call this what you like -- hottie of the day, or a quasi-Musical Monday, but I give you Katie Melua.
"If you were a piece of wood, I'd nail you" -- you said it, Katie
So anyway, call this what you like -- hottie of the day, or a quasi-Musical Monday, but I give you Katie Melua.
"If you were a piece of wood, I'd nail you" -- you said it, Katie
Saturday, 10 November 2007
Sex Pistols, Brixton Academy (and everything related)
We left off on our story of this intrepid adventurer and narrator last week with me holding a pair of Sex Pistols tickets and nobody to go with.
My friend Dominic that I know from volunteering was actually very excited and eager to go -- but unfortunately he couldn't get the night off work. At the last minute, my friend Christina (whom I don't think I've ever mentioned here before) contacted me via Facebook to say she really wanted to go, but didn't know anyone to go with. I felt a little bad for not asking her originally, but didn't think we really knew each other well enough to be going to a gig together, just the two of us.
But considering she spent most of the day with only Rhys when we all went to see Aerosmith in Hyde Park, she's not someone who gives that kind of thing any thought. In the end, it was a similar story for her though -- she couldn't get the night off. And I stuck the ticket on Ebay.
I actually put it on Ebay before I heard from Christina for definite, but gave it a reasonably high "buy it now" price. I figured if Christina was unable to go I could then drop the price right down to get a sale. What I hadn't bargained on was being unable to change that later because there were bids on the ticket. Or in this case, one single, solitary bid of a pound.
Naturally, I just logged in with my alternative ebay account and bid on my own auction to raise the stakes a bit.
The bid-snipers came out in the closing minutes, and in the end one user in particular won the auction for a massive £21. Almost half price, it was a whole £19 less than I am paying for the ticket -- but beggars can't be choosers.
Once the auction ended I started emailing the buyer to arrange details for how to pay me and how I would give them their ticket. The buyer turned out to be a young lady named Jools who was very grateful for the ticket and on exchanging numbers to arrange to meet with the ticket on Thursday night, we spent much of Wednesday night having conversations via text.
I wondered if perhaps I wouldn't be seeing the band on my own after all, and although we knew nothing about each other, thought perhaps there could just be the beginnings of something more.
Fast forward to Thursday night: I finish work and walk into the storms ravaging England. Luckily for me the rains had lessened considerably from earlier in the day -- but Jools was apparently not so lucky. I called her when I arrived in Brixton and she told me she'd had to go home to change, as she'd been soaked. But she gave me directions to the bar where we were to meet.
Finding the bar was no problem, but I hesitated before walking in. I was dressed in my old torn jeans, Zero t-shirt and black leather jacket -- through the window of the bar I could see the clientèle in suits. But with the alternative being wait outside in the cold and the rain, I held my head up high, walked in and ordered myself a beer.
Within seconds I was having second thoughts about Jools, when I noticed the bar's rainbow flags. Still, although I don't much go in for the gay scene I know that I can walk into almost any gay bar in London and be certain that unlike a lot of places the staff will be friendly and I won't get any trouble.
I stood at the bar and read my book for an hour before Jools arrived. I was just finishing my second drink when my phone started to ring -- I picked it up and answered, and noticed Jools walking in.
The signs should have been obvious to me sooner -- the fact that she was new to Ebay when she bought the ticket, and confessed to being thrown by setting up a Paypal account, there should have been alarm bells ringing. I wondered if not unlike the bus-stop girl she might be a teenager. What I didn't expect was a 50 year old.
On Wednesday night when we'd been texting she'd made some comment like "I wonder what the crowd will be like?", and I'd replied saying I expected they would be older than the band. She probably smiled to herself about that, at the time (although she's not older than the band).
It turns out Jools had never been to this bar before and didn't know it was a gay bar, but if I had put any thoughts of something more between us out of my head earlier, they now positively dropped and rolled in their hurry to get out.
As it happens, Jools was very good company. She was both very grateful for the ticket and extremely generous (though she could have been more generous and given me the face value), buying me drinks and not even questioning why I was on my own. I'd probably said in the auction's item description I was on my own.
I was introduced to her friends as they arrived -- just as Jay, the nice guy that had sold her the ticket -- who were all of a similar age, but also it seems in their own ways quite successful. Although what she does now, I don't really remember apparently Jools used to be someone very important in the media with a close and long-running professional relationship with a certain radio DJ and television presenter. Maybe this person is in my life not for personal reasons but professional ones?
Looking back, I wish perhaps Jools and her entourage had been a little less generous with the drinks. We didn't bother watching the Cribs who were supporting, and although I lost track how much I drank that night, some rough calculations since then have suggested it was something like 6 or 7 pints, more or less on an empty stomach.
As for the gig itself, we were stood at the absolute very farthest back wall of Brixton Academy. We could see the stage, but I don't think I got a glance of Johnny Rotten all night. The band were good -- very bloody good, consider it's been thirty years since Never mind the Bollocks was released -- and Johnny Rotten remains as funny as ever, in his very strange posh/cockney way. Despite being so good "considering" they weren't amazing. They played their songs well and with passion, but I don't know... It just wasn't spectacular. That said, I never expected the band to be amazing -- they never were, what they were was incredibly influential and a sort of catalyst for the times -- for the whole movement. And I wanted the chance to see the original band playing their own songs -- it's one thing to hear records, to hear live records, to hear bands playing Pistols covers, but it's something else to hear Johnny Rotten singing, right there.
Getting home was naturally a struggle because the Victoria line -- the only Tube line to Brixton -- was closed, and buses were running instead. Jools sent me off after a bus, and the rest of the journey home was a bit of a blur. I got off the bus somewhere around Leicester Square, since I knew the area from when I worked there and sort of stumbled along to Liverpool Street and to the train home. Jon had kindly agreed to pick me up -- even though it was gone 1am by the time I got the station -- and I was barely through the door at home before I was bent over the toilet...
I woke up on Friday with the bedroom light still on. Even when I shifted the worst of the hangover with pain killers, caffeine and sugar the day was not fun.
Still, it's very punk.
My friend Dominic that I know from volunteering was actually very excited and eager to go -- but unfortunately he couldn't get the night off work. At the last minute, my friend Christina (whom I don't think I've ever mentioned here before) contacted me via Facebook to say she really wanted to go, but didn't know anyone to go with. I felt a little bad for not asking her originally, but didn't think we really knew each other well enough to be going to a gig together, just the two of us.
But considering she spent most of the day with only Rhys when we all went to see Aerosmith in Hyde Park, she's not someone who gives that kind of thing any thought. In the end, it was a similar story for her though -- she couldn't get the night off. And I stuck the ticket on Ebay.
I actually put it on Ebay before I heard from Christina for definite, but gave it a reasonably high "buy it now" price. I figured if Christina was unable to go I could then drop the price right down to get a sale. What I hadn't bargained on was being unable to change that later because there were bids on the ticket. Or in this case, one single, solitary bid of a pound.
Naturally, I just logged in with my alternative ebay account and bid on my own auction to raise the stakes a bit.
The bid-snipers came out in the closing minutes, and in the end one user in particular won the auction for a massive £21. Almost half price, it was a whole £19 less than I am paying for the ticket -- but beggars can't be choosers.
Once the auction ended I started emailing the buyer to arrange details for how to pay me and how I would give them their ticket. The buyer turned out to be a young lady named Jools who was very grateful for the ticket and on exchanging numbers to arrange to meet with the ticket on Thursday night, we spent much of Wednesday night having conversations via text.
I wondered if perhaps I wouldn't be seeing the band on my own after all, and although we knew nothing about each other, thought perhaps there could just be the beginnings of something more.
Fast forward to Thursday night: I finish work and walk into the storms ravaging England. Luckily for me the rains had lessened considerably from earlier in the day -- but Jools was apparently not so lucky. I called her when I arrived in Brixton and she told me she'd had to go home to change, as she'd been soaked. But she gave me directions to the bar where we were to meet.
Finding the bar was no problem, but I hesitated before walking in. I was dressed in my old torn jeans, Zero t-shirt and black leather jacket -- through the window of the bar I could see the clientèle in suits. But with the alternative being wait outside in the cold and the rain, I held my head up high, walked in and ordered myself a beer.
Within seconds I was having second thoughts about Jools, when I noticed the bar's rainbow flags. Still, although I don't much go in for the gay scene I know that I can walk into almost any gay bar in London and be certain that unlike a lot of places the staff will be friendly and I won't get any trouble.
I stood at the bar and read my book for an hour before Jools arrived. I was just finishing my second drink when my phone started to ring -- I picked it up and answered, and noticed Jools walking in.
The signs should have been obvious to me sooner -- the fact that she was new to Ebay when she bought the ticket, and confessed to being thrown by setting up a Paypal account, there should have been alarm bells ringing. I wondered if not unlike the bus-stop girl she might be a teenager. What I didn't expect was a 50 year old.
On Wednesday night when we'd been texting she'd made some comment like "I wonder what the crowd will be like?", and I'd replied saying I expected they would be older than the band. She probably smiled to herself about that, at the time (although she's not older than the band).
It turns out Jools had never been to this bar before and didn't know it was a gay bar, but if I had put any thoughts of something more between us out of my head earlier, they now positively dropped and rolled in their hurry to get out.
As it happens, Jools was very good company. She was both very grateful for the ticket and extremely generous (though she could have been more generous and given me the face value), buying me drinks and not even questioning why I was on my own. I'd probably said in the auction's item description I was on my own.
I was introduced to her friends as they arrived -- just as Jay, the nice guy that had sold her the ticket -- who were all of a similar age, but also it seems in their own ways quite successful. Although what she does now, I don't really remember apparently Jools used to be someone very important in the media with a close and long-running professional relationship with a certain radio DJ and television presenter. Maybe this person is in my life not for personal reasons but professional ones?
Looking back, I wish perhaps Jools and her entourage had been a little less generous with the drinks. We didn't bother watching the Cribs who were supporting, and although I lost track how much I drank that night, some rough calculations since then have suggested it was something like 6 or 7 pints, more or less on an empty stomach.
As for the gig itself, we were stood at the absolute very farthest back wall of Brixton Academy. We could see the stage, but I don't think I got a glance of Johnny Rotten all night. The band were good -- very bloody good, consider it's been thirty years since Never mind the Bollocks was released -- and Johnny Rotten remains as funny as ever, in his very strange posh/cockney way. Despite being so good "considering" they weren't amazing. They played their songs well and with passion, but I don't know... It just wasn't spectacular. That said, I never expected the band to be amazing -- they never were, what they were was incredibly influential and a sort of catalyst for the times -- for the whole movement. And I wanted the chance to see the original band playing their own songs -- it's one thing to hear records, to hear live records, to hear bands playing Pistols covers, but it's something else to hear Johnny Rotten singing, right there.
Getting home was naturally a struggle because the Victoria line -- the only Tube line to Brixton -- was closed, and buses were running instead. Jools sent me off after a bus, and the rest of the journey home was a bit of a blur. I got off the bus somewhere around Leicester Square, since I knew the area from when I worked there and sort of stumbled along to Liverpool Street and to the train home. Jon had kindly agreed to pick me up -- even though it was gone 1am by the time I got the station -- and I was barely through the door at home before I was bent over the toilet...
I woke up on Friday with the bedroom light still on. Even when I shifted the worst of the hangover with pain killers, caffeine and sugar the day was not fun.
Still, it's very punk.
Be careful what you wish for
I mentioned in my recent post the idea of attracting people into my life -- whether intentionally or unintentionally, and there was also the issue of not being able to make them do anything. Because even if you could, it's not such a great idea. You'll find ideas like this cropping up in various belief systems -- that you might have more power than you realise, but messing with someone or their free will really is not such a hot idea.
I've always thought you should be careful what you wish for, because you might get them. People disagree with me on this one, and maybe I should think more of crossing those bridges if I come to them -- but either way, it's just how I tend to approach these things.
What could be a case in point. It's no secret that I've wanted someone in my life for however-long now. I've tried the usual things -- placing ads online, meeting girls at punk gigs, all the rest, with very limited success. I have recently been trying to focus my positive thinking in this direction -- whether it's a matter of attracting love to me because I think it, or because I am happy and confident (two words that I have rarely used about myself before, but I am really feeling it a lot more often now) it probably doesn't matter. But as I say, you have to be careful.
I think it was Monday morning I was standing at the bus stop, trying to keep warm -- the usual stamping feet and blowing on hands and hoping the bus turns up this week. I'd noticed when I was walking to the town there had been a teenage girl walking a short distance in front of me, and paid no attention. When I got to the bus stop she arrived shortly after me, because either I'd walked faster or she'd walked a different way at the end. I wasn't paying much attention, just looking idly around at the other people. I saw this blonde girl and my first thought was "She's wearing way too much makeup". Maybe I was looking a little too long, maybe I had a faint, amused smile on my face as I looked at her. But she noticed. I thought I was going to get a "Wot you lookin' at?" sort of response, but instead she said hi to me. Slightly surprised, I said hi back.
The following few days I've seen her again. It turns out she lives over the road to me, I'd never noticed. I didn't realise the girls who lived there were even old enough to go to college. She has progressed in a few days to making a point of saying hi to me when she gets on the bus, walking home and talking away to me in the evening when we get off at the same spot, and last time I saw her actually choosing the seat next to me on the bus. Choosing the seat next to me, and not being content with just a smile and a nod in greeting but wanting me to actually take out my earphones and say hi to her properly. And perhaps even being a little sulky that I was reading my book the whole way home. When we got off the bus she said to me sorry, she hadn't been ignoring me, she could just see I had been reading. Haha, I miss those kinds of head games. In conversation I have established that she's about 17, and despite her attentions says she has a boyfriend. I also know she has been talking about me, because she asked didn't I used to be a policeman.
How she knows this is complicated, but one time Nick was round my house, watching a video when there was a knock at the door. The lady from over the road that I'd never actually spoken to but would smile and wave to in the street explained that she had just reversed into the side of my car. Except it wasn't my car at all, but Nick's car. Nick who had decided parking directly opposite her drive was a sensible thing to do. And so it was in his discussions with her about it all that it must have come up what he did for a living. He's the kind of person that has to tell you, it's a power thing.
So fast forward several years, and for this girl to bring up in conversation that she thought I was a policeman suggests to me that she has talked about meeting me. I didn't hesitate to put her straight that I was not now and never have been a policeman, nor would I want to be. And tried to explain who Nick was.
So, okay -- great, I can attract people to me, I can attract attention to myself. But I need to maybe work on it so it's not from 17 year olds who wear too much makeup and think I'll be impressed if they tell me they want a motorbike. This is what I mean about being careful what you wish for -- the "request", the idea, the thought needs to be more finely tuned.
I've always thought you should be careful what you wish for, because you might get them. People disagree with me on this one, and maybe I should think more of crossing those bridges if I come to them -- but either way, it's just how I tend to approach these things.
What could be a case in point. It's no secret that I've wanted someone in my life for however-long now. I've tried the usual things -- placing ads online, meeting girls at punk gigs, all the rest, with very limited success. I have recently been trying to focus my positive thinking in this direction -- whether it's a matter of attracting love to me because I think it, or because I am happy and confident (two words that I have rarely used about myself before, but I am really feeling it a lot more often now) it probably doesn't matter. But as I say, you have to be careful.
I think it was Monday morning I was standing at the bus stop, trying to keep warm -- the usual stamping feet and blowing on hands and hoping the bus turns up this week. I'd noticed when I was walking to the town there had been a teenage girl walking a short distance in front of me, and paid no attention. When I got to the bus stop she arrived shortly after me, because either I'd walked faster or she'd walked a different way at the end. I wasn't paying much attention, just looking idly around at the other people. I saw this blonde girl and my first thought was "She's wearing way too much makeup". Maybe I was looking a little too long, maybe I had a faint, amused smile on my face as I looked at her. But she noticed. I thought I was going to get a "Wot you lookin' at?" sort of response, but instead she said hi to me. Slightly surprised, I said hi back.
The following few days I've seen her again. It turns out she lives over the road to me, I'd never noticed. I didn't realise the girls who lived there were even old enough to go to college. She has progressed in a few days to making a point of saying hi to me when she gets on the bus, walking home and talking away to me in the evening when we get off at the same spot, and last time I saw her actually choosing the seat next to me on the bus. Choosing the seat next to me, and not being content with just a smile and a nod in greeting but wanting me to actually take out my earphones and say hi to her properly. And perhaps even being a little sulky that I was reading my book the whole way home. When we got off the bus she said to me sorry, she hadn't been ignoring me, she could just see I had been reading. Haha, I miss those kinds of head games. In conversation I have established that she's about 17, and despite her attentions says she has a boyfriend. I also know she has been talking about me, because she asked didn't I used to be a policeman.
How she knows this is complicated, but one time Nick was round my house, watching a video when there was a knock at the door. The lady from over the road that I'd never actually spoken to but would smile and wave to in the street explained that she had just reversed into the side of my car. Except it wasn't my car at all, but Nick's car. Nick who had decided parking directly opposite her drive was a sensible thing to do. And so it was in his discussions with her about it all that it must have come up what he did for a living. He's the kind of person that has to tell you, it's a power thing.
So fast forward several years, and for this girl to bring up in conversation that she thought I was a policeman suggests to me that she has talked about meeting me. I didn't hesitate to put her straight that I was not now and never have been a policeman, nor would I want to be. And tried to explain who Nick was.
So, okay -- great, I can attract people to me, I can attract attention to myself. But I need to maybe work on it so it's not from 17 year olds who wear too much makeup and think I'll be impressed if they tell me they want a motorbike. This is what I mean about being careful what you wish for -- the "request", the idea, the thought needs to be more finely tuned.
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
Looking in from the outside
Have you ever tried to imagine how your life would seem to an outsider? I mean, sure we all blog around here and so we all present our lives to outsiders -- but it's our picture being shown. We choose how it appears to others. Do you ever imagine what someone else would make of it? I'm sure it crosses everyone's mind once in a while -- you're out with friends, and for a second while everyone is talking and laughing you sort of step back out of yourself and try to look at it from above, to see what it looks like.
Go one step further though -- often we write about our countries, our cities -- but how would someone coming in from outside see it all? I've written at some length about my impressions and feelings surrounding England, and being English, but I've rarely stopped to think what someone else would make of it all. Where would they begin?
Early this year, when Dune Princess was planning a trip to Europe, the two of us made plans to meet up in Barcelona. Plans got as far as booking the hostel, before she had to postpone her plans. We said we'd do it next year instead -- and this time, there was some plans of her seeing England too, on a whistle-stop road trip of the country. Circumstances got involved and it looked likely the whole trip would be cancelled again -- until Dune Princess took matters in her own hands, and decided she was coming to London and that was the end of it. Flights were booked, visas arranged.
Being the kind of guy that likes to make online friends into real life friends, and having a "mi casa es su casa" approach to friendship, I have invited the amiable Ms DP to stay for a while. Now, of course, I often catch myself thinking what someone would make of my family, of the town where I live, or of my friends -- although China Blue can probably go some way to answer that last one, having met them.
I wonder what an Australian will make of the South East of England in February, having come from Brisbane in the summer. I rack my brains to try and think of any odd cultural things that you wouldn't expect to know about -- like how DP has already mentioned the TV licence. It's not the first thing you think of, but you can get in a lot of trouble for owning a television without a licence. When I was in Utah, I was surprised by how shocked people were by jaywalking. It wasn't even a term I had heard in England, but I'd never before run into any difficulties with the approach that if there is nothing coming (or if it's far enough away) you can cross the road -- regardless to what the lights say.
I've been asked if we say thank you to bus drivers, and if we make conversation with checkout chicks in supermarkets. The answers being yes, and sort of. It depends. Customers for the most part don't make conversation with me. Some seem to want to ignore me even when I attempt to make conversation. Others see it not as being polite but rather an invitation to stay and chat. An old lady was buying an Ian Rankin crime novel the other day and I made some wholly untrue statement like "I'm looking forward to reading this one myself". That was it, she was off, telling me about authors she liked, authors she didn't like, and one particular author who she thought was "too personal" and didn't like the sexual detail they included. I totally did not need to hear that, but at least she didn't describe it.
While at once trying to put myself in the place of someone new to it all, I'm also trying to make mental lists of things to do/see. Obvious things like the Natural History Museum, and the British Museum -- and personal favourite things like Camden Lock, and Spitalfields, and bars in Shoreditch that are like the south of France. And of course, Southend sea front. Not to mention the South coast by Portsmouth, and all manner of other places both popular and historical or just unique to my country. Of course, she has lists of her own of all the places she wants to see, so it's just as well she plans to stay in the country for at least six months.
It's helped to give me some extra added motivation to try and get some kind of better-paid career -- it would be ideal if by some miracle I could afford to move out by around the time of her visit. In the meantime, I will have to prep my friends on things like how cool and popular I am...
Go one step further though -- often we write about our countries, our cities -- but how would someone coming in from outside see it all? I've written at some length about my impressions and feelings surrounding England, and being English, but I've rarely stopped to think what someone else would make of it all. Where would they begin?
Early this year, when Dune Princess was planning a trip to Europe, the two of us made plans to meet up in Barcelona. Plans got as far as booking the hostel, before she had to postpone her plans. We said we'd do it next year instead -- and this time, there was some plans of her seeing England too, on a whistle-stop road trip of the country. Circumstances got involved and it looked likely the whole trip would be cancelled again -- until Dune Princess took matters in her own hands, and decided she was coming to London and that was the end of it. Flights were booked, visas arranged.
Being the kind of guy that likes to make online friends into real life friends, and having a "mi casa es su casa" approach to friendship, I have invited the amiable Ms DP to stay for a while. Now, of course, I often catch myself thinking what someone would make of my family, of the town where I live, or of my friends -- although China Blue can probably go some way to answer that last one, having met them.
I wonder what an Australian will make of the South East of England in February, having come from Brisbane in the summer. I rack my brains to try and think of any odd cultural things that you wouldn't expect to know about -- like how DP has already mentioned the TV licence. It's not the first thing you think of, but you can get in a lot of trouble for owning a television without a licence. When I was in Utah, I was surprised by how shocked people were by jaywalking. It wasn't even a term I had heard in England, but I'd never before run into any difficulties with the approach that if there is nothing coming (or if it's far enough away) you can cross the road -- regardless to what the lights say.
I've been asked if we say thank you to bus drivers, and if we make conversation with checkout chicks in supermarkets. The answers being yes, and sort of. It depends. Customers for the most part don't make conversation with me. Some seem to want to ignore me even when I attempt to make conversation. Others see it not as being polite but rather an invitation to stay and chat. An old lady was buying an Ian Rankin crime novel the other day and I made some wholly untrue statement like "I'm looking forward to reading this one myself". That was it, she was off, telling me about authors she liked, authors she didn't like, and one particular author who she thought was "too personal" and didn't like the sexual detail they included. I totally did not need to hear that, but at least she didn't describe it.
While at once trying to put myself in the place of someone new to it all, I'm also trying to make mental lists of things to do/see. Obvious things like the Natural History Museum, and the British Museum -- and personal favourite things like Camden Lock, and Spitalfields, and bars in Shoreditch that are like the south of France. And of course, Southend sea front. Not to mention the South coast by Portsmouth, and all manner of other places both popular and historical or just unique to my country. Of course, she has lists of her own of all the places she wants to see, so it's just as well she plans to stay in the country for at least six months.
It's helped to give me some extra added motivation to try and get some kind of better-paid career -- it would be ideal if by some miracle I could afford to move out by around the time of her visit. In the meantime, I will have to prep my friends on things like how cool and popular I am...
Tuesday, 6 November 2007
Tuesday, November 6
Copied from my paper journal
Tuesday, November 6
12pm -- [book shop] staff room
I'm a little disturbed by the coincidences in my life. How far does coincidence exist, and how much am I influencing "reality"? A friend sent me a copy of Conversations With God as a gift. Today, the first customer enquiry I deal with is asking for the same book.
Earlier today, I mentioned by former-colleague Ross in a comment. And today he comes into the store.
Can I have anything I want? How does it work -- I didn't expect or want these things. What do I want? Success, a partner? Maybe certain people. And you shouldn't try and attract specific people into your life.
Tuesday, November 6
12pm -- [book shop] staff room
I'm a little disturbed by the coincidences in my life. How far does coincidence exist, and how much am I influencing "reality"? A friend sent me a copy of Conversations With God as a gift. Today, the first customer enquiry I deal with is asking for the same book.
Earlier today, I mentioned by former-colleague Ross in a comment. And today he comes into the store.
Can I have anything I want? How does it work -- I didn't expect or want these things. What do I want? Success, a partner? Maybe certain people. And you shouldn't try and attract specific people into your life.
Monday, 5 November 2007
Monday catch-up
It's been a little while since I actually updated anything properly about my life. I mean, I have shared some brief flashes of insight and talked at some length about books, films and music -- but what's actually going in my life?
Work is fine. There isn't much more to say about it than that -- I was reflecting today how I am far, far happier in this job than I was last year, in the call centre. I was looking at the calendar to see when Christmas was and when I'd probably have to work (probably any day that's not actually a national holiday) and it didn't fill me with dread and disgust. Sure, work is work -- it's a bit of a drag at times, and I get frustrated when I do something wrong, but generally it's alright. I continue to enjoy the people I work with, there is nobody I'd say I dislike which is a huge help.
I sometimes feel like I don't know enough about books and what's new out and whatever else. I certainly don't know enough about where books are in the store, particularly ones on display in the shop window! But every now and then a customer comes along that I can really help. Last week, there was an old lady in a mobility cart who wanted a poetry anthology, featuring Rudyard Kipling's poem If. I explained without a specific title to search for, I wouldn't be able to tell her what we had in stock -- but from my personal knowledge of poetry, I could guarantee we would have at least one such anthology. Unfortunately for her, the poetry was upstairs -- and she didn't seem keen on taking the lift.
Since it was quiet, I volunteered to go find her a book myself -- since I knew it would take me all of about a minute. The first book I picked up was a specific anthology of Rudyard Kipling. Good enough, sure -- but I could do better. I then found an anthology called something like Britain's best Loved poems -- a collection of popular works about Britain. It had the poem she wanted, and seemed to have an interesting variety, plus it wasn't expensive.
Other remarkable incidents have involved someone who didn't know the author or title, but wanted books about a female detective agency in Africa. I showed her exactly where to find Alexander McCall Smith's books. Another customer only vaguely knew the title of their book -- but by chance I was able to tell them they wanted He's Just Not That Into You and it would be under Popular Psychology. Today a customer started talking to my colleague with a vague enquiry about the short stories of Alexei Sayle. She said that she'd looked on Amazon and been unable to find any books. Off the top of my head, I said there are two I own personally -- The Dog Catcher and Barcelona Plates, but he's undoubtedly written more. Although I wasn't able to say without checking if he would be listed under fiction or humour.
It's times like that I can look like I know what I'm talking about. Other times, someone starts asking about a racing driver's autobiography that's in the window and I don't have a clue what they're talking about. Generally, I like the work, since I like books and I like trying to help customers (so long as they're nice to me).
I got a phone call today from a temp agency with regards to a permanent copy writer job in Essex. In Fact, it's in the same town where I worked in the call centre -- so I am willing to bet it will be for one of the companies in the two buildings where I worked. Suits me though -- so long as I'm not in the call centre, it wasn't such a horrible place to work. The only thing that makes me hesitate was the recruiter seemed to think the pay was quite poor -- I told her I wouldn't take less than £15k a year -- I'm a post-graduate, ferchrissake, with about 18 months combined experience working in the media. I should be asking for a good £10k more than that in London. Anyway, she still seemed concerned, so we shall see. It would be a good starting position, and can't pay worse than the book shop.
In other news, winter is closing in -- it's now like the middle of the night when I get home just after 5pm, and I've started needing my scarf in the mornings. This morning was one such crisp morning, and it was nice -- I don't mind the cold if I can wrap up warm. Since today is November 5, there was also a distinct lingering smell of gunpowder in the air, and the occasional split and soggy rocket lying in the gutter. I didn't bother going to any organised display this year, I wasn't that interested. I'd wanted to go to the cinema that night -- but it seems nobody else was interested in that.
Speaking of uninterested, a friend asked me last week if I wanted two tickets to see the Sex Pistols. At first I said I'd have to think about it, but then I thought I should say yes more -- and how many opportunities like this do you get? So I said yes. I'm now £80 lighter for a pair of tickets (or will be, eventually, since I'm paying him back in weekly instalments because I'm poor) and a week later no closer to finding anyone that wants to go with me. To be fair, a few people have said they would have liked to go, but can't -- Jon said he'd try (even though I don't think he was that interested) but has been unable to get time off work. A guy I know from volunteering was very keen to come -- but likewise couldn't get the night off. I even asked Laura, whom I used to work with -- she said she was broke, but seemed interested. But it turns out she's in Scotland for the rest of the week. China Blue would probably have come -- since she likes to say yes more -- but unfortunately for me, she's on holiday somewhere hot and sunny.
My first choices of invitees all turned me down flat: I met Claire at a punk gig! But she wasn't interested. Pete plays in punk bands! But says the Sex Pistols aren't really his thing. I don't get these people. I think I must have eventually asked everyone in my phone's address book. I even emailed Tony Wright from Terrorvision and Laika Dog. It's not quite as random as it sounds, he and I have exchanged emails in the past and he added me as his friend on Facebook a while back. It would be perhaps the absolutely strangest night ever if I should happen to end up going with him, but he probably thinks I'm a mentalist. That or that Brixton is a bit too far from Yorkshire for a night out.
And to close, I watched a DVD at the weekend called What The Bleep Do We Know!? that had been exhaustively recommended to me. It's about Quantum Physics, but also the nature of the universe and how we directly influence the universe and reality and pretty much how we get the reality we choose. It sucked. It was one of the biggest piles of crap I have ever seen. The arguments or points of view about how influence reality and stuff was all very interesting, I give it that -- but it tired to have some kind of storyline which was awful and occasionally would start using animations that were patronising and irritating. These two parts combined to annoy me so much that I didn't get that much out of the whole point of it. If there is a book it was based on, I might read that instead.
Work is fine. There isn't much more to say about it than that -- I was reflecting today how I am far, far happier in this job than I was last year, in the call centre. I was looking at the calendar to see when Christmas was and when I'd probably have to work (probably any day that's not actually a national holiday) and it didn't fill me with dread and disgust. Sure, work is work -- it's a bit of a drag at times, and I get frustrated when I do something wrong, but generally it's alright. I continue to enjoy the people I work with, there is nobody I'd say I dislike which is a huge help.
I sometimes feel like I don't know enough about books and what's new out and whatever else. I certainly don't know enough about where books are in the store, particularly ones on display in the shop window! But every now and then a customer comes along that I can really help. Last week, there was an old lady in a mobility cart who wanted a poetry anthology, featuring Rudyard Kipling's poem If. I explained without a specific title to search for, I wouldn't be able to tell her what we had in stock -- but from my personal knowledge of poetry, I could guarantee we would have at least one such anthology. Unfortunately for her, the poetry was upstairs -- and she didn't seem keen on taking the lift.
Since it was quiet, I volunteered to go find her a book myself -- since I knew it would take me all of about a minute. The first book I picked up was a specific anthology of Rudyard Kipling. Good enough, sure -- but I could do better. I then found an anthology called something like Britain's best Loved poems -- a collection of popular works about Britain. It had the poem she wanted, and seemed to have an interesting variety, plus it wasn't expensive.
Other remarkable incidents have involved someone who didn't know the author or title, but wanted books about a female detective agency in Africa. I showed her exactly where to find Alexander McCall Smith's books. Another customer only vaguely knew the title of their book -- but by chance I was able to tell them they wanted He's Just Not That Into You and it would be under Popular Psychology. Today a customer started talking to my colleague with a vague enquiry about the short stories of Alexei Sayle. She said that she'd looked on Amazon and been unable to find any books. Off the top of my head, I said there are two I own personally -- The Dog Catcher and Barcelona Plates, but he's undoubtedly written more. Although I wasn't able to say without checking if he would be listed under fiction or humour.
It's times like that I can look like I know what I'm talking about. Other times, someone starts asking about a racing driver's autobiography that's in the window and I don't have a clue what they're talking about. Generally, I like the work, since I like books and I like trying to help customers (so long as they're nice to me).
I got a phone call today from a temp agency with regards to a permanent copy writer job in Essex. In Fact, it's in the same town where I worked in the call centre -- so I am willing to bet it will be for one of the companies in the two buildings where I worked. Suits me though -- so long as I'm not in the call centre, it wasn't such a horrible place to work. The only thing that makes me hesitate was the recruiter seemed to think the pay was quite poor -- I told her I wouldn't take less than £15k a year -- I'm a post-graduate, ferchrissake, with about 18 months combined experience working in the media. I should be asking for a good £10k more than that in London. Anyway, she still seemed concerned, so we shall see. It would be a good starting position, and can't pay worse than the book shop.
In other news, winter is closing in -- it's now like the middle of the night when I get home just after 5pm, and I've started needing my scarf in the mornings. This morning was one such crisp morning, and it was nice -- I don't mind the cold if I can wrap up warm. Since today is November 5, there was also a distinct lingering smell of gunpowder in the air, and the occasional split and soggy rocket lying in the gutter. I didn't bother going to any organised display this year, I wasn't that interested. I'd wanted to go to the cinema that night -- but it seems nobody else was interested in that.
Speaking of uninterested, a friend asked me last week if I wanted two tickets to see the Sex Pistols. At first I said I'd have to think about it, but then I thought I should say yes more -- and how many opportunities like this do you get? So I said yes. I'm now £80 lighter for a pair of tickets (or will be, eventually, since I'm paying him back in weekly instalments because I'm poor) and a week later no closer to finding anyone that wants to go with me. To be fair, a few people have said they would have liked to go, but can't -- Jon said he'd try (even though I don't think he was that interested) but has been unable to get time off work. A guy I know from volunteering was very keen to come -- but likewise couldn't get the night off. I even asked Laura, whom I used to work with -- she said she was broke, but seemed interested. But it turns out she's in Scotland for the rest of the week. China Blue would probably have come -- since she likes to say yes more -- but unfortunately for me, she's on holiday somewhere hot and sunny.
My first choices of invitees all turned me down flat: I met Claire at a punk gig! But she wasn't interested. Pete plays in punk bands! But says the Sex Pistols aren't really his thing. I don't get these people. I think I must have eventually asked everyone in my phone's address book. I even emailed Tony Wright from Terrorvision and Laika Dog. It's not quite as random as it sounds, he and I have exchanged emails in the past and he added me as his friend on Facebook a while back. It would be perhaps the absolutely strangest night ever if I should happen to end up going with him, but he probably thinks I'm a mentalist. That or that Brixton is a bit too far from Yorkshire for a night out.
And to close, I watched a DVD at the weekend called What The Bleep Do We Know!? that had been exhaustively recommended to me. It's about Quantum Physics, but also the nature of the universe and how we directly influence the universe and reality and pretty much how we get the reality we choose. It sucked. It was one of the biggest piles of crap I have ever seen. The arguments or points of view about how influence reality and stuff was all very interesting, I give it that -- but it tired to have some kind of storyline which was awful and occasionally would start using animations that were patronising and irritating. These two parts combined to annoy me so much that I didn't get that much out of the whole point of it. If there is a book it was based on, I might read that instead.
Musical Monday #29
I did a Musical Monday post about Terrorvision ages ago -- but the trouble is, on reading it again, it just wasn't good enough. I wanted to post today about their offbeat, fans' favourite b-side of a song Tea Dance. But I haven't done the band justice, previously, so please forgive me -- I'm going to try this one again.Terrorvision made it big with their debut album Formaldehyde, all the way back in 1993. The early years of a decade are always slightly confusing, because there is so much carried over from the last one -- so although by 1993 alternative rock was making increasingly bigger waves, there was still a lot of the 80s about it. In many ways, Formaldehyde was a classic debut album -- it had some great songs, and this album in particular promised so much of the band with thought-out lyrics and some catchy hooks. But the main thing a debut does is promise -- it hints at greatness, at what a band can achieve together, given time.
The single My House remained until the end a live favourite also set the tone for many later catchy slightly-pop/rock songs, like Oblivion and Perseverance, and it was no doubt this mixture of a sense of humour with the obvious rock edge that scored for the band a major label record deal. I think Tea Dance perhaps appeared on the original indie-label release of the album, and certainly was on their first EP, but was later dropped. I read the lyrics to the song one day without having heard it, when they were published in the band's fanzine at the time Northern Scum.
I quoted the band last time and I will again -- they say now they were always too busy having a good time to take themselves too seriously. Sometimes now I wonder if perhaps they didn't take themselves quite seriously enough. I'd like to ask them.
Formaldehyde was followed by the iconic How To Make Friends and Influence People -- a very appropriate title for a second album, especially one that really did make the band friends. Easily the heaviest of all their albums, combining the hard rock Alice What's the Matter and Pretend Best Friend with the great doo-wop singalong, Oblivion), the band had made it -- their music videos suddenly had budgets, and their gigs were probably as big as they ever got. Until the end, anyway -- their "Take the Money and Run" tour probably rivalled the success.
I couldn't tell you how long it was between the second and third albums -- but the problem with Terrorvision was always that it was too long. The fans of their albums stuck around, but any casual listeners that had like one song or another or seen them at a festival had usually forgotten all about them by the time their next album or next hit single came along.
True to their word for a band that didn't take themselves too seriously, Terrorvision followed How To Make Friends with a James Bond-themed album, Regular Urban Survivors which they said was the soundtrack to the film they wanted to make. The album had a mixed reception among earlier fans, since the harder rock edge had mellowed out a bit -- but the 90s were flying by, and anything else would have sounded out of place. Although I liked the suitably laid-back Easy , singles like Bad Actress and Celebrity Hit List never really did it for me -- although the band had one of their biggest commercial success with the song Perseverance. Everyone was singing that "whales and dolphins" song, Tony Wright presented Top of the Pops, and there was a special edition of Kerrang! magazine dedicated to them one week. "Brit Rock" the magazine called them; "Britpop with balls".
But it went nowhere. The band just sort of went quiet. I saw them live for the first time in the December of 1996, which I think was just after the album came out -- but nothing else on it was as big as Perseverance.
I wonder now if their next album Shaving Peaches would have been enough for the band if it hadn't featured a somewhat random album track called Tequila. The band had again achieve moderate chart success with the song Josephine, and it was one of their best songs, to my mind -- clever, and catchy without being all-out pop. The band apparently had filmed a dark and David Lynch-esque video for the song, but didn't like it -- so Tony Wright came up with a new one, which involved running round a race track in Madrid. In drag. It was a pun on "drag racing", since the song is about a sex change.
I remember hearing the band play Tequila live (and I particularly fondly remember a girl in silver PVC trousers, who was bouncing around next to me during the song) and thinking it would be a popular song for the band -- but among existing fans. Then Mint Royale got hold of the song, remixed it, and before you know it the band were being told by Radio DJ Zoe Ball that if they didn't release it as a single then she would do it herself. They obliged, and it was a big a song as any they ever did -- and remains popular now, although of course most people don't remember who it was by, or that the band ever had any other songs.
Their last proper album (that is, not a greatest hits or unreleased tracks compilation) was Good To Go -- perhaps an appropriate album for a final album. It's odd, the band were dropped by EMI right after their biggest commerical success with Tequila, and the band actually played Reading Festival that year without having a current record deal. They released their final album on a different label, and then subsequently called it a day. Although it seems like it wasn't so much their choice -- the band had limited success with the album's first single, D'Ya Wanna Go Faster and when they came to release Fists of Fury they couldn't get it played. Radio 1 refused to play it and said the band were no longer "relevant" (although they later gave plenty of airplay to the Gerry Halliwell song Scream if you wanna go faster). Perhaps they took exception to the band's video, parodying Madonna.
Officially, it seems that's really the end of the story. There was a farewell tour, Tony formed Laika Dog, and the other members formed their own bands, and occasionally even now there's a handful of one-off Terrorvision gigs -- though I doubt there will ever be a full-fledged reunion or another album.
To end, I return to the start -- Tea Dance is a simple song about a couple who meet years after a break up, and find that they still like each other. It's a quiet, and straight forward song -- but it makes me smile. My favourite line that sums it all up for me: "Well me, yeah, I got hitched -- and, yeah, we're still friends. I don't see her often, still I get the kids at weekends".
Thursday, 1 November 2007
Bloggin' up tha riot
"Imagine trying to telephone your grandmother, and over the telephone explain to your grandmother how to set the video recorder if you knew that she didn't have a video recorder, but she did have a cake."That was how Dave Gorman likened trying to explain to an elderly creationist in San Diego the concept of Googlewhacking -- and it was a similar experience trying to explain to my therapist was a blog is.
He encourages me to write, to write pretty much anything, although he likes to suggest compulsively writing letters to newspapers. It was only this week when he asked me directly if I have been writing that I told him I blog. He was very curious, naturally having heard a lot about blogs but not being able to understand in theory what one was. I explained the idea of journalling online, and how for me this is the main idea behind blogging.
But it's also more than that, it's a place where I try to employ my creative writing skills and sometimes techniques I learned as a journalist. I write primarily for own peace of mind, but also try to write for an audience -- I want what I write to be readable, engaging and interesting, at least some of the time. And moving forwards I try to write about the things I am passionate about, and not just moan that I don't know what I'm doing with my life, or complain about girls I've never met that wouldn't agree to marry me.
The trouble is, blogging isn't simply journalling and trying to explain about alternative news sources, industry-insider blogs and bloggers who want to be columnists/novelists -- or even bloggers who already are -- is all quite difficult when the person you are talking to has no real idea what a blog is to begin with.
Enduring Love
Unfortunately, this is not a post about the Ian McEwan novel -- nor of the quite lacklustre film adaptation.
Instead, while talking to my therapist last night we somehow got on to the topic of love -- in the round about ways our discussions tend to have. Wholly and entirely unrelated to any concepts of love specifically, I told him how I sometimes worry that my presence in other people's lives will be a negative one -- and especially so if they like me.
I told him of the feelings of discomfort I've had in previous relationships where I felt the other person liked me more than I liked them, and of other relationships where I've been let down gently because they just didn't care for me enough.
It seems like sometimes we have ideas or expectations for what we think we should be feeling in a situation, and it for me at least it can get in the way of just living in the moment.
I remember however-many hundreds of years ago when I was dating Fiona and sometimes feeling like a phony because I didn't think I felt as strongly about her as she did about me. Similarly, San and I broke up any number of times when one or other of us would decide we didn't feel strongly enough about the other person to be in a relationship.
My therapist made a very strange comment about how he didn't really believe in "love" -- I expect he meant the "chocolate boxes and roses" red lace cards sort of interpretation of love. He said something like how do you even define love anyway? Far from being stumped by this question, I'd actually given the whole subject a lot of thought in the past when I have loved, been loved, and thought I loved various people.
I define love as a passionate affection.
It sounds quite simple, but the words to me have a depth of meaning. For example, passionate can mean several different things all at once -- it can mean sexual as well as an intensity of emotion, and very subtle nuances all in between. This definition applies to the many different kinds of love I can feel -- I can say that I love my brother (despite our difficult relationship), that I love my parents. I also love my cat, love my friends and in the past have loved certain individuals. All of these I would say were passionate affections -- each in subtly different ways, but no less deserving of the title of love.
Years ago when San and I were going through some sort of difficult period, we broke up when she said she didn't love me, or wasn't sure if she did. That was when I went away and tried to define love, came across the "passionate affection" definition and suddenly had a revelation. I realised that through nobody's own fault, the passion had gone for her -- there was just affection, and that wasn't enough. On similar occasions I'd tried to argue that I thought she did love me, even if she didn't define it as such -- but not then. Other times, San would counter the argument with one consisting of didn't she deserve to feel love -- to find someone she loved. There are no counter arguments to this.
The last time we broke up it was again because she didn't love me, and although she had been telling me she did for a little while, she hadn't meant it for some time. It seems funny that some people would never dream of faking an orgasm would tell you they loved you when they didn't.
My therapist mentioned that he'd been married twice, approaching now his third marriage. I asked when you marry someone don't you promise to love them? Seems a little odd to marry -- three times, at that -- and not mean it when you say you love them. Which is why I think it's the romanticised, Valentines sort of love he was talking about.
Either way he helped me to get some of my previous relationships and friendships and everything in between into a better perspective. I think the general argument was stop over-thinking things and lighten up (even if it was never phrased as such). Getting hurt is perhaps the only guarantee you have -- but it doesn't negate the whole thing. You can't stop someone else from being hurt, you take responsibility for yourself and your own feelings -- and so should they. This responsibility also means you can't stop someone else being hurt, so don't sweat it.
He showed me that so long as you don't deliberately set out to mislead or hurt someone else, you can only be yourself.
And from there, just let the chips fall where they may.
I also had a discussion with my therapist about blogging, but I think that deserves a post all of its own.
Instead, while talking to my therapist last night we somehow got on to the topic of love -- in the round about ways our discussions tend to have. Wholly and entirely unrelated to any concepts of love specifically, I told him how I sometimes worry that my presence in other people's lives will be a negative one -- and especially so if they like me.
I told him of the feelings of discomfort I've had in previous relationships where I felt the other person liked me more than I liked them, and of other relationships where I've been let down gently because they just didn't care for me enough.
It seems like sometimes we have ideas or expectations for what we think we should be feeling in a situation, and it for me at least it can get in the way of just living in the moment.
I remember however-many hundreds of years ago when I was dating Fiona and sometimes feeling like a phony because I didn't think I felt as strongly about her as she did about me. Similarly, San and I broke up any number of times when one or other of us would decide we didn't feel strongly enough about the other person to be in a relationship.
My therapist made a very strange comment about how he didn't really believe in "love" -- I expect he meant the "chocolate boxes and roses" red lace cards sort of interpretation of love. He said something like how do you even define love anyway? Far from being stumped by this question, I'd actually given the whole subject a lot of thought in the past when I have loved, been loved, and thought I loved various people.
I define love as a passionate affection.
It sounds quite simple, but the words to me have a depth of meaning. For example, passionate can mean several different things all at once -- it can mean sexual as well as an intensity of emotion, and very subtle nuances all in between. This definition applies to the many different kinds of love I can feel -- I can say that I love my brother (despite our difficult relationship), that I love my parents. I also love my cat, love my friends and in the past have loved certain individuals. All of these I would say were passionate affections -- each in subtly different ways, but no less deserving of the title of love.
Years ago when San and I were going through some sort of difficult period, we broke up when she said she didn't love me, or wasn't sure if she did. That was when I went away and tried to define love, came across the "passionate affection" definition and suddenly had a revelation. I realised that through nobody's own fault, the passion had gone for her -- there was just affection, and that wasn't enough. On similar occasions I'd tried to argue that I thought she did love me, even if she didn't define it as such -- but not then. Other times, San would counter the argument with one consisting of didn't she deserve to feel love -- to find someone she loved. There are no counter arguments to this.
The last time we broke up it was again because she didn't love me, and although she had been telling me she did for a little while, she hadn't meant it for some time. It seems funny that some people would never dream of faking an orgasm would tell you they loved you when they didn't.
My therapist mentioned that he'd been married twice, approaching now his third marriage. I asked when you marry someone don't you promise to love them? Seems a little odd to marry -- three times, at that -- and not mean it when you say you love them. Which is why I think it's the romanticised, Valentines sort of love he was talking about.
Either way he helped me to get some of my previous relationships and friendships and everything in between into a better perspective. I think the general argument was stop over-thinking things and lighten up (even if it was never phrased as such). Getting hurt is perhaps the only guarantee you have -- but it doesn't negate the whole thing. You can't stop someone else from being hurt, you take responsibility for yourself and your own feelings -- and so should they. This responsibility also means you can't stop someone else being hurt, so don't sweat it.
He showed me that so long as you don't deliberately set out to mislead or hurt someone else, you can only be yourself.
And from there, just let the chips fall where they may.
I also had a discussion with my therapist about blogging, but I think that deserves a post all of its own.
Sunday, 28 October 2007
Musical Monday #28
Last week, I described Kate Nash as polarising opinion on the scale of Marmite -- in that one tends to fall into a love or hate category, with very little room for a middle ground. And for the record, I hate Marmite.It seems, though, that the powers that be in this mysterious and expanding universe have been pointing me towards a MM post on Ani DiFranco. It's long overdue, Ani is one of my favourite artists, but I've struggled whenever I have tried to verbalise what I love about her music. Part of the trouble has been that one of my favourite songs is "You Had Time" -- but I only loved this song after I read Nick Hornby's essay on it in 31 Songs. Unfortunately, his writing was so incredibly good about such an amazing song that I could think of nothing original to add. But on the plus side, he only writes about the song, and not Ms DiFranco's music in general. Unlike this post.
Those of you who know me at all will know that there will often come a time when I start making you compilation CDs.
I still sort of miss making compilation tapes, -- of working out what tracks should open side A and side B, but a CD is far more practical and actually allows for a little more creativity as there can be the option of creating album artwork for the CD. The good thing about making a tape was that there was more space (usually 90 minutes, compared to 80 for a CD) and there was two sides -- so there were various techniques to employ when putting together the tracklisting.
The point is, that making these CDs is more or less a certainty in most contexts that you will know me. Following a recent compilation CD, a friend revealed to me that she didn't really like Ani DiFranco very much. Of course, there is never going to be a compilation where someone likes every single track by every single artist, but I was still surprised. I haven't played Ani to a lot of people -- I know some of my friends like Jon have probably heard her when I've played some in the car or something, but have never expressed any liking for it. I think they were probably just being polite. I started to think that maybe more than Kate Nash, Ani could be an aural equivalent of Marmite.
Then when Mez commented on last week's post that Kate Nash reminded her of Ani DiFranco, I knew this post had to be written.
Ani DiFranco was an artist I probably wouldn't have come into contact with, had it not been for Rie. I don't remember what the first song I heard was, or when it was -- often when Matt was at work on a Saturday, Rie and I would hang out and draw and listen to music or whatever. It would have been one of those random Saturday afternoons with Rie playing old personal compilation tapes that I would have heard Ani, and so these two women will always be linked. It's odd, because Rie was a huge fan of Tori Amos, but I have never got into her music.
I think first and foremost for me, Ani is a poet -- she is reminiscent of the poetry slams I used to go to in Utah coffee shops, something I had never experienced in the back rooms of pubs in Derby where we used to read our poems. I enjoy the pictures she paints with her words, the stories she tells with her songs -- the complex and imperfect relationships she describes.
One of my favourite songs is Gravel, where the protagonist of the song wants to be mad at this guy who clearly doesn't treat her very well -- but also stumbles on her feelings for him. She's "thinking 'fight fight fight' at all costs/but instead I sat you down and offered you a beer". Although he's clearly an arsehole, and has "come crawling back" after two-timing her, she still loves him and can count the ways she adores him. Maybe it's meant to be sad, about how some people will keep taking back or going back to a partner who is abusive or just no good because they are charming or charismatic and can convince them they "want to make good, in the end". Just the same, I like it because it's not cut and dry -- it's not a simple reaction to a complicated situation. You don't suddenly stop caring about someone when they hurt you.
She lists all the ways in which he was a disappointment -- he wasn't a good lay, or a good friend, and consistently let her down. But somehow there is still a wry sense of humour when she asks "But what can I say? I adore you."
Ani's voice and guitar playing in the song have a very staccato feel -- jerky, and brash, and yet somehow it works for me. It was pointed out to me that Ani very rarely sings, at least in her verses, and it's this that reinforces for me the impression of her as a poet -- when I listen to male singers, it's often for me about the range and passion and power of their voices, the Eddie Vedders, Chris Cornells and Jeff Buckleys of this world, or the intense, husky drawls of the Mark Lanegans. But Ani changes all that -- she is soft spoken and often half-narrating, before bursting into an impassioned chorus of her own.
You had Time is very different, instead a very quiet and sad song -- again about a relationship that's broken down. Nick Hornby said something to the effect of this is how you fantasise all lesbian relationships are when they break up -- still so gentle and loving and tender. It could be autobiographical, I don't know, but the protagonist has returned from tour to her lover and is expected to know what they are doing with their relationship. Her partner says to her "You said you needed time; you had time". It's the metaphors that really appealed to Nick Hornby -- the beauty of phrases like "You are a china shop, and I am a bull. You are really good food, and I am full" -- it's the same way of saying "it's not you, it's me", but who wouldn't rather hear it this way? Sometimes hearing it like that can give us an insight into previous break ups of our own maybe -- an unfortunate situation, where it just wasn't working.
I could write for days about Ani's songs -- songs like Napoleon, or Little Plastic Castle, mixing the angry with the more tender. Or Ani's angry and bitingly political Self Evident that I find so difficult to listen to because of the sheer emotion in it. Instead I will include As Is -- a kind of love song.
But I can't write for days or explore every song's stories and stanzas. I can't even urge everyone to go and listen to her music, because I can't be sure you won't outright hate it. And it's not because it's all that challenging or different as music goes, but because it's such a specific approach -- one of those combinations where you have to really like the poetry, and like the rough approach to the guitar and voice. But she is one of my favourites -- the quirky, silly, funny, angry, passionate Ani.
As Is
28
28 Weeks Later has to be one of the worst and most ill-conceived sequels to any film I've seen. The sequels to Bring It On and Cruel Intentions might have been both pointless and terrible films in their own right, but it's the strength and power of the original film that makes 28 Weeks such a let down.
28 Days Later was so much more than just a zombie film.
The film followed the aftermath from the outbreak of a destructive virus that infected the blood and within seconds turned the infected into a rage-filled 'zombie'. Unlike most zombie films, the infected weren't the dead returning to life -- and that's partly where the film took a more meaningful turn.
It's significant that the virus was referred to as 'rage', in that it was a metaphor for a wider condition. The film opens with shots of violence from around the world, riots, wars, protests -- and the shot pans out to a monkey strapped to a table, being forced to watch. When animal rights activists break in to rescue the chimps they are warned that the are infected. With what, they demand to know. The scientist tells them to treat something you must first understand it. And tells them the monkey is infected with "rage".
Jim -- a bicycle courier -- wakes up alone in a hospital four weeks after being hit by a car, his confusion and disorientation mirrors the audiences as we don't know what happened after a misguided activist was attacked by an infected monkey. When Jim is rescued by two survivors it's explained to him:
The 'rage' virus can be seen as a metaphor for what is wrong with humanity -- what William Golding referred to as "the darkness of man's heart".
Alex Garland -- author of The Beach as well as 28 Days Later and Sunshine, among other notable works -- doesn't seem to have a very rosy outlook on humanity. The Beach starts almost idyllic, but not altogether unlike the events on Golding's own desert island, it seems flawed human nature spoils everything. The virus in 28 Days literally represents what's wrong with mankind -- it's something inherent, "in the blood". The only lines spoken by an infected person in film comes from a boy, found in an abandoned roadside cafe. It's significant that he growls the words "I hate you".
The film's unlikely survivors find an army base near Manchester -- and it's here that the dark heart of human nature is made clear. The soldiers are almost worse than the infected, perhaps showing what happens to humanity when civilisation breaks down.
Unfortunately, the subtlety and thought of the original is completely lost in the gratuitous sequel. 28 Weeks Later takes place, obviously, six months after the first film. The infected have now starved to death and England is quarantined, being marshalled by US troops.
Naturally, it all goes wrong and the infection starts up again -- a survivor is brought into quarantine who although she appears uninfected, is actually a "carrier" of the virus. The result is lots of blood and gore and death and not a whole lot else. There is no longer any exploration of what the virus "is", there's no ambiguity to it. There's no examination of the darkness of our heart, or human nature -- it's just a big budget horror flick that completely forgets everything that came before it.
Perhaps, as a film in its own right -- if you knew nothing of what had come before it, it would be passable. But to follow up something so haunting and thought-provoking, yet genuinely frightening with such... Hollywood garbage? It's almost heart breaking.
28 Days Later was so much more than just a zombie film.
The film followed the aftermath from the outbreak of a destructive virus that infected the blood and within seconds turned the infected into a rage-filled 'zombie'. Unlike most zombie films, the infected weren't the dead returning to life -- and that's partly where the film took a more meaningful turn.
It's significant that the virus was referred to as 'rage', in that it was a metaphor for a wider condition. The film opens with shots of violence from around the world, riots, wars, protests -- and the shot pans out to a monkey strapped to a table, being forced to watch. When animal rights activists break in to rescue the chimps they are warned that the are infected. With what, they demand to know. The scientist tells them to treat something you must first understand it. And tells them the monkey is infected with "rage".
Jim -- a bicycle courier -- wakes up alone in a hospital four weeks after being hit by a car, his confusion and disorientation mirrors the audiences as we don't know what happened after a misguided activist was attacked by an infected monkey. When Jim is rescued by two survivors it's explained to him:
"It started as rioting. But right from the beginning you knew this was different. Because it was happening in small villages, market towns. And then it wasn't on the TV any more. It was in the street outside. It was coming in through your windows. It was a virus. An infection. You didn't need a doctor to tell you that. It was the blood. It was something in the blood. By the time they tried to evacuate the cities it was already too late. Army blockades were overrun. And that's when the exodus started. Before the TV and radio stopped broadcasting there were reports of infection in Paris and New York. We didn't hear anything more after that."
The 'rage' virus can be seen as a metaphor for what is wrong with humanity -- what William Golding referred to as "the darkness of man's heart".
Alex Garland -- author of The Beach as well as 28 Days Later and Sunshine, among other notable works -- doesn't seem to have a very rosy outlook on humanity. The Beach starts almost idyllic, but not altogether unlike the events on Golding's own desert island, it seems flawed human nature spoils everything. The virus in 28 Days literally represents what's wrong with mankind -- it's something inherent, "in the blood". The only lines spoken by an infected person in film comes from a boy, found in an abandoned roadside cafe. It's significant that he growls the words "I hate you".
The film's unlikely survivors find an army base near Manchester -- and it's here that the dark heart of human nature is made clear. The soldiers are almost worse than the infected, perhaps showing what happens to humanity when civilisation breaks down.
Unfortunately, the subtlety and thought of the original is completely lost in the gratuitous sequel. 28 Weeks Later takes place, obviously, six months after the first film. The infected have now starved to death and England is quarantined, being marshalled by US troops.
Naturally, it all goes wrong and the infection starts up again -- a survivor is brought into quarantine who although she appears uninfected, is actually a "carrier" of the virus. The result is lots of blood and gore and death and not a whole lot else. There is no longer any exploration of what the virus "is", there's no ambiguity to it. There's no examination of the darkness of our heart, or human nature -- it's just a big budget horror flick that completely forgets everything that came before it.
Perhaps, as a film in its own right -- if you knew nothing of what had come before it, it would be passable. But to follow up something so haunting and thought-provoking, yet genuinely frightening with such... Hollywood garbage? It's almost heart breaking.
Thursday, 25 October 2007
Hayduke Lives!
The Monkey Wrench Gang, by Edward Abbey
I've been a fan of Edward Abbey since I read Desert Solitaire in the summer of 2001, and partly based by dissertation on his perceptions of the wilderness. But while Solitaire is (largely) non-fiction, an autobiographical account of a season Abbey spent living in "the wilderness" of Arches National Park, Utah, The Monkey Wrench Gang is quite different.
The novel follows the adventures of four individuals who band together to take a stand against the establishment -- and are probably the first accounts of eco-sabotage in fiction. In 1975 when it was published it was shocking enough -- in today's political climate, the book would probably never get published. Gary Snyder once said that Hollywood had no problems showing blood, gore and mass murder but that "the gleeful destruction of private property" seemed dangerous un-American. It's no surprise that although rights to the book were bought, no film was ever made.
The prologue to The Monkey Wrench Gang opens with the "gleeful destruction" of a bridge linking Utah to Arizona, and the book then follows events leading towards the act.
Throughout the book, the unlikely misfits together undertake increasingly larger and more ambitious acts of sabotage. Starting with Abbey's own hobby of destroying billboards -- either by arson or with a chainsaw, they upgrade to sabotaging bulldozers, and on to attempting to destroy strip mining operations and later the bridges spanning White Canyon, Narrow Canyon and Dirty Devil Canyon. Their ultimate goal is one that many people -- then and now -- could agree with: the destruction of the Glen Canyon dam.
Abbey wrote at length elsewhere about the "damnation" of the Colorado river, which flooded some of the most beautiful canyons in the US and replaced them with a large, stagnant and increasingly polluted lake. The saboteurs dream of bringing down the dam, and of returning the country to the way it used to be.
Edward Abbey's books have inspired radical environmentalists, like Earth First! -- who following Abbey's anarchist influence insist they are not a group, but individuals following common goals. Similarly, there is the Earth Liberation Front who over the years have taken responsibility for defacing SUVs, destroyed construction equipment, vandalised fast food outlets, burned down apartment complexes before they were built -- and even more, even more extreme acts. The ELF are officially designated a terrorist organisation, and have been know to leave behind the tag "Hayduke Lives!" (after George Washington Hayduke, the protagonist of The Monkey Wrench Gang.
The book makes for slightly uneasy reading today -- even those who feel the text's anti-establishment rallying cry can't help but feel that what happens is perhaps a too close to terrorism. Although the "gang" have a very strict policy of not hurting anyone, in recent years we've all been witness to the actions of extreme groups of people who wish to change the world and influence people through the use of violence. Some of these people are parts of terror organisations, and some are our politicians -- sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference between them. Just the same, it is hard to wholeheartedly support the acts in the book. But it raises the question; what else can be done? What should be done?
Abbey said that sabotage and subversion should be a last resort "when political means fail", but just the same -- he considered it a valid option, and the novel opens with a statement that although the book is "fictional in form" everything in it really happened.
The novel is compelling reading even if it isn't necessarily well-written. Abbey lacked the poetry of Gary Snyder or the style of Thoreau -- but The Monkey Wrench Gang captures a moment in time, and it remains just as relevant today.
I've been a fan of Edward Abbey since I read Desert Solitaire in the summer of 2001, and partly based by dissertation on his perceptions of the wilderness. But while Solitaire is (largely) non-fiction, an autobiographical account of a season Abbey spent living in "the wilderness" of Arches National Park, Utah, The Monkey Wrench Gang is quite different.
The novel follows the adventures of four individuals who band together to take a stand against the establishment -- and are probably the first accounts of eco-sabotage in fiction. In 1975 when it was published it was shocking enough -- in today's political climate, the book would probably never get published. Gary Snyder once said that Hollywood had no problems showing blood, gore and mass murder but that "the gleeful destruction of private property" seemed dangerous un-American. It's no surprise that although rights to the book were bought, no film was ever made.
The prologue to The Monkey Wrench Gang opens with the "gleeful destruction" of a bridge linking Utah to Arizona, and the book then follows events leading towards the act.
Throughout the book, the unlikely misfits together undertake increasingly larger and more ambitious acts of sabotage. Starting with Abbey's own hobby of destroying billboards -- either by arson or with a chainsaw, they upgrade to sabotaging bulldozers, and on to attempting to destroy strip mining operations and later the bridges spanning White Canyon, Narrow Canyon and Dirty Devil Canyon. Their ultimate goal is one that many people -- then and now -- could agree with: the destruction of the Glen Canyon dam.
Abbey wrote at length elsewhere about the "damnation" of the Colorado river, which flooded some of the most beautiful canyons in the US and replaced them with a large, stagnant and increasingly polluted lake. The saboteurs dream of bringing down the dam, and of returning the country to the way it used to be.
Edward Abbey's books have inspired radical environmentalists, like Earth First! -- who following Abbey's anarchist influence insist they are not a group, but individuals following common goals. Similarly, there is the Earth Liberation Front who over the years have taken responsibility for defacing SUVs, destroyed construction equipment, vandalised fast food outlets, burned down apartment complexes before they were built -- and even more, even more extreme acts. The ELF are officially designated a terrorist organisation, and have been know to leave behind the tag "Hayduke Lives!" (after George Washington Hayduke, the protagonist of The Monkey Wrench Gang.
The book makes for slightly uneasy reading today -- even those who feel the text's anti-establishment rallying cry can't help but feel that what happens is perhaps a too close to terrorism. Although the "gang" have a very strict policy of not hurting anyone, in recent years we've all been witness to the actions of extreme groups of people who wish to change the world and influence people through the use of violence. Some of these people are parts of terror organisations, and some are our politicians -- sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference between them. Just the same, it is hard to wholeheartedly support the acts in the book. But it raises the question; what else can be done? What should be done?
Abbey said that sabotage and subversion should be a last resort "when political means fail", but just the same -- he considered it a valid option, and the novel opens with a statement that although the book is "fictional in form" everything in it really happened.
The novel is compelling reading even if it isn't necessarily well-written. Abbey lacked the poetry of Gary Snyder or the style of Thoreau -- but The Monkey Wrench Gang captures a moment in time, and it remains just as relevant today.
Monday, 22 October 2007
Musical Monday #27
Kate Nash is still a new artist, and debate rages about if she will still be remembered a year from now -- let alone 10 years on or more. Nash polarises popular opinion almost as strongly as marmite, her first single -- Foundations -- was largely ignored by commercial radio, until it went to the top of the charts in the first week of release. Naturally, after that it started getting added to playlists. The Independent newspaper described Nash's debut album asbeing in "pole position for worst album of the year" -- but it still went to number one.All in all, I quite like her.
Nash is similar to Lily Allen in a lot of ways -- both launched their "careers" largely though MySpace, both went to performing arts school but make out that they aren't posh (Kate Nash is accused of playing up her North London accent), and both are just a tiny bit chavvy. Musically the similarities are there, too, with their simple songs and storytelling lyrics. Kate Nash owes much of her popularity directly to Lily Allen noticing her on MySpace and proclaiming her to be the next big thing -- which seems more than a little bit vain, given how similar their style of music is.
Kate Nash amuses me -- perhaps unintentionally on her part, but I think she does have a very dry sense of humour of her own, and while her songs might not be the most polished, I think she has a particular charm.
There are a couple of parts of her songs that stand out for me that I want to look at in more detail. A characteristic of the likes of Kate Nash and Lily Allen is their chavtastic syntax -- coming from Essex, how they speak is very familiar to me, and without being a snob it tends to make you sound very thick. Kate Nash overuses the word "well", as in with the song Birds "they almost fly into your eye and make you feel well scared". The first time she sings that line she says "so scared" and that sounds fine, so I don't get why she changes it.
The song Birds is a deceptively sweet tale of an inept boy trying to express his feelings to a girl, the couple seem very chav in their described anti-social behaviour -- like not buying a ticket on the train, and then drinking on the bus -- but I feel a certain affection for them, like Nash herself. One part in the song in particular always confuses me when I hear it. I'll post the lines below, then discuss it, so you can see what I mean.
"the ticket inspector saw him rushin` through he said, girl you don't know how much I missed you. I know I'm being picky, but the way it's phrased makes it sound like the ticket inspector is saying he misses her. I get that she says the ticket inspector saw him rushing through -- and then cuts to what "he" says, and it might be sexist to assume the ticket inspector is a man, but just the same I thought at first the girl ran off with the ticket inspector. Which was odd.
but...we better run
cause I havent got the funds to pay this...fine"
Another part that amuses me unintentionally goes like this:
"...he said you look well nice.
well she was wearin a skirt
and he thought she looked nice and
yeah she didn't really care about
anything else because she only
wanted him to think that she looked nice
and he did"
Aside from that she overuses the word "nice" (like she overuses "well"), I like how disjointed and almost pointless it is -- it makes me smile, even if it makes the couple (and Nash herself) seem a tiny bit thick.
The boy tries to tell the girl how much he likes her by way of elaborate metaphors -- particularly one including birds which are scary but beautiful, even though they can "shit on your head". The girl's reaction is a spectacularly chavvy "Wot?" followed by "What are you talking about?". If there had been a third time she had to ask, she probably would have just bottled him.
Foundations is another boy/girl song -- but instead about a dysfunctional relationship. It's almost refreshing in a way -- after songs like Hey There Delilah to see the other side of the coin, not a sad song about an unhappy break up, but instead a frank look at a couple who really just aren't getting along any more. The song/story starts with the couple in the pub with their friends, and the girl notices he has a look in his eye that he's bored with what she's saying. Naturally, it escalates -- he says something to humiliate her, so in her best chav voice she replies with "yeah, intelligent input, darlin', why don't you just have another beer then?" and it descends into an argument in front of their friends.
What I find interesting with the song is that it's not just that they hate each other -- part of her does still care about the boy, on some level. The chorus says "My finger tips are holding on to the cracks in our foundation, and I know that I should let go, but I can't" -- maybe I'm a sap, but I find this a little sad. She knows their relationship is over, but quite bring herself to "let go".
The song has other little chav culture references -- the boy gets drunk and gets sick over her new trainers (and while, yeah, it's pretty awful, you can just imagine that being the worst crime for a chav, getting their prison-white trainers spoiled), or how she winds him up telling him "I'd rather be with your friends, mate, 'cause they are much fitter". That line doesn't work if you don't quote it exactly -- you've got to have the mate in there, but still you have to hear it, just for the accent.
But at the same time as knowing she should let go and not being able to face it, there is a moment -- when she's left the boy to sleep it off on the couch and deliberately not turned the heating on -- she says "Dear god, I hope I'm not stuck with this one". She almost feels trapped.
Foundations
Birds
Saturday, 20 October 2007
19/10/2007
Copied from my paper journal:
Friday, October 19
[bookshop] staff room.
Yesterday, I had to fill out various forms -- tax forms and the like -- and sign copies of my temporary contract. I noticed under the forms that I was leaning on a copy of my original cover letter that I sent in with my CV -- and written on the top of the letter was the phrase "Alien Boy Next Door!".
I can't help but wonder if that is a comment about me, and if so, what it means.
"Boy next door" is fairly neutral. It tends to mean wholeseome, clean cut -- although to me that can also can suggest dull, or unremarkable. It's like how Patrick Bateman is teased with that phrase in Brett Easton Ellis' book American Psycho -- "Patrick's the boy next door, aren't you Patrick" "No, I'm not, I'm a fucking evil psycopath". Whether Patrick actually was a serial killer or just fantasised about it is not the point. He's good-naturedly teased with the phrase by his girlfriend, but he resents it.
But what about "alien", then? Literally it means foreign, different -- strange. It also means extraterrestrial. And the boy next door -- if the boy next door was an alien? What does that mean?
It might be code for something -- or it might not even be about me.
Thursday, 18 October 2007
Day 1
Before I go any further, I want to make one thing clear -- as much for myself, as for the benefit of anyone else. Working in a bookshop, and probably in retail generally, is never going to be a career for me, for a variety of reasons.
However, day one went well.
As first days tend to go, there was a lot to take it. Most of it being where all the different book sections are, how they are arranged, and how to work the tills/look to see if a book is in stock.
I remember today why I enjoyed being a bar tender -- although I can be shy as a person, I am also very personable, and I can do customer service well. I liked being able to be myself in work today. Also, obviously, I like books -- and like working with people who like books. In the pub I worked with people who admitted to never having read a book, ever.
It sucks that the pay is quite poor, and that I only work 30 hours a week -- but the short days and a far shorter commute (since I'm not going into London now) also have their good points. For now, it's just a job I can do and prove to myself a few things until the new year, when I can again start looking at office jobs in the big city -- and if I might ever be able to afford to work in another country instead.
However, day one went well.
As first days tend to go, there was a lot to take it. Most of it being where all the different book sections are, how they are arranged, and how to work the tills/look to see if a book is in stock.
I remember today why I enjoyed being a bar tender -- although I can be shy as a person, I am also very personable, and I can do customer service well. I liked being able to be myself in work today. Also, obviously, I like books -- and like working with people who like books. In the pub I worked with people who admitted to never having read a book, ever.
It sucks that the pay is quite poor, and that I only work 30 hours a week -- but the short days and a far shorter commute (since I'm not going into London now) also have their good points. For now, it's just a job I can do and prove to myself a few things until the new year, when I can again start looking at office jobs in the big city -- and if I might ever be able to afford to work in another country instead.
Monday, 15 October 2007
More postcard porn for my wanderlust (updated)
I can't believe it's been two months since I last blogged about any postcrossing cards I'd received. Now I have a bunch to all put up at once, though -- so I think I can be forgiven.
This first card marks the shortest distance travelled for a postcard to me -- having travelled allllllllllll the way from Germany, a hop, skip and a jump of 469 KM from a place called Wuppertal. The sender, Sille, tells me that more than 50 years ago a director of a circus wanted to advertise his circus -- and so he thought he would put a little elephant into the overhead monorail which goes through the city. But oh no! Tuffi the elephant didn't like this -- so she jumped through the door and fell into the river Wupper below. There was a happy ending though, as Tuffi the elephant was miraculously uninjured and is now -- like the monorail -- a symbol of the city of Wuppertal. I have no idea if this story is true, or if it is an example of the famous German sense of humour. Either way, it's an interesting looking card; you can see the elephant falling from the monorail in the main picture, and some slightly freakish people in the bottom-left picture.
The second card has travelled slightly further -- in this case having made the journey from Osaka, Japan. The sender Yukiko is a 23-year-old woman and tells me that "In Japan the intense heat day passed and goes from now in Autumn". In her poetic way, I think what Yukiko is telling me that now summer is passing the days are less hot as they go into Autumn.I'm not entirely clear what the picture shows -- since the card is captioned only "ATC & WTC, Osaka" so if anybody can shed light on these initials, I'd be interested to hear it. Either way, it's a a stunning picture -- I love the reflections of the lights and the boat in the water. It's scenes like this that make me want to travel -- although it probably doesn't look so different to Portsmouth at night, or London's Docklands.
Hanna from Tampere Suomi marks my fourth postcard from Finland. Hanna informs me that she was shortly to be moving from the beautiful city (which doesn't look all that from the postcard) to South Finland. The caption on the back of the card tells me the city's cathedral was built in 1907, which is more information than Hanna gives me about her city -- but she said she was happy to be moving so maybe she doesn't care.
Contrasting with my barely-travelled postcard from Germany, it's clear this is one of my farthest-travelled, although it still comes second to my card from Dunedin, New Zealand. Of all the cards I have received, I'm sorry to say this is maybe my least favourite to date. The sender Jean (at least from her handwriting I think that's her name), tells me she lives in Central Queensland, about 3 hours from the sea, and breeds beef cattle. She then goes on to tell me that in Australia it is now spring and already warm. I don't mind that the text might not have been the most interesting of all cards -- when you're writing a short card to a complete stranger it can be difficult to think of something to say -- but I'm a little disappointed with the picture. I feel that a country as vast and fascinating as Australia could be better represented than this.
Today I wasn't even expecting a postcard -- according to the postcrossing site, I had sent and received an equal number of cards. Either way, this beautiful piece of art was sent from Miyuki in Japan -- although where in Japan she never mentions. Miyuki tells me she is a Japanese woman who likes handicraft, and chose this card for me because I like art. See? Much better than the last sender who sent me a rubbish picture. Miyuki also tells me it is Autumn in Japan -- which funnily enough it is also in England -- and that she and her daughter both have a cold. I really like the mental image of the everyday life of this Japanese woman and her daughter, who today (or a week ago when the card was sent) is suffering a little with a cold. I expect they're wearing those freaky-looking facemasks.
It's a week of surprise postcards -- today I received another postcard from Japan. This makes it two postcards from Japan in one week, and three in total. Today's card comes from a young lady named Saori in Kyoto, who tells me it is "cool and comfortable" in Japan and "The leaves are going to change yellow and red". She also has gone to the trouble of sticking tiny red leaves on the reverse of the card. I think the Japanese have to be my favourite postcard writers, for the poetry of their descriptions. It also puts me to shame, not being able to say much more than "Where is the shoe store?" in Spanish and "My grandmother is on fire" in French.And I know what you're all thinking right now. I can just see now in your eyes, you're all looking at me with that same curious blogger expression, saying:
Jay, what has this done to the graph?
I, on the other hand find myself thinking, what graph? Why would there be a graph? Why would you all get together and expect a stranger on the internet to give you trivial details about his life in graph form? How would that help us understand this any more? That seems a little bit sad. You don't need a graph, it doesn't help us in any way. There is no graph.
No. You need a pie chart for that kind of thing. And here it is:
To date, postcards received by country. Notice the disproportionate number of cards from Finland. According to Postcrossing, there are 32,945 people taking part worldwide -- 19,903 of them hailing from Finland. That means 60% of all users on Postcrossing are from the Republic of Finland, a country of 5.3 million people in Northern Europe. For anyone interested, the next most popular country is Germany with 38% of the users, closely followed by the USA with 33%. I have yet to receive any postcrossing from the USA. The Netherlands creep into the top five at number four, and Japan take fifth place.
Tuesday, 9 October 2007
Cross-country road trippin' work stuff
Last week I took myself on a little cross-country roadtrip to Bristol. From where I am in Essex, that was 175 miles and a three-hour drive. For some of you, three hours, near enough right the way across the country from East to West must seem incredible -- or comical. To people around here, it solicits the question "You're going there and back in a day?". What the hell else did I have to do with my day?I'd never driven that far before, and certainly not on my own -- as you can see from the illustration, Portsmouth is slightly closer (by about 50 miles, and forty minutes or so) and Brighton is closer still. I didn't take my Dad's car this time -- which I have been driving a lot when I have to go out of town, and especially when I'm delivering meals, because it has so much boot space, but luckily I am now in possession of a TomTom and was eager for the opportunity to use it.
I first set it up with an American female voice. I forget the 'name' of the voice, but I think it gets slightly weird when you're referring to your satnav by name. I chose the voice purely on the strength of liking how it sounded, but quickly once on the road I found there were other differences. Like how on approach to a roundabout, it starts to tell me "At the rotary, turn left..." and I'm wondering what the fuck is a rotary?". Obviously, it must be a roundabout using my superior powers of deduction -- but I'd never seen a roundabout during my time in the US. There were other disagreements between us, like how the satnav character insisted on giving me distances in fractions of a mile. "In two-eights of a mile..." what? What kind of a distance is that?
I actually made it to Bristol with about an hour to spare, when my arrival at the destination was announced with much-trumpeting. With no sign of the actual destination, I simply carried on down the road I was on -- since it was the right road -- and figured either I would find it, or would find a pub to ask directions in. 20 minutes later on down the road I was worried I was going to end up in Cardiff -- and toying with the idea of actually visiting Cardiff after the interview, since I've never been there -- I turned around and made my way back to the original supposed site of my destination. I found that I really had been at my destination to begin with, I just hadn't noticed it.
The interview itself was for a copywriter job. I'd submitted the best damn cover letter I could think of, using confident phrases like "I am the copywriter you are looking for" and "I understand that there will be a lot of interest in this position, but I do not believe you need to look any further than my own abilities", and made it through a telephone interview before they invited me for the face-to-face meeting. I knew afterwards -- and probably halfway through -- it was never going to go down in history as one of the best interviews ever. I just hadn't felt confident enough, although I lied through my teeth about how wonderfully organised I am, I knew that without direct copywriter experience they weren't going to go for it. I was just too damn PR for them.
Today -- almost a week later -- I get a message on my voicemail from someone in HR at the company, asking me to call them back as they had feedback for me. I'm only too aware of the words and phrases people use, and sometimes I read too much into it -- but in situations like this, it's all too clear. If someone is leaving giving a message with good news, they want to associate themselves with the good news so that you will feel positively towards them. If they have bad news, they will want to disassociate themselves so that you don't connect them, and don't shoot the messenger. So whenever I get a message saying they have "feedback" or want to talk to me, I know it's not good news -- otherwise they would say they have good news.
And I was right, I didn't get the job. Apparently I answered their questions very well in theory, and they said I was clearly confident, but that they didn't feel I was experienced enough for the job. A little unfair for what as far as I could tell was a fairly junior position, but I think the lack of copywriter experience and the background in PR did count against me. They thought I was confident though? That's strange.
An interview I had on Friday in London for a freelance contract similarly didn't lead anywhere. Although in this interview I did feel confident and reasonably relaxed, the feedback was that they wanted someone more senior (I thought they would before I even met them, the job description had been asking for someone more of an account manager level) and that I didn't seem confident enough. Who knows about them -- but this agency in the past have refused to interview me for a permanent job because my grades haven't been good enough, ignoring my media experience and my post-grad. So they're obviously bastards.
Yesterday I got a phone call. Following my interview with the bookshop last week they would like to offer me one of their Christmas temp positions. I think I might have intimidated them slightly with how damn pleased and enthusiastic I was about being an offered a temporary job in a bookshop doing only 30 hours a week, but this is great news. For a start, this is the only time I have been offered a job after an interview. Yeah, I know, it's a temp job -- just how rubbish would you have to be? But that doesn't matter. They liked me. They didn't think I was over-qualified or under-qualified, or not "the right fit" for their team, or not the right gender or anything else. I am *employable*. I start training next week, and work the week after. Since it's only 6 hours a day, I also intend to try and fit in a second job around it, too.
I got an email yesterday afternoon following from where I sent my CV out to two agencies, a few weeks back. We should all remember my fictional girlfriend interview? This was the other agency, who didn't respond at the time. Turns out they want a freelancer about my level to help out for a while, even if they don't have anything permanent. So I quoted them £110 a day for my services (ha -- and you thought my art was over-priced) and met them today for an interview and a test. The interview was fine -- short, but I felt confident enough. The test was in three parts; write a press release, craft an itinerary for this celebrity to promote their item the press release was for, and answer 10 "pop quiz" questions on the entertainment side of the media.
The questions at first stumped me; then I noticed the laptop I had been given to work on had a working internet connection. It's not cheating, it's being resourceful. The press release I wrote I thought was good, but it seemed a little short and a bit too much like writing a news story from a press release, which naturally is where the bulk of my experience is. The important thing is I can write well, even if I need a tiny bit of guidance or training. I must have taken too long on the other parts as I had barely begun the itinerary before my time was up. If they offer me this position -- which will probably be until mid-December, if not longer -- I'll have to regretfully tell the bookshop I can't take their job after all. If they don't want me, fine -- I have something to fall back on.
I want to write a different post about work and my life and feelings about them both -- but this is long enough for today. The main thing is, for now I have a job in a bookshop and I am pleased about that.
I love this *so* much
I have absolutely no clue what they are singing about, except obviously something "surf rider" which is evident from the title, the kind of Polynesian surfy sound that's folded in there -- and whole look with the shirts and the boards. It's insane, but so damn catchy.
Monday, 8 October 2007
Musical Monday #26
Hey There, DelilahThis song arouses several complex emotions in me. I figured I'd write about it and we'll see where it goes from there.
First of all, I like the song. It's straight forward -- it's simple, heartfelt, romantic and idealistic. A story of a boy and his guitar, missing his girlfriend who's 1,000 miles away -- and he just wants to tell her he misses her and loves her.
Next I think the predominant emotion I feel is sadness. Perhaps it's empathy for this young couple apart -- I assume they're a young couple anyway, and she's at university since he says "A couple of years and you'll be done with school". On the other hand, he might literally mean "school", and that would be a bit wrong. But anyway, maybe it makes me sad because I can empathise with the loneliness and longing of when you can't be with the person you want to be. But I think there is more to it -- I think there's a sort of melancholy jealousy too. It's pretty strange to feel jealous towards a song -- but some emo part of me feels sad that I don't feel that love, there's nobody here in my life evoking such emotions. And there's nobody to sing that song about me, either. And part of me is jealous because I don't think I've ever felt that -- not like it's described. Even when I've been longing for someone, even when I have been apart from someone I care deeply about -- there's not been the unfailing optimism of this song. I feel jealous I don't have that optimism.
Instead, I feel something else: cynicism. I imagine that while he's a starving musician, writing songs about his love for the girl, she's probably cheating on him while she's away. I've not known a long distance relationship to last -- either mine or someone else's, and I don't believe they do. I think it's a more likely scenario that by the time Delilah is "done with school" she will have moved on, or she will want someone who can provide better. I guess he probably he is keeping his word where he says "believe me, girl, someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar" -- I expect he is probably raking it in with this song alone....
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