Art Day

I see this picture every day. I find it both strange and fascinating. Today I finally had to stop and look at it more closely, and because of this I thought I would share it.

This is Call of the Wild by Mert Alas & Marcus Piggott, the model is Natalia Vodianova.

Starving artist

This post is actually intended as the second part of a two-part series, starter with this post about my new work -- and inspired by various bloggers who have asked about where they can see my art, and how they can buy it.

It's been a long time coming, but modesty and laziness have been getting the better of me. Effectively, this post is a masturbatory journey through my photography.

This first picture was taken in Camden, one summer afternoon. I like the colours of the picture most of all, the green trees framing it and contrasting against the white building in the background. I also like the colours of the barges on the water. The picture to me has a lazy feel, like there is no sense of urgency to it. The water is still and quiet, the people in the picture don't seem to be in any hurry. There are people just standing and talking, others just sitting by the water. Camden is one of my favourite places in London.


About as different from Camden you can get is Arches National Park, Utah, where this next picture was taken. It was around Easter of 2001, and a group of us were hiking and camping in the desert. I remember how Tom and I had been so reluctant to go the morning we left -- it was still dark and it was snowing in Salt Lake City, and maybe it was a fear of the unknown, but we had second thoughts about the whole thing. We also had no idea that when we got out to the desert, the snow of that morning would seem like a dream. The Moab desert is one of the most incredible places on earth, and I would sooner camp in the desert sands than I would stay the night in a Mayfair hotel. It's little wonder that I now love Edward Abbey's book Desert Solitaire so much and later went on to write my dissertation on the American wilderness.

I think this picture was taken early one morning -- I assume it was morning, otherwise we would have been hiking and you can see one of our tents in the picture. What I like most of all about it is the effect of the sun through the trees and the red rock in the background. I wouldn't normally want to post pictures from the same place and time, right after each other, but I had to include this one. In the distance you can see the snow-capped mountains, I love the contrast of it.

In terms of contrast, I don't suppose it gets much more different than the red rock canyons and desert sands of Utah's Moab desert, to this. Taken in February of 2006, I packed my bags and my snowboard and took myself off to the mountains for a week.

This is the church of Mary Magadelene, in an old town called Peisey-Nancroix in the French Alps. On deviantArt, you can see a couple of other versions of this picture -- I experimented with different sizes, and a greyscale filter, but I like this one the most, for the faded colours against the pure white snow. The village was very quiet, it would be rare to see another person in the street, and the most traffic you saw most days would be the snowplough.

I have no idea if this church was abandoned or still in use. I never saw any signs that it was still in active service, nobody came or went and there were never any bells calling people to mass, even on a Sunday morning. I should have tried the door, I now can only imagine what it was like inside, but I was usually just passing it on my way somewhere else. Isn't that always the way?

Once again, going back several years -- this time to the summer of 2001. I spent the summer with no fixed address, which is a nice way of saying I slept on a friend of Rie's couch becuase I had nowhere else to go and my home was several thousand miles away. Sure, I could have changed my ticket and gone home early, but sometimes I would rather sleep on the couch of someone who is little more than a stranger to me -- if it affords me other interesting opportunities.

Opportunities like deciding you're bored and catching a Greyhound bus to San Francisco. One of my favourite things to do when I go somewhere is to just walk out with my camera, and dig stuff. To set off with no purpose, no sense of direction, and see what I can find. Back in the days before I had digital cameras, this was actually shot on APS film -- the kind you don't have to wind back, it just slots in like a battery. I searched all over the city for somewhere that sold black and white APS films, to me it's not the same using colour and converting it -- you get a certain richness of contrast.

There is little more to say about this picture, it sort of explains itself -- I hiked to the very top of this street, and casually shot the picture down it. It remains one of my favourite, and most remarked-upon pictures.

Slightly closer to home, this picture was taken in the lovely town of Southend-on-Sea, in Essex. At one time it was a summer holiday resort (since it's the closest seaside to London), now with cheap flights to the continent its popularity has slumped against Spain. Just the same, I've grown up visiting the town for walks by the sea, or trips to the funfair. The beaches of Southend consist largely of stones and cigarette ends, although one beach does have soft, yellow sand -- imported from the Caribbean.

This picture was taken for a project (a project I am tempted to revive) back on Open Diary, where people would all take pictures from their lives on one particular day. I took this day out in Southend. There is no great story behind it, I just liked the colour of the boat and the dark of the wooden jetty -- and the written warnings all over to "keep off" the jetty. I have another picture taken when I climbed underneath the jetty, I just like to go where I don't belong.

I'm wary of this post getting too long, so that's all the pictures I will include for today, but more can be seen at my deviantArt page -- including more pictures of Essex, the Moab desert, the French Alps and some pictures of a Manhattan skyline that no longer exists in the same way.

In terms of cost, the prices here are based on an example: This picture is my first sold piece, so all details relate to this and are given solely as a guideline for a picture printed on an A3 canvas -- that is measuring 420mm by 297mm.

Excluding postage and packaging, but including all printing costs, the canvas would be £80GBP. Postage to World Zones 1&2 is £15GBP. Anyone outside of these zones are advised to make a rough guess from the table provided. Smaller prints are available, and naturally would cost less to both buy and to post. Larger sizes are subject to the suitability of the print itself. If anyone would prefer not to have canvas and instead just a framed print, that would probably about halve the price -- a more accurate quote will be gladly arranged on request.
I think that about covers it?

As someone who has previously had a series of posts dedicated to serial killers, it seems appropriate I should have something to say about the recent murders at Virginia Tech. I would like to mark a difference between being a serial killer and a mass murderer, but I guess really the difference is only a matter of detail. Either way the act is reprehensible.

I think on some levels, one can begin to understand the mindset of what drives someone to murder. We've all felt isolated, ostracised and angry at some time in our lives -- some of us seek professional help if they have violent fantasies (either about themselves or others), and some people I guess just pick it up and run with it. There are other questions to be asked, what makes a sociopath, is one born without empathy or is it something you learn. I don't really have any answers for this.

What's bothering me most is I felt sure that previously the media had some kind of policy regarding this sort of thing not to publicise it, like with suicide bombs -- because this kind of attention and notoriety is just what the killer wants. He was undoubtedly inspired more by previous "school shootings" than by any number of horror films -- he called the Columbine killers "martyrs", a word also commonly used by suicide bombers. They see the fame, the days or weeks of headlines, the speculation, the eventual movie spin-offs -- and they want a part of that for themselves. The fact that the killer made a video and sent it to the media shows what he wanted most of all was the attention.

All I see coming out of this will be more inspiration for disturbed young men -- a new benchmark, a new "record" to break, a club to be a part of. But it sells papers -- the stories, the speculation, the new angles -- it keeps the ratings up.

There is also the gun control debate. Should the killer have been easily able to buy guns almost whenever he wanted? Could it have been averted if like in England you can't just buy a gun in Wal-Mart? There is the argument he illegally had the guns on campus -- which suddenly reminds me of a cute Mormon girl I knew back in Utah. She was upset that she couldn't have her guns in the dorms, and I remember her telling me excitedly about the gun show she was going to and how she was going to get a new gun... But yes, if guns had been allowed on campus, could the tragedy have been averted? I don't think that's the point, I don't think it's a matter of gun control or the right to bear arms -- which is only slightly less absurd than the right to arm bears. The point should be more "how can this behaviour be prevented in the future?" rather than "how can we stop homicidal gunmen when they are on a hate-fuelled rampage?"

To my mind, not airing their "martyrdom" videos on national television is a good start. If you can't be on the news for being nice to people, for a homemade video telling the world how much you appreciate the people in your life, then you shouldn't get the attention for being a vicious brat, either.

Musical Monday (#17)

Tagged by his eminence, the Baron Hashbrown, I dutifully indulge myself with the music meme. As Baron H himself describes it: "The top ten list of the bands/acts you would most like to see live. Those you have missed or never managed to see and those you would sell a kidney to get tickets for."

In no particular order:
1)The Pixies.
Previously had broken up when I first got into their music, then I've missed a couple of chances to catch them live. Next time they tour, I'm going -- even if I go on my own.
2)Smashing Pumpkins
This might not count since I do have tickets to see them headlining the Reading festival this year -- but what I mean is the classic line-up, back in the day.
3)Leadbelly
I know he is oh-so-popular with the alternative bands of the 90's, and I admit I probably never would have heard of him otherwise. But that doesn't make him any less of a musical legend.
4)Our Lady Peace
My favourite band, but a rare visitor to these shores.
5)The Who
I'd prefer the original line up complete with Keith Moon, but will settle for Roger Daltry and Pete Townsend squabbling. I could have seen them when I was at Live 8 that time, but we'd been on our feet all day and couldn't face having to get through Robbie Williams... A mistake, I now admit.
6)The Clash
Joe Strummer, what a legend.
7)The Sex Pistols
Back in the 70's, not now -- even if it is still the original members.
8)Iggy Pop
Perhaps with the Stooges, I'm not sure. But definitely the rock iguana.
9)Jeff Buckley
I make do with his "Live at sine e" album of rare and intimate live performances -- but to hear "Lover You Should've Come Over" in person would have been incredible. Hole dedicated their last album in part "to anyone who ever drowned", I like to think that was a reference to Jeff Buckley's untimely demise.
10)Miles Davis.
I admit to previously stating jazz is for "science teachers and the mentally ill" and that it "ain't nothing but when you push a blues quartet down a long flight of stairs" (neither of which quote I can take credit for, you get a sticker if you can correctly identify both without google. hell, I'd probably ask you to marry me).
I have since revised my position, and think Miles Davis is just about as good as it gets. Oh, to have heard him play, in his prime...

A special mention goes out to Har Mar Superstar -- I've seen him live, so he can't go on the list, but the tent was too packed to be able to "see" him which is half the fun of his shows.

My apologies to Baron Hashbrown for not distinguishing between the living and the dead, though I might come back to edit it later. I also hereby dutifully tag fellow Musical Monday participants Mez and WDKY to fill this in for themselves, and because I'm feeling evil I also tag Madame Boffin and Chosha

And because I didn't distinguish between the living and dead, I feel the need to add in a new category -- or two. First, the "not fussed" category.

1) The Beatles. I've never been a fan of their music, and I doubt that if I was to magically be transported back in time to the Cavern in Liverpool to hear them play if even then I would be all that fussed.
2) Pink Floyd. I Know, I know -- lots of people I know worship them, and I don't hate them, but I'd just as soon keep that kidney as a spare.
3) The Rolling Stones. My Mum wants to go and see the Rolling Stones, so I might buy take her to a show just to make her happy. I quite like their music, but I could live without seeing them.
4) Nirvana. Surprising, considering I love so many other bands of that era -- but this list isn't bands I dislike, just bands that don't make the original list. It's close, but they don't make the cut.
5) Elvis when he was fat and past it.

A special mention goes out to Bob Dylan -- he doesn't make the list because I've seen him live. and he sucked.

Now, my special "been there, done that" list. The great shows in no particular order.

1)REM -- Earl's Court, London, 1999
I hadn't ever been that big a fan of REM, and only went to this gig because someone else dropped out and I took the ticket. It still stands out in my memory as one of the best gigs ever. I saw them more recently at a much smaller venue and it sucked.
2)Pearl Jam -- Reading Festival, 2006
I'd seen Pearl Jam twice previously, including the exclusive gig at London's Astoria, and at Wembley Arena several years ago -- but this was their crowning glory.
3)Hole -- Glastonbury festival, 1999
What can I say? They rocked. Melissa Auf der Maur also looked hot and she still manages to rock.
4)Snoop Dogg -- Live8, 2005
It's the middle of the afternoon, the concert was being broadcast live on the BBC and Snoop Dogg is asking the crowd "What's my motherfucking name?". It was surreal, and fantastic. And we weren't even drinking.
5)Feeder -- The Cliff's Pavillion (Essex), 1996
The first real live gig I ever went to, Feeder supporting Terrorvision, in Southend. I'd never heard of Feeder and knew nothing of what to expect, needless to say for me this gig made history.

Honourable mentions are too numerous to really do justice to; Pulp (1999), Foo Fighters (2006), Green Day (in 2005 and 1996), Eagles of Death Metal (2007), Terrorvision (on many occasions), Yeah Yeah Yeahs (2006), Gomez (almost every time they play), Twilight Singers with Mark Lanegan (2006), The Heavy Blinkers (2006), Ash (on so many occasions) and countless others...

I'm gonna raise a fuss, I'm gonna raise a holler

I've had too much sugar today. I am better than I was yesterday when I was spinning on my office chair (trying not to strangle myself with the phone cord) and debating with a customer service advisor if it was unreasonable to think the customer called Jean could have been a "Mr", reasoning that maybe it was French. That's what a bag of pic n' mix does for me, and personally I think it was the jellybeans. I once wrote a poem called "Axe Murder and Cherry Coke" which wasn't much about axe murder at all, but about having too much sugar -- in particular it included the lines "Gonna have some fun, gonna get so high, gonna [have to] scrape me off the ceiling".

Right now there is about five different blog posts I want to make, but we are going to do these one at a time -- and maybe one a day, depending. But first, work. Last week, when I was out in the arse-end of nowhere (and yet still in London, just about) for the job interview I didn't even get the job for, I got a phone call about another job. An interview for a job working in ethical healthcare PR, a field I hadn't previously given too much thought to but liked the idea of. So I agreed to be there, and that was that.

The next day at work they say "Nuh-uh, no way: you can't have the day off." I pleaded, said it was for an interview. They told me tough luck. I asked my temp agency to help, "No dice, son" is what they said.
"I called my congressman and he said, quote, 'I'd like to help you son but you're too young to vote.'

I weighed up my options, asked the advice of a colleague and eventually said screw it, I'd call in sick. It would look dead suss, but is my face bothered? Especially was I had Wednesday off work. As luck would have it, I felt like shit on Monday. I had to work and a dodgy pint of Stella the night before left me feeling like I was going to throw up whenever I ate. By the end of my shift I was vocally complaining about how I felt, and if I hadn't felt so rough I'd have been pleased how convenient it was. Tuesday morning I put on my best sick voice "I'm really sorry I can't make it into work today, I have a migraine". They were unconvinced by all accounts, but we expected that -- right, kids?

The interview itself on Tuesday was by and large a waste of time. It was less remote than the week before -- that is, it was more than a village this time, and it had a tube station. I'm turning into one of those people, aren't I? The kind of urbanite who thinks if it doesn't have a tube station it isn't civilised. True story: San used to live with a girl who was once genuinely surprised to learn the Underground did not extend outside of London. This girl in perhaps her early twenties, honestly thought you could travel anywhere in mainland Britain on the Tube. Talk about sheltered. Anyway, where was I? The job.

I got there early, wandered about the high street (it had more going for it than my town, so points there in its favour) and bought some second hand books in a charity shop -- San is sending begging emails for care packages, since she has no books. Incidentally, I bought her a copy of High Fidelity and am also sending her my copy of Breakfast At Tiffany's and Notes From a Small Island. The postage cost me about three times what I paid for all of the books, put together.

The company itself was housed in an old listed building that looked like it might have been the vicar's cottage, way back when. I was clean cut, well dressed, you know the drill -- and had done my research. I knew the company's clients, I knew its competitors and was ready to comment on why this company was better. I knew their awards. I knew the role of ethical healthcare, I was prepared to discuss contemporary issues (from MRSA to the average joe being able to find out almost any info online about a drug, regardless of if it had been approved), and I was going to look very sincere about why I wanted to work in something serious.

In the end, the account director didn't turn up for the meeting so I was just interviewed by a (very pleasant) HR manager. The semi-retired, part-time HR manager. It was a completely different game to the one I was expecting. The interview started with all that extraneous info you're told never to ask about; the salary, the holiday, the parking spaces -- everything that matters to HR. Then they asked if I had any questions.

I blinked in surprise, used to keeping my questions to the end of the interview. I had been warned by the HR manager that since she didn't really work in PR, she knew nothing of the specifics of the role itself, nor the PR industry in general. I asked questions about training and assessment, but they seemed a bit flat. I fielded usual questions about previous jobs -- although she seemed hung up on going through my CV dates bit by bit -- and gave the usual rubbish when asked how my friends would describe me. How would they describe me? Funny, creative, sometimes reclusive and prone to bouts of depression. I didn't put it quite like that.
"And how would your enemies describe you?"

Having mentioned the latter to my friends, they were of the opinion I should have taken the piss and said something like "Devilishly handsome". Instead, I was unsure and said they probably just don't understand my sense of humour. How would my enemies describe me? Weird, probably. I expect they would probably question my sexuality, but just because it's insulting. The rest of the interview I don't much remember.

The next day, I got a call to say I hadn't got the job. They hadn't felt I was the right for their agency, and as a small company it was important the right person fit in with the rest of the team. I wonder if what they meant by that was 19 out of the agency's 20 employees were female. They also gave some quite useful feedback that I had seemed nervous -- I think I was more put out that the account director wasn't present, and all my research was in vain -- but I should have been livelier and more confident. Point taken.

Otherwise, there's been the usual emails from recruitment consultants coming and going -- job specs and promises to put me forward for roles. I try not to think too much about them, or read too much into it. One particular position came to me via a phonecall yesterday, and I cheekily checked my voicemail later in the afternoon when I should have been working. It sounded about right -- consumer role, well-known agency, I said to go ahead. This evening I was thinking how I hadn't heard back yet, not remembering it was only yesterday I'd even been told about it. Just figured they weren't interesting.

Sat at home, trying to motivate myself to go to the gym, I got another phone call. Same guy as yesterday, asking if I'd checked my email in the last hour or two. I admitted I hadn't. He explained the agency he'd put me forward to yesterday were interested -- but rather than an interview they wanted me for a job trial. And now I start on Monday. A month's fully paid trial, a chance to impress them with my hard work (especially since I've already done an equivalent position for six months) and fingers crossed from there.

My temp agency are pissed off at me because they want a week's notice, and I've said either I start on Monday or not at all. I'm faintly amused work will think it was for the job I interviewed for this week, but aren't overly keen that I'm kind of burning my bridges. Just the same, it's too good an opportunity to be passing up -- and it's going to look a lot better on my CV than working in a call centre.

Hair

Hair and I have never really been friends. I've had very fine hair all my life, which even from an early age has been a subject of unhappiness for me. Around the age of 10 a boy in my class would call me names. I remember telling my older brother about it, his advice was to insult the boy back. This would then lead to a fight -- whether my brother had anticipated that or not, I don't know, but he was always very much the fighter out of the two of us. Anyway, many years later when what I really wanted was long hair, I was told no. My hair was too fine, it was never going to happen.

There's been times when I've longed for hair I could do something interesting with -- spend silly amounts of money in the city, or give it that hot surfer bed-head look, or just anything else. But most of the time I just ignored it.

Then in later years there'd be the disturbing incidents when I'd be trying clothes on in a dressing room and I'd notice with horror a bald spot. Hoping it was just the way my hair was parted, or just looking fine. Later splashing out on a bottle of regaine, only to find it's £30 for a small 30ml bottle that lasts a month -- and it takes six months at least to show any improvement. Also factor into the equation that it works with mixed results, and only continues to work for as long as you use it. Stop using it and you're back where you started. I never finished the first bottle.

I don't even remember when that was now.

More recently a colleague referred to me as short and bald, and suddenly I was 10 years old again and wanting to ask my brother what to do. Except I've now learned tricks like pretending you don't care, and pretending you're so full of confidence you think you're wonderful. I know it's vanity on my part, but it hurt just the same. But since then it's been glaringly obvious to me, and I looked at my options. There's the 'treatment' option which involves one drug or another to monkey around with the hormones -- but as I said before, nothing's guaranteed, there's risks involved and all the rest.
Alternatively, there's surgery. Hair transplants and the like. Expensive and again unreliable.
I also found a third option, replacement. A breathable membrane is bonded to the scalp with its own head of hair, scientifically produced to match as closely as possible to your own. It has none of the risks of the other two options, and in terms of cost it is far less than surgery, and about the same as treatment. You also need it replaced about once a year, so by my calculations £800 a year would be about the same as continually using a treatment.

On a Q&A Friday, I once anonymously asked Ms Fits what she thought. Quite what she thought of it, I don't know, but since strangers send her pictures of their appendages and ask her for ratings, it's probably relatively normal. I think she narrowed assessed the options as: bad comb-overs, a hat collection, or shaving the lot.

If I had the option, I'd just remove my whole head and get a different one. Or go on the MTV "I want a famous face" show. But those aren't realistic options. My friends would say to just shave it, or say that nobody else cares enough to even really look.

I'm still debating over breathable membranes and what I'd need to sacrifice to make up for the cost.

Blogarama

I have no clue what is going on with Blogarithim today, the site just seems to have packed its bags and said goodbye to the circus. Weirdly, I still got my daily email of what blogs had updated today -- but it's as yet unclear if this will continue. I have had to remove the blogroll from the sidebar here since it was auto-forwarding any blog visitors to a site holding page.

This has also meant that I am missing links for a lot of my daily reads. Not usually feeling the need to bookmark them, it didn't occur to me I was only really keeping them in one place. And without the site, I have no list. I am recovering bits and pieces from old blogarithim email updates, friends knowing other friends and comments, but it's not a perfect system. And it reminds me a bit of when diary-x crashed and the dxodus (as I think someone called it) began, often leaving people with no idea where to find some of their favourite writers.

I have begun setting up bloglines to handle my updates. I'm not happy with it yet, there doesn't seem to be the daily email notification option, and I can't figure out how to set up a blogroll. It also refuses to accept I should be able to claim the feed for my own blog.

I hope to have some replacement up and running shortly. Apologies to anyone who gets missed off the list, just yell at me in the comments.

Books etc

Nobody gets a sticker, suckers. Only Madame Boffin, Treespotter and Chosha tried guessing (unless, Jamie, you meant you agreed with *everything* Madame Boffin said, including her guesses) the red herring among my bonus reads.

I admit, it was devilishly cunning of me, the odd one out was in fact This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I have indeed read (and own) Kafka and Sophocles, Mark Haddon's mystery sits on my bookshelf alongside Raymond Chandler's own, and Douglas Coupland's post-apocalyptic earth seems preferable to Irvine Welsh's vision of society. Of the Beats, of course nobody familiar with my blog ever doubted I dig both Kerouac and Burroughs. Bonfire of the Vanities was a good last-minute guess by Chosha, but as Roy Walker of Catchphrase might say: it's a good guess, but it's not quite right.

It's true, even though I love The Great Gatsby, I'm not such a fan of Fitzgerald's other works -- and have never read This Side of Paradise. I've never really got into his other novels, Tender is the Night is beautifully written, but the plot just didn't really engage me. I'm sure I have also read -- or tried to read -- The Beautiful and Damned but didn't get into it. It seems Fitzgerald might have ripped off Zelda's work with ...Paradise anyway.

And just to prove a point, that I don't only read the obscure and depressing, I present in my defence my Top 5 favourite books:

1)The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
A tale of love, longing, and ultimately loss.
Nobody could ever accuse this book of being obscure -- and no, it's not depressing. Shut up.
My favourite part of the novel is where Gatsby tells Daisy she has a green light on the end of her dock, and the significance of their meeting; "Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one."

2)Been Down So Long, It Looks Up To Me, by Richard Fariña
If this is obscure, it shouldn't be -- and if it's depressing it's only because it was the only novel Fariña ever wrote -- due to his untimely demise, shortly after its publication. Friends with Bob Dylan, married to Mimi Baez, Fariña's book should be loved universally.

3)High Fidelity, by Nick Hornby
The movie might have been completely different (like most movies made from Hornby's novels are), but the themes of music, love and how music can directly relate to our relationships are universal.

4)On Green Dolphin Street, by Sebastian Faulks
Better known for his graphic war novels (that is they are graphic in their depiction of war, not they are graphic novels about war), surprisingly the only war in this book is the Cold War -- set to the background to a story of infidelity and love.

5)The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chander
Based on the short stories "The Man Who Liked Dogs" and "The Silver Slippers", it's little wonder this book is confusing. The original murder quickly gets forgotten, and by the end of the book there's been so many twists and turns it's hard to remember where you started. But my god, Chandler wrote crime fiction like no other -- and I might be sad, but I still think the movies where Bogart plays Philip Marlowe are the best.

Blogger ate my hamster

I don't really have a hamster. But Blogger did eat my post about yesterday's job interview, which included some interesting musings about work, villages in Middlesex being buried under airport runways and voyages out the farthest arms of the tube map -- and beyond.
But like I say, Blogger ate it, and I can't be arsed to write it out again.

Book Meme

First, I was tagged to do this by the frequently-brilliant, lesser-spotted Treespotter. I think I swore, but said I'd do it. Then I forgot. Karma came and gave me a kick in the form of being tagged again by the lovely Madame Boffin -- so I really better had do it this time. Think both lists were the same, except Treespotter cheekily added some of this own, and I shall follow his example. Bold ones I've read, italic ones I plan to read. Snarky comments made about the ones I'm not interested in.

1. The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown) - A wiser fella than myself once said "nothing is any good if other people like it".
2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen) - Maybe I should, maybe I will one day, but there's a million books I'd sooner read.
4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell) -- This is not on the afore-mentioned list.
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien) -- I hated The Hobbit
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien)
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien)
8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Rowling) - See earlier comments about the worth of things if other people like them.
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown) -
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Rowling)
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
16. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (Rowling)
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
18. The Stand (Stephen King) - Definitely one of the best, although it does lose its way later on and I got a bit sick of good vs evil.
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Rowling)
20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte) -
21. The Hobbit (Tolkien) -
22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger) I used to actually carry a copy of this book around with me. I'm probably tagged by the Government now. Holden Caulfield annoys me now.
23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold) I'm told good things about it.
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel) - Anything like that movie, Pi? I don't know if that would be a good thign or not.
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams) And the following parts, too -- I'm not a rabid fanboy, but I do like to quote Zaphod Beeblebrox.
27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
28. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis) I hate CS Lewis with a passion, and I can't stand books filled with clumsily religious allegories. Lewis beats you round the head with them, I'd join the Ice Queen just to spite him.
29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck) I love Steinbeck, but I think I'd need to break my legs to stay still long enough to read this book.
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
31. Dune (Frank Herbert) Apparently it is to sci-fi what LotR is to fantasy, but until recently I'd never read it, until a friend recommended it personally -- nor had I seen David Lynch's movie of it. Hated the movie, but the book is great.
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (Orwell) A scary depiction of a society where the government has too much control, and perhaps a vision of Britain's future.
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella) I was part of an internet book-club type thing. Hated this book. Wanted to write a "Confessions of an Alcoholic" equivalent, about the hilarious consequences of a man's drink problem.
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
45. Bible - Not in one sitting, obviously.
46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy) I had a copy of this once. God knows what I did with it.
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck) See comments about East of Eden.
50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens) - I hate Dickens' style.
53. Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
54. Great Expectations (Dickens)
55. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald) probably my favourite book ever, the tale of a man who built himself an illusion to live by.
56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Rowling)
58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
60. The Time Traveller’s Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)
61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez) - I was actually very surprised by the 'fantasy' element of this, having only read "Love in the Time of Cholera", but Marquez is a god.
67. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Ann Brashares)
68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller) I thought everyone in the world had read this, it's very funny but after a while it can drag a bit.
69. Les Miserables (Hugo)
70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery) The Prince got on my nerves.
71. Bridget Jones’ Diary (Fielding)
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez) loved it so much, see here for more in-depth discussion about the book.
73. Shogun (James Clavell) -
74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje) I loved the movie.
75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
76. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
78. The World According To Garp (John Irving)
79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
80. Charlotte’s Web (E.B. White)
81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck) Short enough to read in one sitting, but as great in style as his longer works.
83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMavrier)
84. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
85. Emma (Jane Austen)
86. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
89. Blindness (Jose Saramago)
90. Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer) -- Do I look like I read Jeffrey Archer novels? Do I vote conservative and wank over Thatcher? I don't think so.
91. In The Skin Of A Lion (Ondaatje)
92. Lord of the Flies (Golding) I read it at school, but I really liked it -- if I was ever on Castaway or Shipwrecked or any of those programs, I'd totally be like Jack, and give two fingers to civilisation. That said, I like the book for the story the metaphors and Golding's obsession with original sin and savagery annoys me.
93. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum) although now the movies are so popular, I hesitate.
96. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
100. Ulysses (James Joyce)

And for Treespotter's additional items:
101. The Old Man and the Sea (Hemingway) -- I think I missed this one, though I have read most of Hemingway's stuff.
102. Neuromancer (William Gibson)
103. Quiet American (Graham Greene)
104. Brighton Rock (Graham Greene)
105. Quicksilver - Baroque Cycle Vol I - (Neal Stephenson)
106. Trout Fishing in America - (Richard Brautigan)
107. The Power of Silence: Further Lessons of Don Juan (Carlos Castenada)
108. Heart of Darkness (Joseph Conrad) It was recommended to me once by a teacher, I'm not sure why any more. I have mixed feelings about the book.
109. JPod (Douglas Coupland) -- Coupland depresses me, skipped this one.
110. Lord of the Flies (William Golding) -- See #92.

I seem worryingly illiterate, by this list's standard. And because Treespotter did and because so many here are blank and making me look uncultured, I include more. As with him, I read all below except for one. If you can guess which, the winner here gets a sticker.

111. Metamorphosis (Franz Kafka)
112. Oedipus Rex (Sophocles)
113. On The Road (Jack Kerouac)
114. The Big Sleep (Raymond Chandler)
115. The Bonfire of the Vanities (Tom Wolfe)
116. Trainspotting (Irvine Welsh)
117. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime (Mark Haddon)
118. Naked Lunch (William Burroughs)
119. Girlfriend in a Coma (Douglas Coupland)
120. This Side of Paradise (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

There was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air

This will have to be a two-part post, because one post alone isn't big enough to hold my ego sometimes. Yes, indeed; ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages: I bring you Jay, the artist.

Last night, driving home, I was a bit distracted and managed to take a wrong turn. Twice. Luckily, so long as I am still heading in the right direction I can't go too far wrong so I didn't feel the need to turn around. Okay, I admit, I almost never turn around, call it stubbornness, call it blind optimist, but I usually think if I keep going in the same direction it will somehow work out. Last night, I found this water tower. It wasn't exactly a surprise, I've known about this water tower for something like ten years -- and I once took pictures of it for a photography course I was doing.

Those pictures are lost now, but with my recent inspiration I wanted to go back. Every day, driving home from work I'll see it in the distance somewhere and try and work out where it is. Then last night I found it by accident.

I'm not entirely happy with this picture, as yet. For a start, I had to take it using my camera phone (I must start keeping my camera in the glove compartment of my car), and then there was the damn fence. Plus, I was going home so didn't have a lot of time. However, I like this picture and I have deliberately left the fence in it -- I think it frames the shot and gives it a militarised feel to the picture.

I might make this picture and the last one part of a "random places in Essex" series. On the way out of town is an old abandoned petrol station -- the station itself is all long gone, all that remains is the concrete forecourt and a couple of old disused pumps like this. I've been looking at it for ages and thinking how it would make a good post-apocalypse scene, a kind of nod to Mad Max or Godspeed You! Black Emperor. The unfortunate thing has been that every time I go past, there is always a bunch of cars and other vehicles parked around -- since there is a business operating just behind the forecourt.

Once I got it in my head that I had to take pictures of the place, I have been going out of my way to drive past and different times of the day to see how busy it looked. Thursday was my first attempt at capturing it -- but someone had parked a blue van right behind one of the pumps, meaning I couldn't get any pictures of a whole scene, and only pictures of one pump. The pictures I got were good, but I wasn't quite satisfied.

In this one, I like the detail of the corrosion on the pump and I liked the colours -- however, I have edited the hue and the saturation for a kind of washed-out feeling to it, like it's not really there. I wasn't happy that I couldn't get both pumps in the same picture.

So Saturday early evening I go back, and I'm shouting excitedly in my car as I pull up and see the whole place is deserted. I can kneel in the dirt, I can take pictures this way, that way, of a whole scene or one pump alone. Passing chavs would beep their horns or shout at me, but who cares what chavs think. So long as my car was nearby for a quick getaway if it came to that -- chavs are prone to inexplicable and unpredictable violent behaviour.



Here I've managed to more or less get the shot I was after, but it's not as good as I wanted. It needs to be taken with quite a wide angle to get both pumps in one picture, and I feel the building behind does spoil the atmosphere a little. However, I was pleased with the lighting -- not that it matters in monochrome, but it does for the next picture.

This was the partner of the pump in the first picture -- I like this one better, since it's more complete. Also the evening sun I think has added a richness to the colour. Again, not entirely comfortable with the background, but it will do.

Satisfied with my gas station pictures and aware that I was losing the light, I set off back to find my water tower -- with determination not to let a fence get in the way of my picture. I found my way back, parked up by the gate -- and noticed a footpath in the neighbouring field. A couple of paces further up the footpath, I found that merely pushing through the hedge and not minding some tree branches to the face, I could be past the first gate entirely.

The shot isn't so very different to the first -- but there's no fence, and I think the light and resolution is better, giving it a crisper black and white edge. I'm not entirely sure if I think it is better with or without the fence, and I'm not a great fan of the phone masts on the tower -- but I can't do a whole lot about them.

Summer

(with apologies to Madame Boffin)

Summer is definitely on it's way. When the wind blows it has a distinctively warm edge now, particularly in the evenings as I make my way home.

Pretty soon it will be warm enough for me to bring out my t-shirt collection, which will soon encompass and take over the world, seeing as I went through a phase of buying a t-shirt for every gig I went to. If it gets really hot, I may even wear board shorts -- but that's unlikely. It's hard to imagine that only last week we were having freak blizzards and hail storms -- and may continue to for a few months yet.

As I walked to get my lunch today -- enjoying the few moments of sunshine I get while in work (now I see why you have a convertible, Baron Hashbrown) -- I was remembering the summers of when I was younger. The first days of the year when we would be allowed to play on the school field. Holding buttercups under your friend's chin to see if it glows ("you like butter"), looking for four-leaf clovers (and never ever finding one), freshly cut grass and your dad struggling to push a roller up and down the garden.

Bank holidays where the world smells of barbecues, crunchy sausages and baked potatoes -- and being terrified of wasps (not much changes there). Carnivals and town fetes and entertainment from hospital radio -- way back before it even occurred to you buy beer from the supermarket and take it to the park.

Short-sleeved shirts and tank tops and being made to wear shorts to school (but still having to wear a tie every day), waiting all year for six weeks off school. Sleeping in a tent in the garden (okay, sometimes I still do that), or just setting up a tent in the garden during the day but still sleeping indoors at night.

But now I have to admit that I've grown up. I'm 26, I work in insurance, and my lunch break is over so I have to get back on with filing. I might add to this later if I think of it.

The House

There's a house on my street that fascinates me.

I couldn't tell you why it does, where the strange appeal of the place lies. To look at it, it's unremarkable -- a detached, red-brick house like pretty much any of the others. I couldn't tell you anything about the people that live there, just like I couldn't with almost any house on my road.

I know the house has two -- or maybe more -- Siamese cats, and that they are often in the street or standing by the metal gate to the back garden. It's a personality quirk of mine that I remember places with the cats associated with them, but the fact that this house has Siamese cats makes it remarkable. The cats have a certain mystery to them.

As mentioned, I know nothing of the people that live there. If I think about it, I can say that at least two people live there -- adults, in middle age, and they appear reasonably well-off since I think I have seen a Mercedes or some luxury car on their drive. There are also ornaments on some window sills that suggest to me exotic holidays. This makes me think maybe they are a childless couple. Contrastingly though, I also have a feeling that a strange boy that I sometimes see in the street might live there.

I don't really know where he lives, how old he is, or even when I last saw him -- but I remember him as a fair-haired boy that would often be riding a bike in the street. I describe him as strange because I seem to remember he'd talk to strangers, not just me, but other people have commented on it. I could be completely wrong about the boy, I've never seen him entering or leaving the house. Then again, I don't think I've ever seen anyone enter or leave.

I remember one day, maybe 10 years ago now, I saw some graffiti that had been written on the wall of the house, it looked like it had been half washed-off. Now this strikes me as strange, why only half? Who would leave the job half-finished? Would you give up halfway through, go back indoors to have a beer and watch the football? I wouldn't be able to relax doing anything else. I don't know for certain, but I think the writing said "a drunk driver lives here". I remember remarking on seeing it to my brother, and he'd said obliquely that there was "a story behind" the house. Why I never asked him what the story was, I don't know. I wonder if he knew himself.

How long the graffiti stayed visible for, again, I don't remember. Sometimes now I still try and see if I can make the words out -- like the house over the road, where for years, despite numerous coats of paint, you could still make out the black streak where the Dad had been painting the guttering when his ladder started slipping out from under him. That was a strange house, too, for many years. Not any more, though, that family moved. And the family that moved in, in their place, brought cats.

I doubt I will ever know what makes this one house so fascinating. It featured in a dream I had the other night -- probably because I'd noticed it up for sale -- and this has just made me even more fascinated. I might try contacting the estate agent and ask if I can look at the house...

The needle returns to the start of the song and we all sing along like before

It's been almost a week since my last post -- San left -- and things are exactly as normal. The last time San moved to another country she had dumped me shortly beforehand and it seemed all the more lonely -- going from a relationship, to the other person leaving altogether. I wrote it off as karma, just what I get for breaking Fiona's heart when I went off to study in Utah. That was six years ago. San last left, I don't know, maybe three years ago? And the world is a different place.

I don't miss her like before because we haven't been a couple in a long time. I no longer pine for our relationship, because I know I can read through my archives and see things were rarely roses and rainbows for us. It could be that I only felt compelled to write about things when I was troubled, and it could be we were mostly happy together, but either way -- I don't miss it any more. Though, I admit, it's a little strange knowing that I won't be getting any text messages from her.

I mentioned a few posts ago -- in my post about trying to break into the world of dating boys -- that I had struck up a conversation with a girl instead, and things seemed interesting. The update is, nothing happened. We exchanged a few emails, a few casual compliments, even exchanged numbers in a round-about sort of way -- and then just nothing. One day it had been about a week since I'd heard anything from her, and she sent me a text message to say hi and apologise for it. She never responded to my reply, and even several days later there was no response to a breezy, just saying hey, text message. I contemplated if maybe she was playing hard to get. Perhaps she wanted me to chase her. But screw that, I'm not into games -- not those kind of games, anyway. So it ended there, I never bothered to text her again if she couldn't be bothered to reply -- and likewise email. I feel only vaguely rejected.

Work continues the same as ever, neither getting more interesting nor less bareable. I've attended a couple of job interviews, and been rejected -- pretty much without any reason given -- for at least one, so far.

Aurore Sandeau is helping me to realise my dream of being a bona fide artist, by having the honour of being my very first buyer. Just as soon as I receive it from the printer, a picture of mine taken underneath a jetty, on a canvas measuring 297 x 420 millimetres will become my first-ever commissioned piece of work. It's quite an honour for us both. Anyone else wanting to buy unique works from this up-and-coming British photographer is welcome to contact me in the usual way.

But really, nothing ever happens.

Saturday, March 17. 8.15pm

Saturday, March 17. 8.15pm
Maghreb Moroccan Restaurant, Islington

After arriving in Angel earlier, I was so sure I was lost. The bars and restaurants had thinned out, and so convinced I turned back on myself and headed back the way I came. About halfway back down the road, I found I had been right all along.

It was San's last night in town, before exchanging London for the suburbs of Hiroshima. She'd booked a table for 8pm in this Moroccan restaurant, and -- being me -- I was lost. All San had told me was what street it was on, and a couple of bars I knew that it was past. Having walked the length of Upper Street perhaps twice, and starting to panic as I was going to be late, I ended up texting AQA for the house number of the restaurant, after texts to San had proved fruitless. She would tell me "it's near the town hall" which assumed I knew where the town hall was, or could identify which building it was on sight, and would be able to judge how "near" it was.

It was when I got my AQA text reply I discovered I was practically at the door of the restaurant before I had turned around. And although this post starts with the paragraph from my paper journal, written in the restaurant shortly after I got there, I was still the first one to arrive. Altogether, it was a fine send-off for San -- about 17 people turned up (more than she'd even booked for) and everyone had a good time, for me it was both nice and a little strange to see some of her friends I hadn't seen in months or years. Some of her older friends now seem to consider me as more their friend in my own right than just San's old ex boyfriend. Probably because I refuse to go away. I spent most of the night talking and laughing with San's younger sister, whom I consider almost like my own adopted sister these days.

Eventually the evening came to an end, and the waiters brought out a cake that one of San's half-sisters had left. It was then that San started to cry, and she more or less continued to cry on and off until I left her late the next morning. She was crying because she was pleased her friends had come to see her off, but also I think because she was a little scared and it had only just started to sink in she was really going.

We walked home like we've done so many times before -- I didn't want to mention anything about it being a long time before we will again, if we ever do -- fighting against a strong headwind, blowing grit in our eyes. Tired from either a day in work in my case, or a late, drunken night the night before in San's we both went to bed (yes, separately) fairly soon after we got in. San had yet to start packing, with just over 12 hours to go before her taxi would be arriving for her. I questioned whether she should pack first and then sleep, but San opted to sleep first and then pack.

The next morning, when San eventually got up after choosing "snooze" about five times, I couldn't sleep in. It would be the last time I'd see San for a while, and I wasn't going to the airport with her. I had planned to go with her, even at the expense of the last hockey game of the season, but in the end Mother's Day intervened and I was required to spend the majority of the day at home. Realising that I could sleep any time, I got up to watch San pack and re-pack and re-pack again, in between her bouts of tears.

After an hour or so, her uncle turned up with something for San to sign -- I don't recall what, and I decided rather than supervise San's packing, along with her random relative and her Mum, I'd leave her to it for a short while and read my philosophy book. But before long, I couldn't concentrate and actually got dressed instead, to do exactly as I said: supervise San's packing, along with her random relative and her Mum.

Shortly before I left around midday, San had got her suitcase to weigh as close to 20kg as possible. 20 kilos might be plenty if you're going on holiday, but it doesn't leave you a lot of room if you need to pack for a year. I think she settled for 22kg in the end.

I jokingly asked San if she would walk me to the bus stop, since she was still in her PJs. But she walked me out onto the balcony instead, we hugged goodbye -- refusing to look each other in the eye, so I wouldn't see her crying -- and I told her I'd see her soon. As I started off down the road, she called out goodbye to me, in a voice choked with tears.

I got a text message from her this morning as she changed planes in Hong Kong. By now, she will be in Japan. Probably complaining she has nothing to wear...

England is drowning and I live by the river

I got home on Sunday night, after a disappointing hockey game (Chieftains lost 5 - nil) and wondered why there was a torch on my bed. I didn't think too much of it at first, and then I ran into my Dad.

There had been a message earlier the evening, in a phone call from the Environmental Agency. The phone call was a flood warning, the risk had been raised from "flood watch" (flooding of low lying land and roads is expected) to "flood danger" (flooding of homes and businesses is expected) -- there was an imminent danger of a flood.

My dad had got bags of sand out of the garage to block the doors with, and had prepared various items like torches, candles and a camping stove. He said that he'd stay up until midnight (high tide was expected about 11.30) and that he would wake me up if and when the water came. I wondered if I would first hear the flood warning siren -- the eerie rise and fall of an air raid siren.

I woke up work at 6am this morning with a headache. But no flood. The situation has been updated to "all clear", how long for I don't know.

Clearness of dealing, made them almost invisible

They say the meaning of life is to "find what you love, and do it".

I guess it is about time that I stopped treading water and worked out what I do love, and then worked out how to do it. A life where you spend 40 hours a week in work, with every hour marked by watching the clock and counting quietly two hours 'til break, three hours to lunch, be at home in four hours -- that's not even a life half-lived.

Years ago, I had an interview for the local paper where I had been doing work experience. In hindsight, one day a week was no kind of experience at all -- I should have been doing at least four days a week if I expected to go anywhere. But anyway, I remember the interview and telling them how I wanted a career, I wanted to do something I was passionate about. They were convinced of my passion for the profession, but I guess ultimately felt that I wasn't good enough for them. That's just how these things go.

I'm not a fool. Not all of the time, at least. I understand the reason they pay you to go to work is that you wouldn't go otherwise, I understand you can't enjoy what you do all of the time. But there needs to be a balance, and I am not prepared to live my life as a slave in a white collar.

But what do I love? In the words of Ron Burgundy "I love poetry, and a glass of scotch...". That's not going to get me very far, I haven't written so much as a line of poetry in years and my epic literary masterpiece about love, loss and zombies is currently only sitting and two pages. I don't think a career is going to come out of that, I can't even win the poetry.com competitions.

I know I have talents, and see no benefit in false modesty -- I have an artistic spark, and I'm not ashamed of it. On the other hand, I recognise that I am not amazing, I am not incredible, I am not better than perhaps a lot of people. However, a lot of people have neither the courage nor the inclination to try and succeed. This narrows the competition.

I don't really know where to begin; whether perhaps I should be looking for photography courses, or looking for assistant positions, or if I should just be trying to flog what I have. After all, I've never tried -- other than to friends who say "Yes, you should try and sell your work", but then won't buy it themselves.

I called in sick at work today, and in between watching a random subtitled Japanese movie, reading a book on philosophy and fielding calls from recruitment consultants, I also plan to devote some time to working out how to do what I love.

Found:

Amo el trozo de tierra que tú eres,
porque de las praderas planetarias
otra estrella no tengo. Tú repites
la multiplicación del universo.

The inspirational Mez recently posted a note-to-self she found saved on her mobile phone. In a similar circumstance, Dr Kenneth Noisewater found a list of uncertain origins. Joining in with the cool kids, today I found a sheet clumsily torn from a writing pad, when cleaning my room.
The above phrase written on it. Despite not being able to read Spanish, I can pick out enough words to know what this is, and what it refers to.

Also on the page is an Easyjet reference number -- either a flight number or a booking reference.

I love stuff like this, random pieces of paper or notes to self. I never find anything worth sending to Found. I want to see posts from the rest of you about random messages to yourself you find...

I wanna be a homosexual

(my apologies to Madame Boffin, who will already have read most of this story in an email -- you can just skip this post)

Sexuality isn't something I talk about a lot, for the most part my own sexual preferences are usually only referred to in passing. Just as I don't consider myself to be my job, or the clothes I wear, I also am not who I choose to sleep with. The fact that I bat for both teams I find no more relevant than that I like to wear long sleeves under my t-shirts. Naturally, it is part of who I am and has shaped who I am and influenced my growing up, but again I don't give it that much thought. I understand for some people it can be difficult to understand, more so than if you just didn't find one sex or another attractive. I get asked how whoever I am dating is meant to know if I am feeling attracted to women or not on any one particular day -- but I like to think of it more simply as just being attracted to people. I don't get into relationships and some days think "I really don't fancy you today". Most of this is just preamble.

Occasionally I get to thinking that it might be an interesting idea to explore my personality and consider the idea of dating a guy. It's not something I've ever done, have had a few ill-advised trysts, and I've been friends with various guys, but haven't ever really sought to combine the two. I wouldn't want to go to a club or a bar to try and meet guys, any more than I would consider it a reliable way to meet girls. But I'd been thinking that it was possible I could meet guys with similar interests, but with a view to more than just friendship.

Perhaps out of curiosity more than anything, I tried placing an ad to meet guys. Considering previous ads to meet girls of various descriptions are usually treated with the contempt they deserve, I wasn't sure what would come of it -- but I thought I'd run it up the flagpole and see who salutes.

The ad itself was pretty straight to the point, bisexual, not interested in the gay scene, would rather play pool and go to a rock club, wants to meet hotties. Because who doesn't? And a disclaimer that I'd ignore the perverts. The response was quite surprising, it seems that guys are more willing to reply to ads -- I'm sure an ad with the same wording to meet girls would go unnoticed.

A lot of people were telling me they liked what I wrote -- though maybe it was just a line -- but it seemed to appeal. I think, however, that even when you are trying to meet people who don't consider their sexuality to be a defining characteristic if you are having to post a personal ad you automatically place yourself in a box, and anyone replying has to be reading the gay personals to begin with.

Of all the people that replied there were perhaps only two that actually sparked my curiosity. I felt a little bad about it, but I didn't reply to people who I either didn't find attractive or whose grasp of English was tentative -- this applying especially to people who think "txt spk" is appropriate outside of a text message. I did try responding to one or two people I wasn't interested in to begin with, to be polite, but decided it was kind of dumb.

But as I said, I was encouraged by two responses and figured if all I ever got out of it was to be good friends, it would be worthwhile. We exchanged emails for a while and they seemed to be looking for something similar. I'll never know exactly how similar or just how feasible any of this was going to be, since their interest lasted all of a couple of days.

I think I might have put one guy off with an inadvisable rant about why I don't really do the gay scene. He'd mentioned wanting to meet more people and maybe joining some clubs in London, like photography or whatever. I'd said what a good idea I thought it was, and suggested to him he even check out the First Time Club -- with whom I'd gone to the life drawing class back in December. Although I have more or less dropped out now, for various reasons. But I thought it might be good for him to join. He asked, are they gays? Because he didn't really like spending time with people who weren't. His choice of phrase made me laugh, it reminded me more of Little Britain or how older people refer to the gays -- but I think it was more because he is Polish. I told him that to be fair I had never asked anyone there about their sexual preference, it wasn't an issue to be discussed, but I expected there would probably be your normal mix.

I then went on to tell how when I was at university I though it would be good to spend time with the LGB -- but had instead found them more cliquey and exclusive than most straight people I knew. I was told things by gay people that nobody else would have dared -- I was told that I was really straight and trying to be fashionable, or that I was actually just gay and hadn't met the right man yet. I can't imagine getting out of there alive if I had tried telling that to the girl who said it to me -- oh, you just need to meet the right man. I recognise these were just small minded individuals, but just the same I don't identify with the scene or the community. He probably didn't agree. He also didn't seem over-enthusiastic I didn't live in London.

And that's kind of it -- I try to meet cute boys who share an interest in things like art, music and board sports. And for one reason or another, I fail to do so.
Although as an interesting post-script to the story, I replied to a girl's personal ad, and so far the two of us are getting along well.

Oh, and the title comes from the Screeching Weasel song of the same name. I might make them a Musical Monday subject sometime. Speaking of Musical Monday, all previous posts have been edited to try and ensure the relevant songs all work.

Musical Monday #16

My Musical Monday drop-down menu wasn't working so well -- so I took it apart and replaced it with a straight-forward link list. At the very least, it should encourage the lazier among you to have a butcher's. But yes, google inspired today's Musical Monday with this quote from the rock Iguana himself.

"Nihilism is best done by professionals." -- Iggy Pop

If anyone is wondering, no I didn't already do Iggy -- I made reference to him as the Godfather of Punk, but that was in the post about the Sex Pistols. Do pay attention.

The genius of Iggy Pop -- or perhaps more objectively the appeal -- to me of Iggy Pop is hard to define, as the best artists often are. Iggy Pop's commercial success has been very limited, I love the scene in Trainspotting where Diane calls him "Ziggy Pop". Mark corrects her and she says "Whatever. I mean, the guy's dead anyway." Frankly, I was surprised her character had even heard of Iggy Pop enough to get his name wrong -- a lot of people would have a hard time placing him. That is, until you start to mention songs like The Passenger and Lust for Life.

Iggy Pop's Raw Power is an incredible album. It exists when it was "Iggy and The Stooges", the strange time of his career after he was more than just The Stooges, but before his prolific solo career. Iggy was reportedly never very happy with the mixing of the original version of the album, too melodic for his liking perhaps -- and decades later a remastered version emerged, after a compromise was found between what came first, and Iggy's own idea of editing which involved demanding to know why certain dials weren't in the red. Raw Power describes itself in those two words alone.

Lester Bangs wrote of Iggy Pop with such admiration and passion, when his peers were criticising the basic music of The Stooges. They'd say, but anyone could do that. Lester Bangs comeback always seemed to be but anyone isn't -- he is. If you think anyone can do it -- and they probably can -- have a go yourself, Iggy Pop was the one up there with the courage to do it. That kind of attitude is what carried the Clash, The Ramones, the Sex Pistols into their own careers and to change the face of music.

But behind the energy and the passion, behind the manic dancing and the cutting himself on stage with beer bottles, there is another side to Iggy Pop and to The Stooges, particularly. The nihilism of songs like No Fun and I Wanna Be Your Dog have a lot in common with Lou Reed's music, and in turn with the heroin.
But Iggy Pop isn't dead at all, and I'll leave my own nihilism to the professionals like him.