The late 90s weren't the most social years for me. I was an anxious, insecure, depressed agoraphobe. Aside from the first, and highly anticipated, tours to Australia of the Manic Street Preachers and Suede in January and October of 1999 respectfully, I very rarely left my bedroom. As human contact was a far too difficult occurrence for me I decided to interact socially the modern way; on the internet. Kids these day may scoff at the idea of an internet without Myspace or Facebook, but back when I was a youngster if you wanted to meet people who shared your interests you used a chatroom. Being the committed anglophile I was in my teens, the first chatroom I became a regular in was on the NME website. The chatroom catered for a broad range of people, and initially this suited me fine (a few months later I would relocate to the chatroom on the Archives Of Pain Manic Street Preachers fansite, as I desired a more focused group to interact with). The best thing about the chatroom environment was that whereas in reality I had no social skills whatsoever and had no hope of making friends at all, in the chatroom, with my encyclopedic knowledge of alternative music and my rapier wit, I was able to become a competent and cool dude.
After a few weeks of interacting on the NME chatroom I began exchanging private messages (or "PMs" as they are know in chatroom and message boards across the web) with a girl whose screen name was mydarkstar, named after the B-side to Suede's Stay Together single. As well as being a Suede fan this girl was also an Australian, a combination that I was unaware existed (aside from myself) up until this time. Her name was Megan and she lived in Brisbane. Our interaction progressed rapidly from PMs to daily emails and frequent telephone conversations. We would send each other parcels in the post; books and photographs, drawings and poetry. We had formed a genuine connection. An unmistakable bond. It was fate. We stated that as soon as we had the opportunity to meet in person we would never be separated. This, however, was going to be a while. Megan had plans to move to London in September of 1999. She had already got her visa and paid for her flight. She invited me to join her. I told her I would love to, but with no money and lacking the ability to make money, I was unable to commit to a time-frame.
At the Manic Street Preachers show of January 1999 I had met a young lady called Katey. She was from Perth and had traveled to Melbourne for both the Manics show and the Big Day Out which was on the following day. We kept in touch via the internet and telephone over the next few months and when the Suede tour was announced she decided to come back over to Melbourne for the show. Accompanying her that October was her friend Nat. Although the doors didn't open at The Forum until 8pm, the three of met outside the venue at 12pm and spent the next 8 hours making sure that we would be the first in the queue. Megan had informed me several days before that her friend and editor of the Pornographic and Tragic Suede fanzine, Katrina Schwartz, would be coming down from Sydney for the show and that I should attempt to meet up with her. She passed along her email address and so I sent Katrina a message informing her that I was a friend of Megan's, that I would be camped outside the venue early on the day of the show and that she was more than welcome to approach me and say hello. I provided a detailed description of myself in order to aide her in locating me. In the middle of the afternoon a brown haired girl, a few years my senior, approached the impenetrable fortress fandom Katey, Nat and myself had formed on The Forum's step and inquired whether I was Grant. I replied in the affirmative and Katrina and her friend Bettina were permitted to join our cross-legged circle of overt-enthusiasm.
It was during this afternoon outside The Forum that I felt something that I hadn't felt in many years, possibly even ever. A sense of belonging. I actually had friends! And they were female friends as well. The best kind! Somehow I had managed to pull this off and quite surprisingly it didn't seem particularly difficult. Here I was, at a social event, with four pretty girls who all had similar interests to myself. It was quite astonishing. The only problem was that at the end of the weekend they would return to Perth and Sydney where they would transform from actual real-life people into merely text on a screen.
Megan and I continued our relationship after she moved in London. She would send me letters and encouragement and I sent her my favourite black woolen v-neck jumper when she complained she was cold. Without having anyone for companionship in Melbourne, and having become accustomed to the frequent contact Megan and I had whilst she was in Australia, I became increasingly eager to communicate with her. As well as emailing every day (sometimes twice), I began calling her in London several times a week. Although I realised that hour-long international phone calls would be expensive, I was hoping somehow they would be overlooked on my parents' phone-bill. Unfortunately they were not and over a three month period I had racked up around $500 worth of calls. Having no money to pay my parents back with, I was informed by them that I would have to pay the money back once I started working. Although they were rather displeased with me, they also seemed reasonably sympathetic.
Luckily by the beginning of 2000 I had managed to set aside enough of my anxiety and gain enough confidence to enter into the workforce. My Mum, through her position as secretary of the Florence Nightingale War Nurses Trust, had dealings with one of the partners at a medium sized accountancy firm in the city. My Mum had actually worked at this company when she first moved to Melbourne from Rockhampton in Queensland in the late 60s. She had known this man since then and used her influence with him to secure me a job in the company's mailroom. I was a man with a job and a fortnightly payment made into my bank account. I had a debt to pay off, a plane ticket to save for and a $5000 sum to acquire for visa regulations, but as I had nothing else to spend my money on (with the exception of music), I didn't envisage it would be too difficult to meet these obligations. I was happy, I was finally on the path to true happiness.
As the months of the year 2000 went by communication from Megan became increasingly irregular. From every day to every second day to once a week by August and September. Not only were her emails becoming less frequent, but they were also becoming less affectionate. Although I should have probably realised this was inevitable I was in denial. These were the days before mass-storage email accounts and so I had been printing out all of her emails and keeping them in a shoebox under my bed. I was so positive about our relationship that I'd convinced myself that once I informed her that I was coming she would begin to enthuse about me again. Of course she would, we were destined to be together! By October I told her that I would have enough money by January and I would be booking my flight for then.
In December tickets had gone on sale for a Manic Street Preachers show at the Brixton Academy in March. Rather than purchase tickets and have them sent all the way back to Australia, I asked Megan whether I could purchase the tickets online and have them sent to her address. I would buy tickets for both of us. It would be a splendid outing for a romantic couple to enjoy together. Megan told me that there was no problem in me having the tickets sent to her place and that she would hold on to them until I arrived.
Two weeks before I left Melbourne, with everything booked, Megan informed me that she no longer wanted me to come to London and that if I was still coming I wouldn't be able to stay with her. She didn't provide any reason for this other than she "just didn't want it". The more I attempted to get her to elaborate the less forthcoming she became. I was distraught. Not only had the girl I'd believed to be the love of my life told me she "didn't want" me, but I had also lost the only real connection I had to London, and the place I had thought I would be able to stay as I moved out of my parents house for the first time. My cousin Lucy lived in London, but she would be out of the country until April, and the only other person I knew was a friend of my sister's. I would have to stay in a hostel until I found myself a place to live. For some unknown reason I still hadn't given up hope that the situation could be rectified. I packed my shoebox full of her emails, as well as the other objects she had sent to me. There wasn't much room left in my luggage for other items, but I viewed these as the most essential.
After arriving in London I made several efforts to speak to Megan. She would agree to meet with me, but do so surrounded by groups of her friends and proceed to ignore any attempts I tried to speak with her. Each time I would see her or speak to her she would become increasingly hostile. Not only did she want nothing to do with me, but she was now claiming that I would not be getting my Manic Street Preachers tickets either. She stated that as I had sent them to her address they were rightfully hers. This was one step too far on her behalf. Having been an obsessive of the band since my early teens, no-one was going to stand in my way of seeing them perform live. Regardless of how rubbish they'd become over the last few years. This was the trigger that finally pushed me into standing up for myself. So I decided to do what felt was the correct thing to do after someone had effectively stolen my property. I informed the police.
I went into the Albany Street Police Station, just up from Great Portland Street Tube. I spoke to the officer on the front desk and informed him of the situation. I explained in detail what had occurred, and could prove with my credit card details that I was the purchaser of the tickets. I also thought it would be a good opportunity to get my jumper back as well. It was the middle of winter in the UK and I was severely under-clothed. So I also told him that along with the concert tickets, Megan also had a jumper of my that I would like returned. The policeman listen intently to my story and then asked for Megan's number. He called her and left a voicemail explaining who he was and suggesting that it would be wise of her to return my property to me with a minimum of fuss.
The next day I received a text from Megan. It simply read: Come to Stay Beautiful on Wednesday for tix and jumper". Stay Beautiful (named after the first single from the Manic Street Preachers' Generation Terrorists album) is a club run by music journalist, professional fuckwit and statutory rapist Simon Price. At the time the club was in a downstairs bar on Inverness Street in Camden, just a few doors down from Britpop's spiritual home, The Good Mixer. Megan, knowing my utter disdain for the man, was keen to get me into his club as a way of neutralising the victory she thought I might feel in regaining my property. I went along, reclaimed what was mine and left immediately hoping to never see her again. However, with the tickets and jumper firmly in my possession I decided to write her a colourfully worded email informing her exactly what I thought of her behaviour. Pressing the send button felt good.
Several months before I moved to London, Nat had moved to Edinburgh. Having a penchant for red-head and Scottish accents it seemed like the perfect place for her to be. Come March 2001 she had fled Edinburgh and was living with me in my cramped and ridiculously expensive bedsit in London's inner-west. Luckily, Nat's arrival coincided with the Manic Street Preachers show at the Brixton Academy. Rather than have to try and sell my spare ticket to a scalper for a fiver and stand by myself attempting not to look awkward, I was able to take a friend along to the show and have a much more comfortable evening. It was decided during the period Nat was staying that I should purge myself of Megan by ripping up and throwing away all her emails that I had transported to London in a shoe box. The process was reasonably enjoyable, but also somewhat sad. Being completely unaccustomed to deal with affairs of the heart, I found the experience a little difficult, although with hindsight I can't claim to be unique in this regard, but at the time it felt like a pain only I could understand. Although I had destroyed all of Megan's emails, I had thought it unethical to rip up the books and photographs that she had sent me and so I place them in an envelope in order to send back to her. I had Nat write Megan's address on the outside of the parcel just in case she recognised my hand-writing and decided to throw the package out.
In July Radiohead held a gig in the South Park in Oxford. Other local favourites Supergrass were playing, as well as Thom Yorke's Band Of The Month™, Sigur Rós. With Nat leaving by April and having not made any other friends in London I decided to go alone. I caught the train up to Oxford in the morning and after disembarking was informed by a placard inside station that after 6pm that evening there would be track repairs taking place on the lines between Oxford and London and that a replacement bus service would run instead. This didn't seem like too much of an issue to me and I instead turned my attention to locating the South Park. A map off the town on the station wall provided me with all the information I required, the park was only about 15-20 minute walk away and the road that the train station was situated on led to the park in a reasonably direct way. To be honest, far from merely being a Radiohead show, the day was more like a festival. A festival to honour Radiohead. Several local bands played throughout the day before Sigur Rós and then Supergrass took to the stage in the late afternoon. Having got to the park early I was about to position myself close to the front of the stage in anticipation for the reason we were all here. In order to maintain my position it meant forgoing any food or beverages throughout the day, but I was fairly comfortable with this proposition.
Backing in 1997 I had gone to see both the shows Radiohead performed at Festival Hall in Melbourne. The shows were held on two consecutive 40 degree days. The temperature outside coupled with Festival Hall's distinct lack of ventilation, not mention the combined body heat of several thousand alternative music fans, made the shows difficult to enjoy. I was hoping that the show in Oxford would not have its comfortability dictated to by the weather. Unfortunately this was not going to be the case and halfway through the show, during an especially powerful version of Idioteque, Thom Yorke's whining falsetto and twitching dance moves caused the heavens to open and God to cry, in admiration, a deluge of tears down on the park.
As the performance ended and everyone began to leave most of the crowd seemed to be heading right out of park, I assumed that the majority of people would be heading back to London and so decided that was the direction I should be walking. After walking about forty five and becoming increasingly drenched, I still hasn't come across anywhere that looked familiar from the morning. I decided to ask someone. I assumed that the rail replacement buses would leave from the Oxford bus station, and so I inquired of someone walking near me how I would get there "It's back that way mate", pointing in the direction I had just come from, "Just keep walking back the way you've come". Annoyed, but at least consoled by the fact things couldn't possibly get worse, I finally arrived, I stood in line with all the other rain-soaked Radiohead fans and waited my turn in order to board a bus. After reaching the front of the queue I was informed that the ticket I had was not valid on these buses, and that it was only valid on the rail replacement buses and these buses were leaving from the train station. I ran down to the train station only to be informed that I had just missed the last of the rail replacement buses. I would have to go back to the bus station and attempt to get on one of the buses there. A bus I would have to pay for.
Upon returning to the bus station in order to have to line up once more, I was suddenly grabbed out of nowhere by someone. As this person pushed and pulled me back and forth and shouted obscenities at me I gained enough composure to realise that it was Megan. She had taken offence at the email I had sent her several months ago and was letting me know of her dissatisfaction. As I attempt to struggle free from her grip her arm was pushed upwards and one of her long fingernails scratched the tender skin just underneath my eyeball. My pained squeal of "FUCK!" seemed to provide her with her desired satisfaction and she walked off leaving me to tend to the blood dripping down my right cheek.
After finally being able to get on a bus, begrudging £10 lighter, I arrived back at Victoria just after 2am. I walked up from the bus station to the train station but there were obviously no trains running at that time. The week before, in order to get out of my lease, I had told the landlord of my Earl's Court bedsit that my mother was sick and I had to return to Melbourne. Since then I had been sleeping on my cousin's floor in Clapham Junction. Not knowing which bus I need to catch in order to get to Clapham Junction, I decided to just wait for the trains to start running at 5am. Still damp and cold I went and bought a copy of The Observer from a off-license on Buckingham Palace Road. I then found myself a seat in what I considered to be the warmest part of the station and read as much of the paper as my tired eyes would allow. Catching the first train out of Victoria in the morning, I made it to Lucy's place by 5.30am only realise that I didn't have a key. I had expected to be arrive back not too late into the previous night and didn't think I would require one. As this didn't turn out to be the case, and not wanting to disturb anyone, I decided it was best to just curl up on the doorstep until a reasonable hour to ring the door-bell. My clothes were now fairly dry, but the scratch under my eye was still stinging. I was looking forward to a shower and a sleep.
In the drawers where I keep all my miscellaneous objects I still have the package containing the books and photographs Megan sent me. I never sent it back to her and I have kept it with me for the last 7 years. I don't know why I have held onto it. I no longer having any feelings towards Megan either positive or negative. I have no desire to talk to her and I rarely even think about her. But for some reason I can't seem to part with that package. Maybe the books symbolise part of the process which enabled me to begin my life. Although Megan caused me trouble, the consequences of my contact with her were ultimately positive. I may have never gotten out of my bedroom in my parents' house if it wasn't for her. And for that, I guess she played a significant role in improving my life.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Long Distance Call
I think Africa is calling me. I've never had a calling before. Well, if I have I've never listened. I have a raison d'être, but I believe there is a distinction between the two. To me, a calling concerns an aspect of life, it doesn't have a permanence, whereas a raison d'être is more of an over-arching theme of one's existence. Africa seems to be telling me something at the moment. It has developed an omnipresence in my life the past few days. This fascinating and mysterious continent will not let me be. I think it is taunting me, or possibly just beaconing me. Either way, whether its intentions are sinister or not, Africa wants me. It wants me bad.
Last night after somehow being compelled to spend a considerable amount of time researching the history of Dutch settlement in southern Africa, I retired to my bed in hope of some much needed sleep. However, this hope was fairly optimistic of me. You see, as I was devouring various related pages of the Wikipeida from Voortrekkers to Basters, I was also illegally downloading the debut album from New York's Afrobeat-Post-Punk-Popsters, Vampire Weekend. Whilst I was suspicious of both the hype and especially the premise of the band, I was persuaded by the positive review in Pitchfork to at least investigate them. Being someone of an inquisitive nature I decided that it was necessary for me to at the very least spend some time attempting to understand their art. What I wasn't expecting from this investigation was it to morph into adoration. However that is exactly what happened. I put the album on to listen to as I fell asleep, however after the first couple of songs any tiredness that I may have felt had been dispersed. The music was fantastic and left me feeling quite excited. I decided I needed to listen to the rest of the album with headphones on. What makes Vampire Weekend's style acceptable is that the music is just as much Glasgow as it is Ghana. This and the fact that their lyrics make no reference to Africa whatsoever makes you realise that these are indie-kids who have happened to stumble across a few West African and South African pop records, and not some arsehole hippies trying to connect themselves spiritually to the mystique of the continent. The band makes one concede that it is possible to appreciate African music as a westerner without being either patronising or a fucking wanker.
Realising that I wasn't going to be sleeping for a while I decided that I required something to eat. I ventured to the kitchen to reheat a bowl of my own secret recipe special fried rice that I had made earlier in the evening. After microwaving the contents of the bowl to a sufficient temperature for consumption I sat myself down on the couch and activated the television with its remote controlling device. As the pixels formed a coherent picture my eyes saw before them the unmistakable savanna of an African nation. I quickly flicked through the television guide to the appropriate page and discovered that the film being broadcast was titled I Dreamed Of Africa. The story was based on the autobiography of an Italian writer who had moved to Kenya. Kim Basinger, with her unmistakable Mediterranean complexion, was the obvious choice for the lead role. In the film she sends her son to a school for the remnants of Britain's colonial exploits in East Africa. As I had been researching Dutch settlement in southern Africa earlier in the evening, the portrayal of lesser known Caucasian communities in Africa fascinated me. Immediately my mind drifted back to the December of 2006. I had found myself at a party in the Winsor Hotel on Spring Street. It's not usually the sort of establishment that I would find myself in, however, I was there regardless. At the party I met a white girl from Zambia. I had no idea that there was a white population of any significance in Zambia but she informed me that there was. I was more than a little intrigued. I began to bombard her with questions related to her lifestyle. After I no doubt said something she found offensive, she insisted to me that white Zambians were nothing like the stereotypes of whites in South Africa and Zimbabwe. Of course I was well aware that not all of those descendant from European settlement in Africa were similar to how they are portrayed in cheap characterisations. In fact one of my very good friends is a Namibian of German ancestry and both he and his South African wife are delightful people. That said, I am nothing if not a trouble maker, and as a result the protests of my new Zambian acquaintance were met with mocking suspicion.
As I returned to my bed to once again attempt to sleep, my mind began racing with thoughts of some the things I find inticing about Africa: Ethiopian food, Somaliland's declaration of independence from Somalia, Hashim Amla's beard, Jan-Berrie Burger's 85 against England in the 2003 cricket World Cup, Harkeem Olajuwon, Henry Olonga's singing career, the Republic of Congo and the Democratic Republic of Congo, N!xau and 11 year-old Moroccan boys. If I was being led to Africa there was always going to be ample points of interest for me, but what plan the continent had for me I was still unsure. Am I destined to write about Kenyan cricket? Or the return of the Indian community to Uganda after their expulsion by Idi Amin? Am I meant to become an aid worker in the Sudan, or sew my wild oats on a two month drug-fueled sex tour from Cairo to Johannesburg? As much as I have pondered these questions the answers still avoid me. So I have decided to wait. I'll sit in my room and wait for Africa to send me an unambiguous sign. A letter in the post with a detailed point-form outline would be the most preferable form for this communication, but failing this I will also consider dreams, visions and cloud formations.
Last night after somehow being compelled to spend a considerable amount of time researching the history of Dutch settlement in southern Africa, I retired to my bed in hope of some much needed sleep. However, this hope was fairly optimistic of me. You see, as I was devouring various related pages of the Wikipeida from Voortrekkers to Basters, I was also illegally downloading the debut album from New York's Afrobeat-Post-Punk-Popsters, Vampire Weekend. Whilst I was suspicious of both the hype and especially the premise of the band, I was persuaded by the positive review in Pitchfork to at least investigate them. Being someone of an inquisitive nature I decided that it was necessary for me to at the very least spend some time attempting to understand their art. What I wasn't expecting from this investigation was it to morph into adoration. However that is exactly what happened. I put the album on to listen to as I fell asleep, however after the first couple of songs any tiredness that I may have felt had been dispersed. The music was fantastic and left me feeling quite excited. I decided I needed to listen to the rest of the album with headphones on. What makes Vampire Weekend's style acceptable is that the music is just as much Glasgow as it is Ghana. This and the fact that their lyrics make no reference to Africa whatsoever makes you realise that these are indie-kids who have happened to stumble across a few West African and South African pop records, and not some arsehole hippies trying to connect themselves spiritually to the mystique of the continent. The band makes one concede that it is possible to appreciate African music as a westerner without being either patronising or a fucking wanker.
Realising that I wasn't going to be sleeping for a while I decided that I required something to eat. I ventured to the kitchen to reheat a bowl of my own secret recipe special fried rice that I had made earlier in the evening. After microwaving the contents of the bowl to a sufficient temperature for consumption I sat myself down on the couch and activated the television with its remote controlling device. As the pixels formed a coherent picture my eyes saw before them the unmistakable savanna of an African nation. I quickly flicked through the television guide to the appropriate page and discovered that the film being broadcast was titled I Dreamed Of Africa. The story was based on the autobiography of an Italian writer who had moved to Kenya. Kim Basinger, with her unmistakable Mediterranean complexion, was the obvious choice for the lead role. In the film she sends her son to a school for the remnants of Britain's colonial exploits in East Africa. As I had been researching Dutch settlement in southern Africa earlier in the evening, the portrayal of lesser known Caucasian communities in Africa fascinated me. Immediately my mind drifted back to the December of 2006. I had found myself at a party in the Winsor Hotel on Spring Street. It's not usually the sort of establishment that I would find myself in, however, I was there regardless. At the party I met a white girl from Zambia. I had no idea that there was a white population of any significance in Zambia but she informed me that there was. I was more than a little intrigued. I began to bombard her with questions related to her lifestyle. After I no doubt said something she found offensive, she insisted to me that white Zambians were nothing like the stereotypes of whites in South Africa and Zimbabwe. Of course I was well aware that not all of those descendant from European settlement in Africa were similar to how they are portrayed in cheap characterisations. In fact one of my very good friends is a Namibian of German ancestry and both he and his South African wife are delightful people. That said, I am nothing if not a trouble maker, and as a result the protests of my new Zambian acquaintance were met with mocking suspicion.
As I returned to my bed to once again attempt to sleep, my mind began racing with thoughts of some the things I find inticing about Africa: Ethiopian food, Somaliland's declaration of independence from Somalia, Hashim Amla's beard, Jan-Berrie Burger's 85 against England in the 2003 cricket World Cup, Harkeem Olajuwon, Henry Olonga's singing career, the Republic of Congo and the Democratic Republic of Congo, N!xau and 11 year-old Moroccan boys. If I was being led to Africa there was always going to be ample points of interest for me, but what plan the continent had for me I was still unsure. Am I destined to write about Kenyan cricket? Or the return of the Indian community to Uganda after their expulsion by Idi Amin? Am I meant to become an aid worker in the Sudan, or sew my wild oats on a two month drug-fueled sex tour from Cairo to Johannesburg? As much as I have pondered these questions the answers still avoid me. So I have decided to wait. I'll sit in my room and wait for Africa to send me an unambiguous sign. A letter in the post with a detailed point-form outline would be the most preferable form for this communication, but failing this I will also consider dreams, visions and cloud formations.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Somnambulist Homesick Blues
Ever since my early teens I have slept holding a pillow to my chest. No matter whether I am sleeping on my right side or left side I require a pillow. As a result I become quite attached to the pillows I have in my life. They could be perceived more like a security blanket. Instruments of comfort in an otherwise uncomfortable existence.
There have been two pillows of note in my life most recently. I developed an especially intimate relationship with a pillow I bought in Montreal in August of 2006. This pillow was able to provide me with some much needed reassurance through a troubled period in my life. However, after accompanying me on a train trip across the United States, I had to abandon it in a Los Angeles hotel room as I didn't think I would be allowed on a plane with it. Fortunately for me I was able to be reunited with my long-term sleeping companion upon my return to Melbourne. As my days have become more and more lonesome, I have become more and more attached to this pillow. Not only do I sleep with it held close to me, but I frequently also remove it from my bed and transport it to the couch where I sit holding it in my arms as I watch a television program or a digital video disc.
Now one may think that if I was able to find someone willing to marry me that I could merely substitute the pillow for this person and sleep in the position that I understand is referred to as "spooning". However, I have become so accustomed to the proportions of my pillow that I fear that holding a woman close to my chest would be such an uncommon experience as to be disagreeable. Even if she was a petite woman, her body mass would still most likely be greater than a pillow. Unless of course she was a midget. A midget could be a similar size to a pillow. However, as I have ethical issues with weight and height discrepancy couples I feel it would be hypocritical of me to be engaged in such a relationship myself. Even if I met a wonderful midget whom I loved dearly and found sexually appealing, I would have to tell her that as much as I cared for her and as horny as she made me, that I thought it would more appropriate if we both found someone a little closer to our own dimensions.
This situation, of course, is most unfortunate for me because if I was able to find someone willing to marry me I would want to sleep right up next to her each and every night. I would want her to know that her person was so captivating to me that its proximity to my own person was essential to my relaxed state of being, that I wouldn't be able to rest easy unless that resting was conducted with her snuggly fitted inside my embrace. But in order to achieve this I would have to abandon my pillow, and this, I fear, is something that may have an adverse effect on my already poor sleeping habits.
There have been two pillows of note in my life most recently. I developed an especially intimate relationship with a pillow I bought in Montreal in August of 2006. This pillow was able to provide me with some much needed reassurance through a troubled period in my life. However, after accompanying me on a train trip across the United States, I had to abandon it in a Los Angeles hotel room as I didn't think I would be allowed on a plane with it. Fortunately for me I was able to be reunited with my long-term sleeping companion upon my return to Melbourne. As my days have become more and more lonesome, I have become more and more attached to this pillow. Not only do I sleep with it held close to me, but I frequently also remove it from my bed and transport it to the couch where I sit holding it in my arms as I watch a television program or a digital video disc.
Now one may think that if I was able to find someone willing to marry me that I could merely substitute the pillow for this person and sleep in the position that I understand is referred to as "spooning". However, I have become so accustomed to the proportions of my pillow that I fear that holding a woman close to my chest would be such an uncommon experience as to be disagreeable. Even if she was a petite woman, her body mass would still most likely be greater than a pillow. Unless of course she was a midget. A midget could be a similar size to a pillow. However, as I have ethical issues with weight and height discrepancy couples I feel it would be hypocritical of me to be engaged in such a relationship myself. Even if I met a wonderful midget whom I loved dearly and found sexually appealing, I would have to tell her that as much as I cared for her and as horny as she made me, that I thought it would more appropriate if we both found someone a little closer to our own dimensions.
This situation, of course, is most unfortunate for me because if I was able to find someone willing to marry me I would want to sleep right up next to her each and every night. I would want her to know that her person was so captivating to me that its proximity to my own person was essential to my relaxed state of being, that I wouldn't be able to rest easy unless that resting was conducted with her snuggly fitted inside my embrace. But in order to achieve this I would have to abandon my pillow, and this, I fear, is something that may have an adverse effect on my already poor sleeping habits.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Writing To Reach You
Hey B,
Thought I'd write to congratulate you on your victory in South Carolina. I knew you could do it, man. I have so much faith in you. That bitch is going to fold soon enough. Fold like a beginner's origami class, ie: badly. You'll sweep Super-Duper Tuesday. I'm sure of it. Sweep it like a drive-way in Autumn. As I told you in Las Vegas I'll be on a flight to India when the results are coming in. I might get the eastern states before I take off, but most definitely won't find out California until I land in Bombay. I'll give you a call as soon as I can. Just keep putting your message out there. The more people get to know you like I do the greater the chance of you winning the nomination. And then...well, let's not get too far ahead of ourselves. But you know what I'm talking about.
I've almost finished season 6 of The West Wing (just one season to go now!) and the Santos campaign is really starting to gain some momentum. I think there's some interesting parallels between yourself and Matt Santos. His commitment to education and healthcare being the obvious common points, but also the way both of you have a distaste for negative politics and a penchant for bi-partisan cooperation. Santos is also the first really serious Latino presidential contender, something pundits have also been saying about yourself in regards to your ethnicity. However, like Santos, you refuse to use this to try and manipulate sections of the community. Both your campaigns are about the content of your character, not the colour of your skin. I think I'll be quite sad once I finish season 7. Although, I've still got all the special features to watch. That should keep me placated for a little while longer. I think it's fair to say that The West Wing deluxe boxset has been a purchase of great wisdom.
There's some lonely times for me at the moment, B. Especially with Cath having gone away for a week. And with my insomnia I can't just escape it by going to sleep. I really want to meet some new people, you know? People I can connect with. I went out to a Crayon Fields gig on Friday night, but the crowd was just so young. After being with an experienced 36 year-old I don't know whether I could have it off with someone who was not as sexually mature. I don't know, maybe that's what I need though? Maybe I need to be in the driver's seat? Take control of the situation. Be on top. Maybe I could go a 21 year-old if she was French or something? I mean, French girls are around 2-3 years more mature than Australian girls, aren't they? You see, that's the great thing about this globalised world we now live in. It's not just about transnational companies decreasing diversity and exploiting third-world labour, it's also about the opportunity to have it off with girls from all over the world. I could get into it with a Namibian girl, or a girl from the Faroe Islands, have an exchange of cultures as well as fluids. It's definitely something to consider.
In other news, I've started a new musical project with Jens Lekman. Remember I burnt you the album of his a while back? The Swedish guy? Well, he lives in Melbourne now and we're going to be working on some stuff together. He's gone off on tour in Europe, but I've already started getting some ideas together. I've actually been working on a rap track, which should please you. You know how you always used to encourage me to try some rapping? You said that although I was a cracker on the outside I had a big black heart on the inside. So I'm starting to put some rhymes together for this new band with Jens. I'll send you some demos once we've got them down. I think it'll be something you'll really dig.
Anyway, I hope you are well (I'm sure you are after your recent victory). Keep fighting the good fight. Give my love to Michelle and the kids. I'll speak to you soon, big guy.
Love, G.
Thought I'd write to congratulate you on your victory in South Carolina. I knew you could do it, man. I have so much faith in you. That bitch is going to fold soon enough. Fold like a beginner's origami class, ie: badly. You'll sweep Super-Duper Tuesday. I'm sure of it. Sweep it like a drive-way in Autumn. As I told you in Las Vegas I'll be on a flight to India when the results are coming in. I might get the eastern states before I take off, but most definitely won't find out California until I land in Bombay. I'll give you a call as soon as I can. Just keep putting your message out there. The more people get to know you like I do the greater the chance of you winning the nomination. And then...well, let's not get too far ahead of ourselves. But you know what I'm talking about.
I've almost finished season 6 of The West Wing (just one season to go now!) and the Santos campaign is really starting to gain some momentum. I think there's some interesting parallels between yourself and Matt Santos. His commitment to education and healthcare being the obvious common points, but also the way both of you have a distaste for negative politics and a penchant for bi-partisan cooperation. Santos is also the first really serious Latino presidential contender, something pundits have also been saying about yourself in regards to your ethnicity. However, like Santos, you refuse to use this to try and manipulate sections of the community. Both your campaigns are about the content of your character, not the colour of your skin. I think I'll be quite sad once I finish season 7. Although, I've still got all the special features to watch. That should keep me placated for a little while longer. I think it's fair to say that The West Wing deluxe boxset has been a purchase of great wisdom.
There's some lonely times for me at the moment, B. Especially with Cath having gone away for a week. And with my insomnia I can't just escape it by going to sleep. I really want to meet some new people, you know? People I can connect with. I went out to a Crayon Fields gig on Friday night, but the crowd was just so young. After being with an experienced 36 year-old I don't know whether I could have it off with someone who was not as sexually mature. I don't know, maybe that's what I need though? Maybe I need to be in the driver's seat? Take control of the situation. Be on top. Maybe I could go a 21 year-old if she was French or something? I mean, French girls are around 2-3 years more mature than Australian girls, aren't they? You see, that's the great thing about this globalised world we now live in. It's not just about transnational companies decreasing diversity and exploiting third-world labour, it's also about the opportunity to have it off with girls from all over the world. I could get into it with a Namibian girl, or a girl from the Faroe Islands, have an exchange of cultures as well as fluids. It's definitely something to consider.
In other news, I've started a new musical project with Jens Lekman. Remember I burnt you the album of his a while back? The Swedish guy? Well, he lives in Melbourne now and we're going to be working on some stuff together. He's gone off on tour in Europe, but I've already started getting some ideas together. I've actually been working on a rap track, which should please you. You know how you always used to encourage me to try some rapping? You said that although I was a cracker on the outside I had a big black heart on the inside. So I'm starting to put some rhymes together for this new band with Jens. I'll send you some demos once we've got them down. I think it'll be something you'll really dig.
Anyway, I hope you are well (I'm sure you are after your recent victory). Keep fighting the good fight. Give my love to Michelle and the kids. I'll speak to you soon, big guy.
Love, G.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Lost In The Supermarket
$25 is the most I would ever spend at a supermarket. Anything more than that seems excessive. Decadent even. Most of the time I struggle to get anywhere near $25. I walk the aisles, looking at items on the shelves, none of it seems much good. If I have to buy cleaning products or similar household items, then I might get up around $25. But most of the time I don't see how it is possible to spend that much money. There just aren't any products of a higher cost that I deem it necessary for me to purchase.
I was 21 and a half when I first started feeding myself. Up until that point I had never spent a single cent in a supermarket. I moved out of my parents place in the south-eastern suburbs of Melbourne into a noisy bedsit in London's inner-west. There was a Tesco about ten minutes walk away on the Cromwell Road. This was the supermarket where I made my first solo shopping trip (I had been to a supermarket before, but only with my Mum). This lone voyage was also the only time I have ever used a trolley. When I walked in through the automatic sliding doors I immediately went over to where the trolleys were kept and acquire one for my usage. I had seen my Mum do this during the times I had gone to the supermarket with her, and so I perceived it to be a vital part of the process. At the time I wasn't even aware that there was the option of a basket. As I had just moved to a new country and into a new place of residence it was obvious that there would be some essential items that I required in order to get myself set-up. I carefully perused each of the aisles and placed the products I deemed necessary of purchase into the trolley. After completing my circuit of the supermarket floor, to my surprise I had only filled approximately one fifteenth of the trolley's capacity. This didn't seem quite right, my Mum had always had a full trolley by the time she had reached the check-out. So I went back through each of the aisles again, thinking that I must have got distracted and missed a few things. As I reached the end of this second circuit I had not added a single item to my trolley.
I became slightly worried about this. I felt a little self-conscious approaching the check-outs with such a sparely populated trolley. I presumed that I might get in trouble for wasting the supermarket's resources. However, as I took my place in the queue I thought that if there was going to be any trouble I would hopefully be able to talk my way out of it by pleading ignorance. As it became my turn to be served, I decided that the best way to save myself from the scorn of the lady at the check-out was to make a joke out of the situation. So as I placed my few items onto the conveyor belt I smiled and said "I think someone's been taking things from my trolley". The lady looked at me seriously and said "Do you want to report this to the management?". "Oh no, sorry." I replied, a little startled by her response, "I was just making a joke because I don't have very many items in my trolley." She smiled and said "Oh, ok...maybe you should have just got a basket then?" "Oh, I didn't know there was baskets." I responded in surprise, "This is my first time at the supermarket by myself". She looked a little bemused and changed the subject by informing me how much my purchases had come to. The total cost was just under £10. As this was a shopping trip for the establishment of my new residence the figure of £10 as the most I would ever need to spend at a supermarket became lodged in my brain.
Upon returning to Melbourne I realised that the figured of £10 was not going to work with the different currency that is used in Australia. So I calculated the exchange rate and came up with the sum $25 as maximum amount I deemed it acceptable to spend at the supermarket here. Realistically I should have adjusted for the lower cost of living in Melbourne compared to London and made it $20, however as I rarely get anywhere near that sum anyway I feel that's a bit of a moot point.
I was 21 and a half when I first started feeding myself. Up until that point I had never spent a single cent in a supermarket. I moved out of my parents place in the south-eastern suburbs of Melbourne into a noisy bedsit in London's inner-west. There was a Tesco about ten minutes walk away on the Cromwell Road. This was the supermarket where I made my first solo shopping trip (I had been to a supermarket before, but only with my Mum). This lone voyage was also the only time I have ever used a trolley. When I walked in through the automatic sliding doors I immediately went over to where the trolleys were kept and acquire one for my usage. I had seen my Mum do this during the times I had gone to the supermarket with her, and so I perceived it to be a vital part of the process. At the time I wasn't even aware that there was the option of a basket. As I had just moved to a new country and into a new place of residence it was obvious that there would be some essential items that I required in order to get myself set-up. I carefully perused each of the aisles and placed the products I deemed necessary of purchase into the trolley. After completing my circuit of the supermarket floor, to my surprise I had only filled approximately one fifteenth of the trolley's capacity. This didn't seem quite right, my Mum had always had a full trolley by the time she had reached the check-out. So I went back through each of the aisles again, thinking that I must have got distracted and missed a few things. As I reached the end of this second circuit I had not added a single item to my trolley.
I became slightly worried about this. I felt a little self-conscious approaching the check-outs with such a sparely populated trolley. I presumed that I might get in trouble for wasting the supermarket's resources. However, as I took my place in the queue I thought that if there was going to be any trouble I would hopefully be able to talk my way out of it by pleading ignorance. As it became my turn to be served, I decided that the best way to save myself from the scorn of the lady at the check-out was to make a joke out of the situation. So as I placed my few items onto the conveyor belt I smiled and said "I think someone's been taking things from my trolley". The lady looked at me seriously and said "Do you want to report this to the management?". "Oh no, sorry." I replied, a little startled by her response, "I was just making a joke because I don't have very many items in my trolley." She smiled and said "Oh, ok...maybe you should have just got a basket then?" "Oh, I didn't know there was baskets." I responded in surprise, "This is my first time at the supermarket by myself". She looked a little bemused and changed the subject by informing me how much my purchases had come to. The total cost was just under £10. As this was a shopping trip for the establishment of my new residence the figure of £10 as the most I would ever need to spend at a supermarket became lodged in my brain.
Upon returning to Melbourne I realised that the figured of £10 was not going to work with the different currency that is used in Australia. So I calculated the exchange rate and came up with the sum $25 as maximum amount I deemed it acceptable to spend at the supermarket here. Realistically I should have adjusted for the lower cost of living in Melbourne compared to London and made it $20, however as I rarely get anywhere near that sum anyway I feel that's a bit of a moot point.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Someone To Share My Songs With
Jens called this morning. He said he's going to Europe on Sunday for a tour. He said that he'd be back for a couple of weeks in March before heading off to the States. He suggested we hook up in March to flesh out some ideas for our new musical project. He's quite excited about the prospect, thinks that we'll be able to create something unique and interesting together. I'm excited as well, I think I'll be good for Jens. I think it will help him achieve some wider exposure in the market-place and improve his credibility on the street.
I come up with musical ideas all the time. I'll be on a tram or walking down the street and a melody or a lyrical idea will just come to me. Once I have an idea I have to work out which of my musical projects it would be best developed for. I think to myself: "will this idea best suit the experimental electronics and off-kilter rhythms of Faggot, or would it be more appropriate for the harmony drenched summertime pop of The Emergency Kisses?" Sometimes it is difficult to decide. Both my bands are like my children. I don't want to neglect either one of them. But sometimes it's hard to treat them equally. And now that I have a third musical project to think about the process becomes a little more complex. I have a third child now. I think I might have to display a bit more discipline towards each of them.
Today I've been working on a song that is completely different to anything I've ever done before. It's something that I think could work well in a musical partnership with Jens. It's a rap song in the Afro-American style. Well, it's a track actually. Those guys call them tracks. The track is called Ho-stess. It's a very personal account of my first sexual relationship and the unfortunate way it ended. It's just in the embryonic stage at the moment, but I've got a couple of rhymes laid down already:
She was a sexy older lady,
and I don't mean just maybe,
I said "yo, yo' looking fine"
She said "let's have sex all the time!"
But there was something wrong,
she didn't just only want my dong
She was sleeping with a pilot
and she didn't try to hide it!
I haven't written a specific part for Jens, but as it's an old school style rap track, I envisage that he will say the last word of each line at the same time I say it. Collaborating is something I'm really enthusiastic about. Bouncing ideas off one another, getting the creative juices flowing. By the time Jens returns from Europe I should have the whole track written and he'll be able to record his parts. I think this is great! I think this could really be something special. I think this is destined to be a long and fruitful musical relationship.
I come up with musical ideas all the time. I'll be on a tram or walking down the street and a melody or a lyrical idea will just come to me. Once I have an idea I have to work out which of my musical projects it would be best developed for. I think to myself: "will this idea best suit the experimental electronics and off-kilter rhythms of Faggot, or would it be more appropriate for the harmony drenched summertime pop of The Emergency Kisses?" Sometimes it is difficult to decide. Both my bands are like my children. I don't want to neglect either one of them. But sometimes it's hard to treat them equally. And now that I have a third musical project to think about the process becomes a little more complex. I have a third child now. I think I might have to display a bit more discipline towards each of them.
Today I've been working on a song that is completely different to anything I've ever done before. It's something that I think could work well in a musical partnership with Jens. It's a rap song in the Afro-American style. Well, it's a track actually. Those guys call them tracks. The track is called Ho-stess. It's a very personal account of my first sexual relationship and the unfortunate way it ended. It's just in the embryonic stage at the moment, but I've got a couple of rhymes laid down already:
She was a sexy older lady,
and I don't mean just maybe,
I said "yo, yo' looking fine"
She said "let's have sex all the time!"
But there was something wrong,
she didn't just only want my dong
She was sleeping with a pilot
and she didn't try to hide it!
I haven't written a specific part for Jens, but as it's an old school style rap track, I envisage that he will say the last word of each line at the same time I say it. Collaborating is something I'm really enthusiastic about. Bouncing ideas off one another, getting the creative juices flowing. By the time Jens returns from Europe I should have the whole track written and he'll be able to record his parts. I think this is great! I think this could really be something special. I think this is destined to be a long and fruitful musical relationship.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Celebrating Hearts Aligned
I used to like flying. Singapore Airlines was my carrier of choice. The hostesses were always so lovely and beautiful. Whenever I flew I would become enamoured. From a young age I would fantasise about having it off with one of them. A real sexy adult relationship. Then one day several months ago my fantasy became reality. I met a Singapore Airlines hostess on a tram in Melbourne. She was 36 years old. A little older then me, a little wiser as well. But we had a connection and immediately became lovers. However, after a few months of physical bliss I discovered she was having a sexual dalliance with one of the pilots she works with. I was devastated. She broke my heart in more places than I thought possible. This is why I no longer fly Singapore Airlines. The wounds are still raw. The thought of seeing the Singapore Airlines hostesses in their sexy uniforms, a uniform she used to wear to bed because she knew how much it excited me, would just be too difficult for my poor little heart to handle. So coming back from LA yesterday I flew Qantas. Qantas girls don't turn me on. They have nothing that makes me want to get hot and heavy. I knew that flying Qantas I wouldn't have to worry about anything awakening my desires. I wouldn't be reminded of her.
I was aware that I was going to have a busy day when I got back to Melbourne so I popped a roofie on the flight in order to sleep. I don't like using drugs to get to sleep. I fear becoming dependent, but sometimes it is essential. I arrived as refreshed as one can be from a long-haul flight and went directly home in order to dump my luggage and have a relaxing and much needed shower. I pride myself on my personal hygiene. I'm a very clean boy. The air in the aeroplane cabin makes my skin feel sticky. I can't stand it. A shower is the best remedy. I like to have one as soon as possible after stepping off a flight. I soap myself thoroughly and fastidiously scrub every nook and cranny. I feel much more as ease afterwards.
The reason I needed to be clean, aside from it being something everyone should be vigilant about, was that I was going to my good friend Jon's house in the afternoon. Jon and Alex have a band called ii. Their Last.fm profile describes their sound as guitar-based atmospherics, noise, instrumental pop and sound art. They have just recorded an album of their best songs and required some help with the constructing the final product. With the cds and the packaging being produced separately, it required some serious manpower to put them together. And as manpower is something that I have in abundance my services would be more than useful to them. I am always keen to help out fellow musicians. I especially like to assist those musicians that I feel an affinity with; bands with an ethos that has some correlation with my own. Like most musicians with an original vision, Jon and Alex subscribe to the do it yourself, or DIY, ethic. In order to be most connected to one's art one needs to be involved in as much of its production as possible. Having some record company bigwig putting their cds together for them is not their style. They feel it disassociates them from their music, and by extension, disassociates them from their fanbase. This is exactly how I feel in relation to my own music as well. Bigwigs from major record labels are always coming up to me and saying: "Hey Grant, we want to put out an album of your best songs. What do you say?", and I say to them: "If I wanted to put out an album of my best songs I would do it myself. Because that is the ethic I subscribe to." They don't understand. Why do something yourself when you can have someone else do it for you?, these bigwigs think to themselves. They don't understand the culture. They don't understand the pride we have in our work. They're just jealous cowards trying to control. They distort what we say and try to stop what we do, because they know they can't do it themselves. But we rise above.
After leaving Jon's place I headed to The Empress. Another Jon, Jon Ringhofer, aka Half-Handed Cloud, was playing a show there. Ringhofer was out in Australia as part of Sufjan Stevens' band and fortunately for me decided to play a show of his own in Melbourne. I stumbled across Half-Handed Cloud through the new Why? EP which contained one new song (The Hollows) and a series of remixes/covers by other artists. One of these artists was Half-Handed Cloud doing a medley of songs from Why?'s previous album Elephant Eyelash. I was immediately taken with him. He plays somewhat shambolic and rather twee lo-fi indie-pop. His lyrics are delivered in a squeaky falsetto and mostly concern his Christian faith. The supports for the evening were The Icypoles who were very entertaining and cute, and The Motifs who I had seen several weeks ago at the Edinburgh Castle and wasn't particularly impressed, but I was more than impressed last night. However, the highlight of the evening was undoubtedly Half-Handed Cloud. He set himself up on stage in a little instrument fort that contained a snare and tom, guitar, omnichord, banjo, a little keyboard, a trombone and a dictaphone and proceeded to play his songs in the most charmingly goofy manner, frequently swapping instruments, occasionally mid-song. It was a delightful spectacle.
After the performance I bumped into discerning Swedish songsmith and recently moved Melbourne resident, Jens Lekman, who had also been in attendance. I had seen him perform about a week and a half ago at The Toff and so I used the opportunity to inform him of just how much I enjoyed his show that evening. We talked about the gig we had both just witnessed, Jens' upcoming tours of Europe and the US and how he was settling in to his new home in Melbourne. Although we didn't discuss it directly I felt there was a definite prospect of some future musical collaboration between the two of us. He may have been a little to shy to ask me straight up, but as we talked I got the sense that it was something he was considering. Jens is also one to take a very hand-ons approach to his music, he has an ethos very close to my own and as a result he is someone who it would be very easy to form a partnership with. Although we didn't get to brainstorm this new musical project last night, I'm sure that we will bump into each other again around town soon enough and be able to formulate a few interesting ideas then.
I was aware that I was going to have a busy day when I got back to Melbourne so I popped a roofie on the flight in order to sleep. I don't like using drugs to get to sleep. I fear becoming dependent, but sometimes it is essential. I arrived as refreshed as one can be from a long-haul flight and went directly home in order to dump my luggage and have a relaxing and much needed shower. I pride myself on my personal hygiene. I'm a very clean boy. The air in the aeroplane cabin makes my skin feel sticky. I can't stand it. A shower is the best remedy. I like to have one as soon as possible after stepping off a flight. I soap myself thoroughly and fastidiously scrub every nook and cranny. I feel much more as ease afterwards.
The reason I needed to be clean, aside from it being something everyone should be vigilant about, was that I was going to my good friend Jon's house in the afternoon. Jon and Alex have a band called ii. Their Last.fm profile describes their sound as guitar-based atmospherics, noise, instrumental pop and sound art. They have just recorded an album of their best songs and required some help with the constructing the final product. With the cds and the packaging being produced separately, it required some serious manpower to put them together. And as manpower is something that I have in abundance my services would be more than useful to them. I am always keen to help out fellow musicians. I especially like to assist those musicians that I feel an affinity with; bands with an ethos that has some correlation with my own. Like most musicians with an original vision, Jon and Alex subscribe to the do it yourself, or DIY, ethic. In order to be most connected to one's art one needs to be involved in as much of its production as possible. Having some record company bigwig putting their cds together for them is not their style. They feel it disassociates them from their music, and by extension, disassociates them from their fanbase. This is exactly how I feel in relation to my own music as well. Bigwigs from major record labels are always coming up to me and saying: "Hey Grant, we want to put out an album of your best songs. What do you say?", and I say to them: "If I wanted to put out an album of my best songs I would do it myself. Because that is the ethic I subscribe to." They don't understand. Why do something yourself when you can have someone else do it for you?, these bigwigs think to themselves. They don't understand the culture. They don't understand the pride we have in our work. They're just jealous cowards trying to control. They distort what we say and try to stop what we do, because they know they can't do it themselves. But we rise above.
After leaving Jon's place I headed to The Empress. Another Jon, Jon Ringhofer, aka Half-Handed Cloud, was playing a show there. Ringhofer was out in Australia as part of Sufjan Stevens' band and fortunately for me decided to play a show of his own in Melbourne. I stumbled across Half-Handed Cloud through the new Why? EP which contained one new song (The Hollows) and a series of remixes/covers by other artists. One of these artists was Half-Handed Cloud doing a medley of songs from Why?'s previous album Elephant Eyelash. I was immediately taken with him. He plays somewhat shambolic and rather twee lo-fi indie-pop. His lyrics are delivered in a squeaky falsetto and mostly concern his Christian faith. The supports for the evening were The Icypoles who were very entertaining and cute, and The Motifs who I had seen several weeks ago at the Edinburgh Castle and wasn't particularly impressed, but I was more than impressed last night. However, the highlight of the evening was undoubtedly Half-Handed Cloud. He set himself up on stage in a little instrument fort that contained a snare and tom, guitar, omnichord, banjo, a little keyboard, a trombone and a dictaphone and proceeded to play his songs in the most charmingly goofy manner, frequently swapping instruments, occasionally mid-song. It was a delightful spectacle.
After the performance I bumped into discerning Swedish songsmith and recently moved Melbourne resident, Jens Lekman, who had also been in attendance. I had seen him perform about a week and a half ago at The Toff and so I used the opportunity to inform him of just how much I enjoyed his show that evening. We talked about the gig we had both just witnessed, Jens' upcoming tours of Europe and the US and how he was settling in to his new home in Melbourne. Although we didn't discuss it directly I felt there was a definite prospect of some future musical collaboration between the two of us. He may have been a little to shy to ask me straight up, but as we talked I got the sense that it was something he was considering. Jens is also one to take a very hand-ons approach to his music, he has an ethos very close to my own and as a result he is someone who it would be very easy to form a partnership with. Although we didn't get to brainstorm this new musical project last night, I'm sure that we will bump into each other again around town soon enough and be able to formulate a few interesting ideas then.
Monday, January 21, 2008
The Spirit Of Friendship
Last night (Saturday, Pacific Standard Time) after the results came in, I found Barack in the bar at the Las Vegas Tropicana, the hotel where we were both staying. He saw me enter and signaled to the barkeep for two more vodka and lemonades. He was on his third already. He smiled as I sat down next to him...
Barack Obama: At least I shat all over Edwards.
Grant Wyeth: Nevada was always going to be a tough state for you. You got 45% of the vote. That's nothing to be ashamed of. How are you feeling?
BO: I feel alright actually.
GW: I don't need to get my guitar out?
BO: Well, you know I'd love it if you did, but it's not essential anymore.
GW: I'm pleased that you're still upbeat. You need to get out on the court in South Carolina, show them your jump shot.
BO: Are you speaking metaphorically, because you know I don't buy the whole "Black-guy-needs-to-be-good-at-sport-to-earn-respect" thing.
GW: After Iowa you don't need to worry about having people's respect. But I'm serious about getting on the court, your nomination relies on the turnout of young people and any gimmick counts. If young people see you out on the court, Hilary's going to have to play some tenacious defence to deny you.
BO: I always felt I'd be able to run a clean campaign, you know. Nothing manipulative. I guess that was fairly naïve of me. I'll find a court in Charleston to shoot some hoops with some kids. It might be fun! I'm tired of all this talk of politics though, we haven't even caught up yet. How is that 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess you've been seeing?
GW: She broke me down. It was pretty harsh. She was having a sexual affair with a pilot...
BO: Pilots are fantastic lovers.
GW: I guess it was hard for her to resist. It hurt me bad though. I invested everything I had in that relationship. This is the adult world, isn't it?
BO: You went in too deep. To become involved with a 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess for your first sexual relationship was a fairly risky move. For anyone it's a risky move, but especially for someone as fragile as yourself. I don't want you to be too hard on yourself about this though. You did nothing wrong. I know you had a genuine affection for this woman...
GW: I loved her!
BO:...but you can't let this dampen your spirit. You're in the game now. You're a man. You've crossed the line. I don't want you to give up. This will make you stronger.
GW: I know eventually I'll be better off, but it just hurts so bad at the moment. I don't know how she could have done this to me.
BO: You need to find someone who loves you for who you are. Someone who understands your sensitivities. Someone who will realise what a beautiful flower you are. I know everyone wants a sweet piece of ass, and Singapore Airlines hostesses have some of the sweetest ass around, but you're the type of guy that needs to put the needs of your heart above the needs of your cock.
GW: I know, I know, you're right. I just wanted to have it off with someone who was a real treat. I wanted to explore my sexuality with someone who had sensational body, and with someone who knew what to do with that body.
BO: There's nothing that will prevent you from exploring your sexuality with someone with sensational body in the future, but you have to make sure that their heart and soul are in the right place as well, not just their breasts and ass.
GW: You always know the right thing to say, B. You always know how to make me feel good about myself.
BO: It's the least I can do for the joy that your music brings to me. But besides that, I care about you, man. You're one of my closest friends. I mean, I needed you yesterday and you didn't hesitate to jump on a plane across the Pacific for me. You're here for me and I'm here for you. We love each other.
GW: That we do.
BO: Now you haven't been hitting any tables while you've been here have you?
GW: No, I've been fine.
BO: You promise? I thought it was a bit wrong of me inviting you here, I thought it's the worst place in the world for you to be if you were going to relapse, but I took the risk. I had faith in you.
GW: I can't say I haven't thought about it while I've been here. Hearing the the sound of the roulette wheel spinning when I was checking into my room made me sweat a little, but I resisted. We both remember how fucked up I was when I use to gamble. I don't want to go back to that.
BO: No-one wants you to go back to that. You were in a bad place and it hurt everyone who loves you. I never want to see that again. You know, if you ever feel the urge I'm available to talk.
GW: I know, man. I know I can always come to you. If the desire to gamble ever takes control of me again you'll be the first person I call.
BO: I'm pleased. Now, do you need to get back to Melbourne? I don't want to keep you here if you've got concerns to deal with back home.
GW: I want to make sure you don't need me before I leave. I need you to tell me that truth.
BO: I think I'll be fine. You've done wonders for me. If I need you I can always call, or you can play me a song over Skype. I like to watch you perform as well as listen, you really put on a show.
GW: I always dig a little deeper for you.
BO: So we'll keep in touch throughout the primaries, I know you're going to India at the start of February...
GW: The day after Super-Duper Tuesday, but with the time difference I think I'll be in the air when it's all going down. I won't find out the results until I land in Bombay. I'll be nervous the whole flight.
BO: Well I'll hear from you when I hear from you then.
GW: I'll make sure I'm on the phone as soon as possible. I'm sure it'll be fine though, you'll sweep all 22 states!
BO: That might be a bit optimistic, but I like the way you think. Now, I've got to get some sleep, I'm on the first flight out to South Carolina in the morning.
GW: Yeah, I better get some sleep as well, I'm going to get the early flight to LA. We probably won't see each other in the morning so we should say our goodbyes here.
BO: Thanks for coming out, man. You don't know how much I appreciate it.
GW: Anything for you, man. Anything. I'll be back for the presidential campaign once you win the nomination. But we'll be in touch by phone and email before then.
BO: You're the best. See you soon.
GW: Sleep well, good luck in South Carolina. Remember to show off on the court. The camera will love it.
And with that we retired to our respective rooms. The thought of leaving Barack in the morning made me shed a tear, but he promised me he'd be alright without me and I believe him. He knows Nevada was a tough state and that things will be a little easier for him from here. I wanted to stay awake and catch up on the news, but I was still a bit jet-lagged from the flight. The news would just have to wait until the morning.
Barack Obama: At least I shat all over Edwards.
Grant Wyeth: Nevada was always going to be a tough state for you. You got 45% of the vote. That's nothing to be ashamed of. How are you feeling?
BO: I feel alright actually.
GW: I don't need to get my guitar out?
BO: Well, you know I'd love it if you did, but it's not essential anymore.
GW: I'm pleased that you're still upbeat. You need to get out on the court in South Carolina, show them your jump shot.
BO: Are you speaking metaphorically, because you know I don't buy the whole "Black-guy-needs-to-be-good-at-sport-to-earn-respect" thing.
GW: After Iowa you don't need to worry about having people's respect. But I'm serious about getting on the court, your nomination relies on the turnout of young people and any gimmick counts. If young people see you out on the court, Hilary's going to have to play some tenacious defence to deny you.
BO: I always felt I'd be able to run a clean campaign, you know. Nothing manipulative. I guess that was fairly naïve of me. I'll find a court in Charleston to shoot some hoops with some kids. It might be fun! I'm tired of all this talk of politics though, we haven't even caught up yet. How is that 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess you've been seeing?
GW: She broke me down. It was pretty harsh. She was having a sexual affair with a pilot...
BO: Pilots are fantastic lovers.
GW: I guess it was hard for her to resist. It hurt me bad though. I invested everything I had in that relationship. This is the adult world, isn't it?
BO: You went in too deep. To become involved with a 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess for your first sexual relationship was a fairly risky move. For anyone it's a risky move, but especially for someone as fragile as yourself. I don't want you to be too hard on yourself about this though. You did nothing wrong. I know you had a genuine affection for this woman...
GW: I loved her!
BO:...but you can't let this dampen your spirit. You're in the game now. You're a man. You've crossed the line. I don't want you to give up. This will make you stronger.
GW: I know eventually I'll be better off, but it just hurts so bad at the moment. I don't know how she could have done this to me.
BO: You need to find someone who loves you for who you are. Someone who understands your sensitivities. Someone who will realise what a beautiful flower you are. I know everyone wants a sweet piece of ass, and Singapore Airlines hostesses have some of the sweetest ass around, but you're the type of guy that needs to put the needs of your heart above the needs of your cock.
GW: I know, I know, you're right. I just wanted to have it off with someone who was a real treat. I wanted to explore my sexuality with someone who had sensational body, and with someone who knew what to do with that body.
BO: There's nothing that will prevent you from exploring your sexuality with someone with sensational body in the future, but you have to make sure that their heart and soul are in the right place as well, not just their breasts and ass.
GW: You always know the right thing to say, B. You always know how to make me feel good about myself.
BO: It's the least I can do for the joy that your music brings to me. But besides that, I care about you, man. You're one of my closest friends. I mean, I needed you yesterday and you didn't hesitate to jump on a plane across the Pacific for me. You're here for me and I'm here for you. We love each other.
GW: That we do.
BO: Now you haven't been hitting any tables while you've been here have you?
GW: No, I've been fine.
BO: You promise? I thought it was a bit wrong of me inviting you here, I thought it's the worst place in the world for you to be if you were going to relapse, but I took the risk. I had faith in you.
GW: I can't say I haven't thought about it while I've been here. Hearing the the sound of the roulette wheel spinning when I was checking into my room made me sweat a little, but I resisted. We both remember how fucked up I was when I use to gamble. I don't want to go back to that.
BO: No-one wants you to go back to that. You were in a bad place and it hurt everyone who loves you. I never want to see that again. You know, if you ever feel the urge I'm available to talk.
GW: I know, man. I know I can always come to you. If the desire to gamble ever takes control of me again you'll be the first person I call.
BO: I'm pleased. Now, do you need to get back to Melbourne? I don't want to keep you here if you've got concerns to deal with back home.
GW: I want to make sure you don't need me before I leave. I need you to tell me that truth.
BO: I think I'll be fine. You've done wonders for me. If I need you I can always call, or you can play me a song over Skype. I like to watch you perform as well as listen, you really put on a show.
GW: I always dig a little deeper for you.
BO: So we'll keep in touch throughout the primaries, I know you're going to India at the start of February...
GW: The day after Super-Duper Tuesday, but with the time difference I think I'll be in the air when it's all going down. I won't find out the results until I land in Bombay. I'll be nervous the whole flight.
BO: Well I'll hear from you when I hear from you then.
GW: I'll make sure I'm on the phone as soon as possible. I'm sure it'll be fine though, you'll sweep all 22 states!
BO: That might be a bit optimistic, but I like the way you think. Now, I've got to get some sleep, I'm on the first flight out to South Carolina in the morning.
GW: Yeah, I better get some sleep as well, I'm going to get the early flight to LA. We probably won't see each other in the morning so we should say our goodbyes here.
BO: Thanks for coming out, man. You don't know how much I appreciate it.
GW: Anything for you, man. Anything. I'll be back for the presidential campaign once you win the nomination. But we'll be in touch by phone and email before then.
BO: You're the best. See you soon.
GW: Sleep well, good luck in South Carolina. Remember to show off on the court. The camera will love it.
And with that we retired to our respective rooms. The thought of leaving Barack in the morning made me shed a tear, but he promised me he'd be alright without me and I believe him. He knows Nevada was a tough state and that things will be a little easier for him from here. I wanted to stay awake and catch up on the news, but I was still a bit jet-lagged from the flight. The news would just have to wait until the morning.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
I Put Your Name On The Ballot
Yesterday began like a any other day for me. My alarm went off at 7.30am and I lay in bed listening to AM on Radio National. Although Parliament isn't sitting and Labor's honeymoon period doesn't make for a lot of intrigue in Australian politics at present, there are still a number of world issues that I find it important to keep abreast of. Upon rising I took a refreshing shower, making sure to scrub myself thoroughly in all areas of my person and then set out for my morning walk. I like to walk in the morning. I find it not only opens my lungs, but opens my mind as well. It gives me an opportunity to ponder with significant clarity both the tasks I need to perform that day and the big questions that face humanity at the start of the 21st Century.
As I returned home from my morning stroll I noticed that the gender non-specific postal delivery person had come unusually early. I grabbed the pile of mail and headed inside. The most obvious item that had been delivered was the Winter issue of Venus magazine, having finally arrived after what I thought was an obscenely long time from its release date. However, as I flicked through the other mail I came across another letter addressed to me that looked intriguing. I quickly ripped open the envelope and pulled out the contents. There was just a single sheet of A4 paper carrying the official letterhead of the Obama presidential campaign. There was a brief hand-written message, it simply read:
Barack has always greatly encouraged me in all of my musical endeavours, not just as a fan of my art, but as a logistical and emotional supporter of me and my bands as well. He provided legal advise when my militantly-vegan Swedish electro-pop band, Jag Älska Grönsaker, were being sued by some band called The Smiths over the use of the album title Meat Is Murder. He came up to Montreal and nursed me back to health when I was severely beaten by a gang of Québécois nationalists after coming off-stage at a Québec City arts festival with my pro-federalist Canadian rap group, Reste Ensemble. And he offered me much need counselling when strained relationships and cultural misunderstandings forced the break-up of my multi-ethnic barbershop quartet, Racial Harmony.
Barack and I have a unbreakable friendship, we've been through some tough times together and forged a deep emotional bond. However, I feel that I haven't been able to fully reciprocate the support he has given me and the faith he has shown in me over the years. Because of this I now felt that it was extremely important that I rectified this situation. I needed to show the man just how much he means to me. I haven't had much of an involvement in the Obama presidential campaign up until now and so I decided it was about time I started to contribute, and contribute in a way that would have the most impact; through my music.
After arriving in LA, I got a transfer flight to Las Vegas. Barack was doing some last minute campaigning in the city before the Nevada caucuses. With the time difference from Melbourne I was able to arrive the morning of the vote. I resisted the temptation to play the tables and instead went straight up to Barack's hotel room. It was 9am on morning and he was still in bed. He was having some severe self-doubt and feeling a general malaise. As soon as I saw him I knew there wasn't going to be any time for small talk. I immediately pulled out my guitar and started to play. I decided to play him some of my newer material, and although I was sure he would love the fey summertime pop of the songs I'd written for The Emergency Kisses, I thought it would be best to give him something a bit edgier to suck on, really try and jerk him out of his stupor.
So I launched myself into an acoustic version of Faggot's paean to grassroots anarchism, There's More Than Two Ways to Disrupt Local Council Elections. I was hoping that the politically potent lyrics, with the passionately repeated refrain of "The administration needs modification!", would reanimated his political zeal and inspire him to get up out of bed and recommit himself to the campaign.
I gave all I could to the performance. Even with Barack having the air-conditioning up quite high in the room I still broke a sweat. As I strummed the final dramatic chord, a huge smile came across his face and he sat up in the bed. "You still it got it", he said. "Yeah, I still got it", I replied, "But more importantly did I bring it back for you?". He didn't reply directly, but got up out of the bed and walked towards the window. A small slither of sunlight hit the side of his right butt-cheek causing it to glisten and enhance the splendor of his naked physique. He turned and faced me directly, his grin was still as wide as the rich/poor divide, and he bellowed "Obama needs to tell Nevada what time it is!" And with that we were straight back into how we used to riff in the old days. Bouncing political themes and ideas off each other, looking for the most potent message to deliver the voters. Both of us have had reputations in our time for being ferocious political debaters and people not afraid to express ourselves. As a result our dialogue was far from polite, however, we both understood that this was necessary in order to bring out the most compelling and dynamic arguments.
After about half an hour of discussion Barack felt that he didn't have a local issue to match Hilary Clinton's vocal opposition to the Yucca Mountain nuclear waste repository, and this might lose him some support with the more committed local activists. Whilst I agreed that this was an issue that Clinton has able to capitalise on in Nevada, I mentioned to Barack that it was important not to lose sight of the bigger picture. The country is willing to give Iowa and New Hampshire their fifteen minutes in the spotlight, I said, but by the time the process reaches Nevada and South Carolina they become tired of the regional pandering. I told him that he doesn't want to risk alienating voters in the rest of the country this close to Super-Duper Tuesday. Because of this it would be best of focus on issues of national significance. These are, after all, issues that effect residents of Nevada as well. Furthermore, I continued, a loss in Nevada isn't that devastating if it wins you respect in the big states. I added that he has got Illinois wrapped up, New York might be a push, but California, Texas and Florida are all easily winnable for him.
As Barack put some clothes on in order to go shake some hands and speak directly to the people of Nevada before the caucuses meet, I decided to get a few hours rest having not slept since leaving Melbourne. I told Barack that I would catch up with him later in the afternoon and we will discuss whether he'll need me to stick around for South Carolina. I have some pressing issues back in Melbourne, but I want to contribute to the campaign as much as possible. I suspect Barack will want to wait and see how the result turns out in Nevada before requesting my further assistance.
As I returned home from my morning stroll I noticed that the gender non-specific postal delivery person had come unusually early. I grabbed the pile of mail and headed inside. The most obvious item that had been delivered was the Winter issue of Venus magazine, having finally arrived after what I thought was an obscenely long time from its release date. However, as I flicked through the other mail I came across another letter addressed to me that looked intriguing. I quickly ripped open the envelope and pulled out the contents. There was just a single sheet of A4 paper carrying the official letterhead of the Obama presidential campaign. There was a brief hand-written message, it simply read:
Feeling blue. Need you here.I guess after the high of winning the Iowa caucuses, the disappointment of not being able to capitalise on that momentum in the New Hampshire primary must have hit him pretty hard. Barack gets disappointed very easily. For someone who has been a wonderful success for most of his life, on the rare occasions when things don't happen so favourably for him he tends to find it difficult. When he gets like this there's only one thing that can cheer him up. So I packed up my guitar and jumped on the first available flight to the States.
- Love, B.
Barack has always greatly encouraged me in all of my musical endeavours, not just as a fan of my art, but as a logistical and emotional supporter of me and my bands as well. He provided legal advise when my militantly-vegan Swedish electro-pop band, Jag Älska Grönsaker, were being sued by some band called The Smiths over the use of the album title Meat Is Murder. He came up to Montreal and nursed me back to health when I was severely beaten by a gang of Québécois nationalists after coming off-stage at a Québec City arts festival with my pro-federalist Canadian rap group, Reste Ensemble. And he offered me much need counselling when strained relationships and cultural misunderstandings forced the break-up of my multi-ethnic barbershop quartet, Racial Harmony.
Barack and I have a unbreakable friendship, we've been through some tough times together and forged a deep emotional bond. However, I feel that I haven't been able to fully reciprocate the support he has given me and the faith he has shown in me over the years. Because of this I now felt that it was extremely important that I rectified this situation. I needed to show the man just how much he means to me. I haven't had much of an involvement in the Obama presidential campaign up until now and so I decided it was about time I started to contribute, and contribute in a way that would have the most impact; through my music.
After arriving in LA, I got a transfer flight to Las Vegas. Barack was doing some last minute campaigning in the city before the Nevada caucuses. With the time difference from Melbourne I was able to arrive the morning of the vote. I resisted the temptation to play the tables and instead went straight up to Barack's hotel room. It was 9am on morning and he was still in bed. He was having some severe self-doubt and feeling a general malaise. As soon as I saw him I knew there wasn't going to be any time for small talk. I immediately pulled out my guitar and started to play. I decided to play him some of my newer material, and although I was sure he would love the fey summertime pop of the songs I'd written for The Emergency Kisses, I thought it would be best to give him something a bit edgier to suck on, really try and jerk him out of his stupor.
So I launched myself into an acoustic version of Faggot's paean to grassroots anarchism, There's More Than Two Ways to Disrupt Local Council Elections. I was hoping that the politically potent lyrics, with the passionately repeated refrain of "The administration needs modification!", would reanimated his political zeal and inspire him to get up out of bed and recommit himself to the campaign.
I gave all I could to the performance. Even with Barack having the air-conditioning up quite high in the room I still broke a sweat. As I strummed the final dramatic chord, a huge smile came across his face and he sat up in the bed. "You still it got it", he said. "Yeah, I still got it", I replied, "But more importantly did I bring it back for you?". He didn't reply directly, but got up out of the bed and walked towards the window. A small slither of sunlight hit the side of his right butt-cheek causing it to glisten and enhance the splendor of his naked physique. He turned and faced me directly, his grin was still as wide as the rich/poor divide, and he bellowed "Obama needs to tell Nevada what time it is!" And with that we were straight back into how we used to riff in the old days. Bouncing political themes and ideas off each other, looking for the most potent message to deliver the voters. Both of us have had reputations in our time for being ferocious political debaters and people not afraid to express ourselves. As a result our dialogue was far from polite, however, we both understood that this was necessary in order to bring out the most compelling and dynamic arguments.
After about half an hour of discussion Barack felt that he didn't have a local issue to match Hilary Clinton's vocal opposition to the Yucca Mountain nuclear waste repository, and this might lose him some support with the more committed local activists. Whilst I agreed that this was an issue that Clinton has able to capitalise on in Nevada, I mentioned to Barack that it was important not to lose sight of the bigger picture. The country is willing to give Iowa and New Hampshire their fifteen minutes in the spotlight, I said, but by the time the process reaches Nevada and South Carolina they become tired of the regional pandering. I told him that he doesn't want to risk alienating voters in the rest of the country this close to Super-Duper Tuesday. Because of this it would be best of focus on issues of national significance. These are, after all, issues that effect residents of Nevada as well. Furthermore, I continued, a loss in Nevada isn't that devastating if it wins you respect in the big states. I added that he has got Illinois wrapped up, New York might be a push, but California, Texas and Florida are all easily winnable for him.
As Barack put some clothes on in order to go shake some hands and speak directly to the people of Nevada before the caucuses meet, I decided to get a few hours rest having not slept since leaving Melbourne. I told Barack that I would catch up with him later in the afternoon and we will discuss whether he'll need me to stick around for South Carolina. I have some pressing issues back in Melbourne, but I want to contribute to the campaign as much as possible. I suspect Barack will want to wait and see how the result turns out in Nevada before requesting my further assistance.
Friday, January 18, 2008
My Fat-Sack On My Back
Several weeks ago I had a massage. The stresses and strains of my life had placed a heavy burden on my neck and shoulders, so much so that they required the hands of a professional masseuse to kneed them into a more relaxed state. This was before I began my physical relationship with the 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess, and so I also used the massage as an opportunity to gain some much needed human contact. Not that it was a sexy massage, far from it, it was actually highly professional, but for someone as affection starved as myself just to feel the touch of another human being upon my body was enough to bring me some form of comfort.
Whilst massaging my aching muscles the masseuse came across what she described as a "small sack of fat" just underneath my left shoulder bone. She informed me that this was a reasonably common occurrence and that it was in no way dangerous and I should not be concerned. I promptly forgot all about it. However, last week while I was scratching an itch that was pestering me on my back I became reacquainted with this "small sack of fat". This acquaintance soon led to obsession and I have been unable to keep my hands off it ever since. It's an intriguing little thing. It is able to be pushed around and squished a bit, yet has a certain solidity to it as well. Several days ago I became so consumed by its presence that I asked Cath to cut it out for me. I wanted to see what it looked like. I thought it might look like the insides of the tauntaun Han cuts open in The Empire Strikes Back in order to keep Luke warm. However, I was hoping it wouldn't have a similar smell. Unfortunately, Cath refused to cut it out for me claiming that even if I wanted to see what it looked like she did not. She also felt that the use of a kitchen knife was inappropriate for such a procedure and stated her unwillingness to clean up all the blood that would result from such an incision. Her refusal disappointed me. I felt metaphorically, but unfortunately not literally, stabbed in the back.
Whilst enjoying having something intriguing to fiddle with on my body, I think it would be prudent of me to seek the advice of a medical professional about this "little sack of fat". I don't know whether being told by a masseuse that it is nothing to worry about is enough piece of mind for me. She told me that before she became a masseuse that she was a PE teacher. Should I really be trusting the diagnosis of a PE teacher? What if it isn't "nothing to be concerned about"? What if it is some sort of tumour? A cancerous tumour. The worst kind! I could place myself in some serious medical danger by ignoring it. The consequences could be dire! I have a doctor's appointment on the 2nd of February where I will be able to inquire about it. Hopefully I will be able to survive the two weeks until then.
Whilst massaging my aching muscles the masseuse came across what she described as a "small sack of fat" just underneath my left shoulder bone. She informed me that this was a reasonably common occurrence and that it was in no way dangerous and I should not be concerned. I promptly forgot all about it. However, last week while I was scratching an itch that was pestering me on my back I became reacquainted with this "small sack of fat". This acquaintance soon led to obsession and I have been unable to keep my hands off it ever since. It's an intriguing little thing. It is able to be pushed around and squished a bit, yet has a certain solidity to it as well. Several days ago I became so consumed by its presence that I asked Cath to cut it out for me. I wanted to see what it looked like. I thought it might look like the insides of the tauntaun Han cuts open in The Empire Strikes Back in order to keep Luke warm. However, I was hoping it wouldn't have a similar smell. Unfortunately, Cath refused to cut it out for me claiming that even if I wanted to see what it looked like she did not. She also felt that the use of a kitchen knife was inappropriate for such a procedure and stated her unwillingness to clean up all the blood that would result from such an incision. Her refusal disappointed me. I felt metaphorically, but unfortunately not literally, stabbed in the back.
Whilst enjoying having something intriguing to fiddle with on my body, I think it would be prudent of me to seek the advice of a medical professional about this "little sack of fat". I don't know whether being told by a masseuse that it is nothing to worry about is enough piece of mind for me. She told me that before she became a masseuse that she was a PE teacher. Should I really be trusting the diagnosis of a PE teacher? What if it isn't "nothing to be concerned about"? What if it is some sort of tumour? A cancerous tumour. The worst kind! I could place myself in some serious medical danger by ignoring it. The consequences could be dire! I have a doctor's appointment on the 2nd of February where I will be able to inquire about it. Hopefully I will be able to survive the two weeks until then.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Biscuit Business
I shop at Safeway. I find the name reassuring. I have no idea what Coles is trying to say to their customers, there's nothing about their business name that makes me feel secure in my purchases. I would never shop at an IGA either. IGA could be an acronym for terrorist organisation for all I know. I don't want the direct consequences of my grocery purchases being an exploded bus on a busy Tel Aviv street. I just don't want that. That's why I shop at Safeway. It's a safe way to shop.
The other reason why I shop at Safeway is to be able to purchase the Safeway "Select" brand Honeycomb Crunch chocolate biscuits. These are my favourite chocolate biscuits. They are, according to the packaging, "Honeycomb flavoured biscuit with honeycomb nuggets and créme topping, covered in milk chocolate and yellow squiggles". An appetising proposition.
[I realise the packaging says Woolworths but I'd have to be subjected to a seriously intense session of waterboarding before I'd ever refer to the company as that]*
Now those more familiar with the the chocolate biscuit market will know that these biscuits were originally manufactured by Cadbury and were sold as Squiggly Tops. It seems at some period Cadbury sold their secret recipe to Safeway. Whether this was due to the biscuits not being profitable or someone in their upper-management just not liking the way they tasted one can't be sure. What one can be sure of is that regardless of Cadbury's abandonment of them, they remain a wonderfully tasty biscuit and fact that Cadbury decided to sell the biscuit to a different company seriously damages their credibility.
Back in the days when Cadbury were manufacturing these biscuits as Squiggly Tops they had another rather delectable chocolate biscuit in their range. These biscuits were known as Rainbows and they consisted of a crunchy chocolate base which had a solid chocolate topping containing the candy pieces known as "clinkers". This biscuit base and chocolate/clinker topping was then smothered in chocolate and had some pink squiggles on the top for decoration. At the time these biscuits were my favourites. Every Friday my Mum would buy me a random packet of chocolate biscuits from the supermarket and on my way home from school I would always hope that the biscuits she had bought this week would be Rainbows. Unfortunately, however, it seems that when Cadbury sold the secret recipe to Squiggly Tops over to Safeway, they did not sell the secret recipe to Rainbows with it. Nor did they decide to keep manufacturing the biscuit themselves.
Recently, however, Cadbury have gone some way to redeeming themselves with the release on the confectionery market of the Dairy Milk Clinkers block of chocolate. Whilst not having the biscuit base of the Rainbows chocolate biscuit, it does contain what many would consider the best part of the Rainbows in the clinker-filled solid milk chocolate. And therefore they provide either a substantially tasty treat for oneself, or the perfect small gift for a loved one and/or family member.
*For any non-Australians reading this; the company is called Safeway in Victoria and Woolworths in the uninhabitable states.
The other reason why I shop at Safeway is to be able to purchase the Safeway "Select" brand Honeycomb Crunch chocolate biscuits. These are my favourite chocolate biscuits. They are, according to the packaging, "Honeycomb flavoured biscuit with honeycomb nuggets and créme topping, covered in milk chocolate and yellow squiggles". An appetising proposition.
[I realise the packaging says Woolworths but I'd have to be subjected to a seriously intense session of waterboarding before I'd ever refer to the company as that]*
Now those more familiar with the the chocolate biscuit market will know that these biscuits were originally manufactured by Cadbury and were sold as Squiggly Tops. It seems at some period Cadbury sold their secret recipe to Safeway. Whether this was due to the biscuits not being profitable or someone in their upper-management just not liking the way they tasted one can't be sure. What one can be sure of is that regardless of Cadbury's abandonment of them, they remain a wonderfully tasty biscuit and fact that Cadbury decided to sell the biscuit to a different company seriously damages their credibility.
Back in the days when Cadbury were manufacturing these biscuits as Squiggly Tops they had another rather delectable chocolate biscuit in their range. These biscuits were known as Rainbows and they consisted of a crunchy chocolate base which had a solid chocolate topping containing the candy pieces known as "clinkers". This biscuit base and chocolate/clinker topping was then smothered in chocolate and had some pink squiggles on the top for decoration. At the time these biscuits were my favourites. Every Friday my Mum would buy me a random packet of chocolate biscuits from the supermarket and on my way home from school I would always hope that the biscuits she had bought this week would be Rainbows. Unfortunately, however, it seems that when Cadbury sold the secret recipe to Squiggly Tops over to Safeway, they did not sell the secret recipe to Rainbows with it. Nor did they decide to keep manufacturing the biscuit themselves.
Recently, however, Cadbury have gone some way to redeeming themselves with the release on the confectionery market of the Dairy Milk Clinkers block of chocolate. Whilst not having the biscuit base of the Rainbows chocolate biscuit, it does contain what many would consider the best part of the Rainbows in the clinker-filled solid milk chocolate. And therefore they provide either a substantially tasty treat for oneself, or the perfect small gift for a loved one and/or family member.
*For any non-Australians reading this; the company is called Safeway in Victoria and Woolworths in the uninhabitable states.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
The Free Design
Last night I went to see a film with Cath Da Costa, an older woman I can rely on. It was Super Tuesday (or, Two-up Tuesday, as I like to call it) at the Hoyts Cinema at Victoria Gardens. On these Super-Tuesdays an adult ticket sells for the price of $9.50, making it a relatively cheap night out. The film we went to see was American Gangster, a film about the violent, yet immensely profitable, world of organised crime.
The film portrayed a fairly dark picture of New York City in the late 60s and early 70s. The streets were overrun with heroin and the police-cops were on the take. Gangsters had a free-reign in the city and they used it to obtain considerable wealth for themselves, their associates and those in the police-force willing to assist them. But there was one cop who couldn't be bought, one cop who was committed to the ideals of the job. Richie Roberts (played by Russell Crowe) had a nose for crime and he wasn't going to rest until its foul stench had been eliminated. He wasn't just interested in the small-time pushers, he wanted to get to the source. The kingpin.
Frank Lucas (played by Denzel Washington) was initially the driver for New York's premier Afro-American gangster, Ellsworth "Bumpy" Johnson. Upon Bumpy's death, Lucas used what he had learned to expand his drug-running business beyond Harlem into all 5 Boroughs and into New Jersey, and at the same time making himself more powerful than the traditional Italian families who controlled organised crime in the city. However, he didn't count on there being one cop who wasn't going to play be his rules and eventually his reign would come to an end.
Whilst a film like American Gangster, that is based on a true story, can provide insight into society's ills and give us hope that justice will prevail, so can a film like the 70s science-fiction film Grey's Thoughts. Through ideas and themes, which may not be based on reality, a film such as this can make an important commentary on civilisation. Unfortunately, the US Government has attempted to remove all evidence of Grey's Thoughts's existence because it is believed that some aspect of the film relates to an uncomfortable truth about the AIDS virus.
Like Richie Roberts in the film American Gangster, there needs to be someone who is willing to take a stand. I believe that art should in no way be censored. I believe in the value of an open society. That is why I have written the following poem about the film Grey's Thoughts. I realise by doing this I am placing myself and those close to me at risk, however I'm hoping that the further exposure this poem will bring to the film will go some way to releasing it from its suppression.
It's dangerous to think in the future
It's dangerous to know the truth
There's a war going on
There's a war in our minds
Form a line! Form a line!
Don't step out, don't fall down
Form a line! Form a line!
Don't ask questions, don't get sick
The more we know the worse our condition
It is those who seek answers who are dying
Is it knowledge that harms us?
Is it questions that damage our health?
Dr Grey, is the Government corrupt?
Dr Grey, are they telling us the truth?
How can we submit to these controls?
What is it like to be truly free?
It's not the thoughts that are killing us
It's not the knowledge we pursue
They're spiking the water! They're spiking our tea!
They don't want us to know, they don't want us to be free
The film portrayed a fairly dark picture of New York City in the late 60s and early 70s. The streets were overrun with heroin and the police-cops were on the take. Gangsters had a free-reign in the city and they used it to obtain considerable wealth for themselves, their associates and those in the police-force willing to assist them. But there was one cop who couldn't be bought, one cop who was committed to the ideals of the job. Richie Roberts (played by Russell Crowe) had a nose for crime and he wasn't going to rest until its foul stench had been eliminated. He wasn't just interested in the small-time pushers, he wanted to get to the source. The kingpin.
Frank Lucas (played by Denzel Washington) was initially the driver for New York's premier Afro-American gangster, Ellsworth "Bumpy" Johnson. Upon Bumpy's death, Lucas used what he had learned to expand his drug-running business beyond Harlem into all 5 Boroughs and into New Jersey, and at the same time making himself more powerful than the traditional Italian families who controlled organised crime in the city. However, he didn't count on there being one cop who wasn't going to play be his rules and eventually his reign would come to an end.
Whilst a film like American Gangster, that is based on a true story, can provide insight into society's ills and give us hope that justice will prevail, so can a film like the 70s science-fiction film Grey's Thoughts. Through ideas and themes, which may not be based on reality, a film such as this can make an important commentary on civilisation. Unfortunately, the US Government has attempted to remove all evidence of Grey's Thoughts's existence because it is believed that some aspect of the film relates to an uncomfortable truth about the AIDS virus.
Like Richie Roberts in the film American Gangster, there needs to be someone who is willing to take a stand. I believe that art should in no way be censored. I believe in the value of an open society. That is why I have written the following poem about the film Grey's Thoughts. I realise by doing this I am placing myself and those close to me at risk, however I'm hoping that the further exposure this poem will bring to the film will go some way to releasing it from its suppression.
It's dangerous to think in the future
It's dangerous to know the truth
There's a war going on
There's a war in our minds
Form a line! Form a line!
Don't step out, don't fall down
Form a line! Form a line!
Don't ask questions, don't get sick
The more we know the worse our condition
It is those who seek answers who are dying
Is it knowledge that harms us?
Is it questions that damage our health?
Dr Grey, is the Government corrupt?
Dr Grey, are they telling us the truth?
How can we submit to these controls?
What is it like to be truly free?
It's not the thoughts that are killing us
It's not the knowledge we pursue
They're spiking the water! They're spiking our tea!
They don't want us to know, they don't want us to be free
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Always Wanting More
In December of last year Blair asked me whether I had heard of a band called The Dirty Projectors. I informed him that I'd heard the name, but as I considered it a "hipster band name" I was strongly opposed to investigating them further. The subject was promptly dropped. On the evening of the 23rd of December (two days before Christmas) at the Old Bar on Johnston Street Blair informed me that he had purchased a copy of the album Rise Above by The Dirty Projectors. He explained that the album was an attempt by David Longstreth (the band's "musical director") to recreate the Black Flag album Damaged from memory. However, the album sounded nothing like Black Flag at all and instead contained Longstreth's soulful wailing and intricate guitar-work, string and wind arrangements and a series complex female vocal harmonies. I was intrigued. So much so that the next day I jumped onto the internet and illegally downloaded my very own copy of the album.
Between that time and now I have developed an almost symbiotic relationship with the album. Having just ended my sexual relationship with a 36-year old Singapore Airlines hostess, the album has become something of a security blanket. I refuse to leave it alone and it refuses to leave me. I listen to it when I am in my bedroom, I listen to it when I am in the lounge room. I listen to it whilst walking around the city, I listen to it while I am slicing vegetables for dinner, but most of all I listen to it whilst driving around in the car I am minding for Kate Shum. It is in the car where I feel I can connect most directly with the album. The cocoon of the car's interior allows me to mimic Longstreth's bellows at a volume that would otherwise be unobtainable in a more public area or in the confines of the share-house I reside in. While I have not heard the Black Flag album that Rise Above is based on, the album is such a supreme musical document that I feel that it is unnecessary for me to have listened to it. I have a general idea of what Black Flag sound like, I know the sound of American punk/hardcore albums from that era and for me this is enough to appreciate the way that Longstreth has re-written those songs.
One interesting note on the album concerns the song Six Pack where in the bridge Longstreth and his co-vocalists Amber Coffman and Angel Deradoorian switch from English to Esperanto. From what research I have done I can deduce that whilst Longstreth is not a fluent Esperanto speaker, he is very much intrigued by the language and, like myself, seems committed to the ideals that other Esperantists around the world subscribe to. On a further side-note, in recent days I have been very interested to learn that the Hungarian-American financial speculator, stock investor, philanthropist, and political activist, George Soros is one of the very rare (estimated at between 200 and 2000) native Esperanto speakers. His father, Teodoro Ŝvarc (or Schwartz) was the founder of the Esperanto literary magazine Literatura Mondo. Soros was given his surname as it means "will soar" in Esperanto (also, "designated successor" in Hungarian). Furthermore, the name is also a palindrome.
Due to having enjoyed the album Rise Above so much in the last few weeks, I decided it would be prudent of me to listen to another of the band's releases. So in the past few days I have been playing with some frequency the band's album of 2005 titled The Getty Address. The Getty Address has been described as a "glitch opera". The album was created by recording extensive string and choral arrangements, which Longstreth proceeded to "chop up" digitally to create a backing to overdub his on guitar, bass, beats and vocals. Lyrically the album is written from the perspective of Don Henley, as a Spanish Conquistador, going in search of the shape of love. The album is far from being an immediate rewarding listen, however with each subsequent listen it is beginning to make a significant impression on me.
It is obvious after listening to The Dirty Projector's records that David Longstreth is a unique musical talent and dynamic thinker. His ability to create ideas that are distinct, clever and suitably implemented is both inspired and inspiring. His albums have helped me greatly with the hardship I am experiencing presently after the break-up of my first adult relationship. His music sooths and comforts the soul, and provides positive distraction through intellectual stimulation from the hurt that I feel inside. Longstreth is a man whom I feel I have a genuine affinity with, and a man whose art I hope to have more of an association with in the coming years.
Between that time and now I have developed an almost symbiotic relationship with the album. Having just ended my sexual relationship with a 36-year old Singapore Airlines hostess, the album has become something of a security blanket. I refuse to leave it alone and it refuses to leave me. I listen to it when I am in my bedroom, I listen to it when I am in the lounge room. I listen to it whilst walking around the city, I listen to it while I am slicing vegetables for dinner, but most of all I listen to it whilst driving around in the car I am minding for Kate Shum. It is in the car where I feel I can connect most directly with the album. The cocoon of the car's interior allows me to mimic Longstreth's bellows at a volume that would otherwise be unobtainable in a more public area or in the confines of the share-house I reside in. While I have not heard the Black Flag album that Rise Above is based on, the album is such a supreme musical document that I feel that it is unnecessary for me to have listened to it. I have a general idea of what Black Flag sound like, I know the sound of American punk/hardcore albums from that era and for me this is enough to appreciate the way that Longstreth has re-written those songs.
One interesting note on the album concerns the song Six Pack where in the bridge Longstreth and his co-vocalists Amber Coffman and Angel Deradoorian switch from English to Esperanto. From what research I have done I can deduce that whilst Longstreth is not a fluent Esperanto speaker, he is very much intrigued by the language and, like myself, seems committed to the ideals that other Esperantists around the world subscribe to. On a further side-note, in recent days I have been very interested to learn that the Hungarian-American financial speculator, stock investor, philanthropist, and political activist, George Soros is one of the very rare (estimated at between 200 and 2000) native Esperanto speakers. His father, Teodoro Ŝvarc (or Schwartz) was the founder of the Esperanto literary magazine Literatura Mondo. Soros was given his surname as it means "will soar" in Esperanto (also, "designated successor" in Hungarian). Furthermore, the name is also a palindrome.
Due to having enjoyed the album Rise Above so much in the last few weeks, I decided it would be prudent of me to listen to another of the band's releases. So in the past few days I have been playing with some frequency the band's album of 2005 titled The Getty Address. The Getty Address has been described as a "glitch opera". The album was created by recording extensive string and choral arrangements, which Longstreth proceeded to "chop up" digitally to create a backing to overdub his on guitar, bass, beats and vocals. Lyrically the album is written from the perspective of Don Henley, as a Spanish Conquistador, going in search of the shape of love. The album is far from being an immediate rewarding listen, however with each subsequent listen it is beginning to make a significant impression on me.
It is obvious after listening to The Dirty Projector's records that David Longstreth is a unique musical talent and dynamic thinker. His ability to create ideas that are distinct, clever and suitably implemented is both inspired and inspiring. His albums have helped me greatly with the hardship I am experiencing presently after the break-up of my first adult relationship. His music sooths and comforts the soul, and provides positive distraction through intellectual stimulation from the hurt that I feel inside. Longstreth is a man whom I feel I have a genuine affinity with, and a man whose art I hope to have more of an association with in the coming years.
Monday, January 14, 2008
One Very Important Thought
The US Government knows things that they are not telling us. I know there's a lot of nutjob conspiracy theorists who claim this all the time, but I think I have some pretty solid evidence that this statement is far from false. Last night I had a dream. In the dream I was watching a renegade documentary on the AIDS virus. In the documentary they claimed that the US Government has attempted to wipe from existence any record of a 70s science-fiction film called Grey's Thoughts. From what I can recall from my dream, the film was set on Earth sometime in the future (everyone was wearing the same white jumpsuits, so I assume it was the future). Like 1984 the people are informed that there is a major war taking place, however, some of the people soon discover that the war is a bogus lie. But it is this knowledge that leads to grave illness and subsequent death. The documentary was implying that there was some aspect of this film that touched too close to home about the AIDS virus for the US Government, and hence their attempts to delete all trace of it from existence. Upon waking, and being somewhat intrigued by this dream of mine, I opened my personal laptop computer and performed a Google search for the film Grey's Thoughts. The search turned up no record of such a film ever existing. Now this could just mean that the film was a complete invention of my sub-conscious, or it could mean that the US Government have been successful in its attempt to destroy any evidence of this film's existence! This is something that requires further investigation.
Although I have ample time for such an investigation now that the 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess and I have agreed to an amicable separation, I felt I deserved to do something a little more relaxing than challenging the world's only super-power to reveal its deceits. So instead I went to see a film at the Nova Cinema Complex in Carlton. Monday is cheap day at the Nova and all films before 4pm are only $5.50. The film I went to see was Så Som I Himmelen or in its English title, As It Is In Heaven. The film is actually from the year 2004, however for some unknown reason has only been released in Australia in the year 2007. It concerns a world-renowned musical conductor, Daniel Daréus, who, after suffering a heart-attack, decides to return to the northern Swedish town of his early youth. There he is persuaded to help the town's church choir, and although he is initially reluctant, he eventually finds great joy in the process. He also finds love with one of the members of the choir named Lena, whose boobies the audience gets to see on two separate occasions.
As It Is In Heaven demonstrates the importance art plays in portraying the glories of the human spirit. Whilst it may not tackle a politicised subject, like Grey's Thoughts does, it is a wonderful example of what humans can achieve when they work together and not against each other. Viewed through that prism As It Is In Heaven contains a similar theme to that of Grey's Thoughts. The US Government should not be trying to hide what it knows about the AIDS virus, nor should it be trying to prevent art being made the sheds light onto the truth about its existence. Art that deals with major problems engages the public in an attempt to find solutions. Just as Daniel Daréus found solutions to both the church choir's problems and his own personal problems through a shared love of music, maybe, just maybe a film like Grey's Thoughts can go some way to helping solve the AIDS crisis that the world is currently facing.
Although I have ample time for such an investigation now that the 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess and I have agreed to an amicable separation, I felt I deserved to do something a little more relaxing than challenging the world's only super-power to reveal its deceits. So instead I went to see a film at the Nova Cinema Complex in Carlton. Monday is cheap day at the Nova and all films before 4pm are only $5.50. The film I went to see was Så Som I Himmelen or in its English title, As It Is In Heaven. The film is actually from the year 2004, however for some unknown reason has only been released in Australia in the year 2007. It concerns a world-renowned musical conductor, Daniel Daréus, who, after suffering a heart-attack, decides to return to the northern Swedish town of his early youth. There he is persuaded to help the town's church choir, and although he is initially reluctant, he eventually finds great joy in the process. He also finds love with one of the members of the choir named Lena, whose boobies the audience gets to see on two separate occasions.
As It Is In Heaven demonstrates the importance art plays in portraying the glories of the human spirit. Whilst it may not tackle a politicised subject, like Grey's Thoughts does, it is a wonderful example of what humans can achieve when they work together and not against each other. Viewed through that prism As It Is In Heaven contains a similar theme to that of Grey's Thoughts. The US Government should not be trying to hide what it knows about the AIDS virus, nor should it be trying to prevent art being made the sheds light onto the truth about its existence. Art that deals with major problems engages the public in an attempt to find solutions. Just as Daniel Daréus found solutions to both the church choir's problems and his own personal problems through a shared love of music, maybe, just maybe a film like Grey's Thoughts can go some way to helping solve the AIDS crisis that the world is currently facing.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Love Is No Big Truth
The following brief but frank exchange took place last night between myself, Grant Wyeth, and the 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess I've been engaged in a sexual relationship with these past few months. She had just returned from being away with her job for twelve days. I discovered during this time that she has been having a sexual affair with one of those pilots she works with.
[The front door opens]
36 Year-Old Singapore Airlines Hostess: Honey, I'm home!
Grant Wyeth: Don't "honey' me!
36YOSAH: What's wrong?
GW: I risked my heart for you, and now I've paid the price.
36YOSAH: What price? What are you talking about?
GW: The price. C'est trop cher, as the French say. You made a fool out of me. But the price will be greater for you in the long term. You mark my words.
36YOSAH: I don't have time for these cryptic clues. I think you should just tell me what's on your mind.
GW: Listen to you! I know what you've done. You waltz back in here like everything is fine. You've been having a sexual dalliance with one of the pilots on your flights!
36YOSAH: How do you know that?
GW: A little place called The Internet. It's not just useful for checking the weather conditions in Vienna, you know.
36YOSAH: Well....
GW: So you admit it! You admit you've taken our love to town and sold it for pittance. You admit that flushed away what we shared for a night of cheap passion!
36YOSAH: Of course I admit it! I have needs, you know. I need to be satisfied as a woman.
GW: What, [rips shirt off] is this not enough for you? Does this not satisfy you?
36YOSAH: This? This is not a man. This is not what any real woman would want.
GW: This is a man who gave you his soul. This is a man who was to dedicate his life to your happiness!
36YOSAH: This is a man who is pathetic! You're nothing but a boy drifting through an adult world, Grant. A prospectless no-hoper and an effete, anemic weakling. Your small, limp, ineffectual penis serves as a perfect metaphor for your entire existence!
GW: This is all contrary to what you've been telling me these past few months. You told me I pleasured you in ways you never imagined possible. You told me I was destined to be a great man.
36YOSAH: I didn't get to the age of 36 by being honest. There's so much you have to learn about life. Your naïvety is astonishing.
GW: Then what was this all about? Why have you been with me these last few months?
36YOSAH: All I wanted was a place to stay when I'm in Melbourne. That and to raid your iTunes library. You were laughably easy to take advantage of.
GW: We can work through this.
36YOSAH: See, look at you! You're so fucking spineless.
GW: Spineless? You want some spine then, huh? You want to see my spine, baby? GET OUT! Get out of my house! I don't want to ever see your adulterous face in these parts ever again! You've hurt me so much. You're a despicable human being!
36YOSAH: Fine.
And with that she turned and walked out the door. Hopefully never to be seen again. I retired to my bed where I cried myself to sleep. Will I ever recover from such a horrific trauma? It may sound cliché, but only time will tell.
[The front door opens]
36 Year-Old Singapore Airlines Hostess: Honey, I'm home!
Grant Wyeth: Don't "honey' me!
36YOSAH: What's wrong?
GW: I risked my heart for you, and now I've paid the price.
36YOSAH: What price? What are you talking about?
GW: The price. C'est trop cher, as the French say. You made a fool out of me. But the price will be greater for you in the long term. You mark my words.
36YOSAH: I don't have time for these cryptic clues. I think you should just tell me what's on your mind.
GW: Listen to you! I know what you've done. You waltz back in here like everything is fine. You've been having a sexual dalliance with one of the pilots on your flights!
36YOSAH: How do you know that?
GW: A little place called The Internet. It's not just useful for checking the weather conditions in Vienna, you know.
36YOSAH: Well....
GW: So you admit it! You admit you've taken our love to town and sold it for pittance. You admit that flushed away what we shared for a night of cheap passion!
36YOSAH: Of course I admit it! I have needs, you know. I need to be satisfied as a woman.
GW: What, [rips shirt off] is this not enough for you? Does this not satisfy you?
36YOSAH: This? This is not a man. This is not what any real woman would want.
GW: This is a man who gave you his soul. This is a man who was to dedicate his life to your happiness!
36YOSAH: This is a man who is pathetic! You're nothing but a boy drifting through an adult world, Grant. A prospectless no-hoper and an effete, anemic weakling. Your small, limp, ineffectual penis serves as a perfect metaphor for your entire existence!
GW: This is all contrary to what you've been telling me these past few months. You told me I pleasured you in ways you never imagined possible. You told me I was destined to be a great man.
36YOSAH: I didn't get to the age of 36 by being honest. There's so much you have to learn about life. Your naïvety is astonishing.
GW: Then what was this all about? Why have you been with me these last few months?
36YOSAH: All I wanted was a place to stay when I'm in Melbourne. That and to raid your iTunes library. You were laughably easy to take advantage of.
GW: We can work through this.
36YOSAH: See, look at you! You're so fucking spineless.
GW: Spineless? You want some spine then, huh? You want to see my spine, baby? GET OUT! Get out of my house! I don't want to ever see your adulterous face in these parts ever again! You've hurt me so much. You're a despicable human being!
36YOSAH: Fine.
And with that she turned and walked out the door. Hopefully never to be seen again. I retired to my bed where I cried myself to sleep. Will I ever recover from such a horrific trauma? It may sound cliché, but only time will tell.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Can You Hear The Beat Of My Heart?
With my 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess lover away with her job my nights can get pretty lonely. Lately these nights have gotten even lonelier after I discovered that she is having an affair with one of the pilots she works with. What I thought was the perfect relationship has deteriorated into a mess of lies, deceit and the foul stench of another man's aftershave. You can imagine the hurt that I am experiencing right now. I'm in our home, faithfully making plans for our future together while she's over the other side of the world with her face in some arsehole pilot's cockpit.
But if she thought she was going to unsettle me she had another thing coming. She didn't count on the famed Wyeth resilience. This blood of mine has been filtered through many a tough time. I can't be easily distressed. Did she not know this from our time spent together? Did she expect me to just sit at home and feel sorry for myself? Hell no! I was going to go out and have a great time! Show her that she can't play fast and loose with my heart. If she wants to destroy what we had then I was not going to sit idly by and let it bring me down. I was going to get on with my life. Show her that I'm a man whose existence demands respect. So I shaved against the grain, put on one of my new pairs of underwear and my best fitting t-shirt and went to see contemporary Swedish songsmith Jens Lekman perform at The Toff.
My 36 year-old lover has kept me on a pretty tight leash these last few months and it has been difficult to spend much time with other people. So the show was a good opportunity to catch up with my friends from the Melbourne indie music scene. Geoff from The Crayon Fields was there, as was Kellie from Architecture In Helsinki. And it's always a pleasure to see the scene's most distinguished wordmonger, Anthony Carew. He was looking fantastic with his navy blue tank-top, denim shorts and work boots. He gave the impression he'd just stepped off stage from the musical Stomp. And I tell you what, I wouldn't put it past him. He's such a talented guy!
This was the first performance Jens has given since he made Melbourne his home and it was obvious he was eager to impress his fellow Melburians. His witty between-song banter and encouragement of audience participation seemed specifically designed to form a bond between himself and the people who he may be bumping into in art galleries and shopping malls in coming weeks.
Jens treated us to a setlist of his best and most beloved songs, from the upbeat Sweet Summer's Night On Hammer Hill which had everyone bopping along in their seats, to an utterly charming version of Postcard To Nina, with extended spoken word expansion of the story. He encouraged the crowd to whistle along with him during Friday Night At The Drive In Bingo and enticed whoops of delight when he queued the intro to Maple Leaves. It was just the most wonderful performance of elegant and amiable indie-pop and thoroughly worth the $35 (plus booking fee) I paid for the privilege. I look forward to further and more frequent performances throughout his time spent in Melbourne.
Whilst the evening was grand, it was difficult to return to an empty bed. Thoughts returned to my 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess and the damage she has done to our relationship. It would have been extremely easy for me to engage in a round hot revenge sex with some young indie starlet from the crowd at the show, but I'm a classier act than that. I will bide my time and wait for her return. She will have a lot of explaining to do and needs to provide me with some seriously good reasons why I should forgive her, trust her again and attempt to resurrect the love that we once shared.
But if she thought she was going to unsettle me she had another thing coming. She didn't count on the famed Wyeth resilience. This blood of mine has been filtered through many a tough time. I can't be easily distressed. Did she not know this from our time spent together? Did she expect me to just sit at home and feel sorry for myself? Hell no! I was going to go out and have a great time! Show her that she can't play fast and loose with my heart. If she wants to destroy what we had then I was not going to sit idly by and let it bring me down. I was going to get on with my life. Show her that I'm a man whose existence demands respect. So I shaved against the grain, put on one of my new pairs of underwear and my best fitting t-shirt and went to see contemporary Swedish songsmith Jens Lekman perform at The Toff.
My 36 year-old lover has kept me on a pretty tight leash these last few months and it has been difficult to spend much time with other people. So the show was a good opportunity to catch up with my friends from the Melbourne indie music scene. Geoff from The Crayon Fields was there, as was Kellie from Architecture In Helsinki. And it's always a pleasure to see the scene's most distinguished wordmonger, Anthony Carew. He was looking fantastic with his navy blue tank-top, denim shorts and work boots. He gave the impression he'd just stepped off stage from the musical Stomp. And I tell you what, I wouldn't put it past him. He's such a talented guy!
This was the first performance Jens has given since he made Melbourne his home and it was obvious he was eager to impress his fellow Melburians. His witty between-song banter and encouragement of audience participation seemed specifically designed to form a bond between himself and the people who he may be bumping into in art galleries and shopping malls in coming weeks.
Jens treated us to a setlist of his best and most beloved songs, from the upbeat Sweet Summer's Night On Hammer Hill which had everyone bopping along in their seats, to an utterly charming version of Postcard To Nina, with extended spoken word expansion of the story. He encouraged the crowd to whistle along with him during Friday Night At The Drive In Bingo and enticed whoops of delight when he queued the intro to Maple Leaves. It was just the most wonderful performance of elegant and amiable indie-pop and thoroughly worth the $35 (plus booking fee) I paid for the privilege. I look forward to further and more frequent performances throughout his time spent in Melbourne.
Whilst the evening was grand, it was difficult to return to an empty bed. Thoughts returned to my 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess and the damage she has done to our relationship. It would have been extremely easy for me to engage in a round hot revenge sex with some young indie starlet from the crowd at the show, but I'm a classier act than that. I will bide my time and wait for her return. She will have a lot of explaining to do and needs to provide me with some seriously good reasons why I should forgive her, trust her again and attempt to resurrect the love that we once shared.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Flight Paths
The hardest part of my relationship with this 36 year-old Singapore Airlines hostess is her work commitments. Last night she left on circuit that will take her to London, across the Atlantic to New York, to Tokyo via LA and back through Singapore. She'll be away twelve days in all. I will miss her terribly. While modern technology may keep us in frequent contact when she is away working, I still struggle without her sleeping beside me. I miss her smell and the sense of her presence. I miss they way she holds me to her bosom when I've had a bad day, her wordless reassurance makes me feel comfortable in a way I have never felt before. Most of all I miss the incredible sex we enjoy together.
When she goes away like this I wonder whether she contemplates the strength of our relationship. She tells me constantly that she misses me and can't wait to return to my loving arms, but I wonder whether sometimes she does think it is all a bit too difficult. It would be a lot easier for her to become sexually involved with one of the pilots she works with. It is well known that pilots are strong and confident lovers. They could organise to work the same routes and be able to spend their free time together in exotic locations. It's not hard to imagine them strolling hand-in-hand along the Seine, or having passionate intercourse in the Los Angeles Airport Hilton. They would understand each other's needs. The stresses and strains of the positions they hold. Theirs would be a bond formed from their mutual life experiences. A bond stronger and more intense than ours.
I do become quite concerned about this prospect while she is away. She has a ferocious sexual appetite, and as much as I love to believe in her faithfulness, I fear that she may not have the will power to quell the burning in her loins. It may only take a couple of drinks and the smooth charms of a man in uniform for her to put aside all that we have built together and submit to the erotic delights that airline pilots are known to be capable of providing.
I won't confront her about this. It's important she believes she has my trust. After all, this could just be the paranoia of man in the teething stages of his first adult relationship. My suspicions could be perceived as immaturity which might lead her to believe that I am not ready for such a substantial commitment. She may feel that I do not support her career and that I am attempting to undermine her status as an independent modern woman. It is paramount that I put these thoughts behind me now. It's essential that she has my trust. I want to prove myself to her. She's taken a significant risk in becoming involved with someone so young and inexperienced. I need to make it obvious that I am an exceptional life partner for her.
When she goes away like this I wonder whether she contemplates the strength of our relationship. She tells me constantly that she misses me and can't wait to return to my loving arms, but I wonder whether sometimes she does think it is all a bit too difficult. It would be a lot easier for her to become sexually involved with one of the pilots she works with. It is well known that pilots are strong and confident lovers. They could organise to work the same routes and be able to spend their free time together in exotic locations. It's not hard to imagine them strolling hand-in-hand along the Seine, or having passionate intercourse in the Los Angeles Airport Hilton. They would understand each other's needs. The stresses and strains of the positions they hold. Theirs would be a bond formed from their mutual life experiences. A bond stronger and more intense than ours.
I do become quite concerned about this prospect while she is away. She has a ferocious sexual appetite, and as much as I love to believe in her faithfulness, I fear that she may not have the will power to quell the burning in her loins. It may only take a couple of drinks and the smooth charms of a man in uniform for her to put aside all that we have built together and submit to the erotic delights that airline pilots are known to be capable of providing.
I won't confront her about this. It's important she believes she has my trust. After all, this could just be the paranoia of man in the teething stages of his first adult relationship. My suspicions could be perceived as immaturity which might lead her to believe that I am not ready for such a substantial commitment. She may feel that I do not support her career and that I am attempting to undermine her status as an independent modern woman. It is paramount that I put these thoughts behind me now. It's essential that she has my trust. I want to prove myself to her. She's taken a significant risk in becoming involved with someone so young and inexperienced. I need to make it obvious that I am an exceptional life partner for her.
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