"Dominant species perhaps, but have you seen this?"

Said the deer before...

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=6020264244416084639




Said the Canadian Brownfinch prior to...

http://in.youtube.com/watch?v=BzjLlqIuVhI

A short tale.

I woke up after only minutes of sleep to the sound of Adam puking behind me. I jumped out of bed like the goddam thing was on fire. I then turned to see him still sleeping, only the sheets and his upper body were covered in frightening red-orange vomit. I've never known someone to vomit while unconscious before, hence this experience was initally rather frightening. To remedy my panic I decided to start shouting him awake telling him what he's done. It was easy, he was instantly coaxed out of his coma. I started gathering the rank sheets together to put in the washing machine but on my way there the stench and sight of the shit got my stomach doing backflips. More panic as I drop the sheets and step quickly into the bathroom. More frightening red-orange vomit, only this time delivered by an entirely different vessel - myself. As this is happening, Adam had emerged from his room and with extreme drunken nonchalance removed his boxer shorts and started showering. I'm now caught somewhere between being horribly sick and wanting to laugh heartily at his behaviour. I was sick a bit more then went back to bed, where I remained undisturbed for several comfortable hours.

Call me Scrooge and I'll pop you

Quiet recently. Is this quietness a reflection of my lifestyle? Who are we to know? Christmas is looming, and despite it being a mere six days into December I already feel like I've beaten over the head repeatedly with Santa's enormous sack (Ho Ho fucking Ho) between all the t.v ads and festive decorations. It blows my mind how much money and effort must go into marketing Christmas. It started over a month ago, the saturation, people with pound signs instead of eyes putting out useless crap for us to trade our wages for over Christmas for the sake of giving people 'gifts'. Someone has been sat in a room and actually thought "Yes! I'll make a toy raindeer that shits brown jelly beans!" and made a goddam killing off of it. And while that shitting raindeer does actually kick ass, it is merely an example. Because we don't need this kind of clutter. You want to gift someone? Buy them a book. Buy them some music. Teach someone something, help the poor, buy a homeless guy a cheeseburger or something, anything. The shit that is rattled off to us astounds me. Everything is labelled as 'ideal for Christmas'. I want to buy each one of these ideal Christmas products, give them to my friends and record their reactions on videotape so I can laugh at their disappointment again and again and again.

"Oh I wonder what it is!!!...... *gasp*........Wow!.....it's a......video of how to get fit featuring a person I rarely recognise but is famous.....*hates me a little more* thanks."

They feed it us. And we ask for seconds.

Awful quiet

No blogs lately. Been stuffing bits of paper into shoes. Very time consuming I'm sure you'll understand. Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day. Gonna scout the horizons for opportunities of conquest. Economize, capitalize, make your life your work and your work your life, keep low profile before the big smoke. Look the part, live the part. Take it home with you and nourish it. Feed it, keep feeding it and fattening it until it becomes as large as anything you'd ever seen or believed in your whole life. Become it, be one with it. Taste the future, because this is a steaming huge bowlful of the shit. Get stuck in, and don't look over your shoulder. You belong to it now, you let it become you and now it has you. Rise and shine. Time to get the fucking bus, again.

A sad update

On the way home from the job centre I saw two men in the front seats of a hearse laughing uncontrollably. They weren't part of the procession but still I wonder....

Must rant.

I'm neither here nor there. I'm constantly on the fence. One minute everything is perfect and beautiful, and the next I can't understand why anyone puts up with any of it. I feel this with everything. Even this that you're reading. On one hand I feel like it's my earthly duty to somehow log what I'm feeling in case it may mean something to somebody at sometime. But then I ask, is it not the single most egotistical of acts to think that somebody cares about these things I have to say? I should probably delete this right now, I have done so before. Become disgusted with myself, my own thoughts written down to the point of total silence. So what to do?

Apt sentiment.

"This song goes out to Michael J Fox, the hoverboard, our trust fund, everything we were promised when we were young that we never got. Fuck the future, here comes your shitty future."

They'll bow before me.

While washing up today I broke a spoon, snapped the wooden handle off. The suspicion that I'm superhuman is increasingly strong.

No title

I was in the job seekers office today and a woman with quite a visible moustache walked in. I felt depressed. I had to leave so I sat outside and waited for Sean to finish his phone call. A young boy chased pigeons on his bicycle. Then a hideous old fat woman sat on a bench directly opposite me. So directly opposite me that I could see her flabby thighs and underwear up her dress. I was repulsed and had to go back inside. I felt depressed. I bought tweny-four cans of beer on the way home.

Fat Security Guard

He's an awful mess, that fat security guard. I see him from time to time trundling along the shop, guarding the security of the place. Mind, whatever it is that threatens the security of the shop would surely be able to elude the fat security guard first and then proceed to its wrecking up of the place or whatever it may do. He's the subject of ridicule, that fat security guard. How is he to catch a thief? Fortunately for him there is little crime in this area. Should there be regular robbings I doubt that fat security guard would have been hired at all. The only conceivable method of him catching anyone would be to slowly build up a momentum of speed, but to do this in time with the criminal would require telepathy or some other magic trick. Perhaps that's his secret. Doubtful. He's not so good, not doin' so well, our fat security guard. He's huffing and puffing all over the place. He doesn't wear a tie. Isn't he terrible? People make lots of fun out of his shape, his size, his predicament. I feel sorry for the fat security guard. It's not fair for him to be treated like an animal (despite the numerous resemblances to one), not really. I thought he must hate himself, being fat and terrible and having fun made of you all the time. But I saw him once while walking. He was driving somewhere on a sunny day, alone, with his shades on, with his hand out the window, with music playing. I bet he didn't care about a thing at that moment.

Good stumbles volume two.

http://oo22.com/fb/alright.html

Reading list

John Cooper-Clarke

Phil Jupitus

Dizzee Rascal

H2O

Queens Of The Stone Age

Rage Against The Machine

The King Blues

Cancer Bats

Seasick Steve

The Raconteurs

Dropkick Murphys

Lethal Bizzle

Tenacious D

Metallica

Not many compared to previous years. But it makes no difference, they were all sick. As was camping. Big sessions, BIG!

Two weeks in a few words

I've slept in various unfamiliar rooms.

Paying due respect

Rest in peace Mr Bernie Mac.
Rest in peace Mr Isaac Hayes.

Sad sad times.

No good.

The film 21 really is terrible. Expecting a somewhat human account of a young students discovery of his talents for card-counting and his exploits with said talents, I was instead treated to yet another trite hollywood stoolbag adaption of something that as far as I can tell is much much better in its origin (in this case a book). It's happening way too much, it's this god-damned obsession with making a movie out of god-damned anything. I'm shocked that something so potentially brilliant can go to such shit so many times. If they make On The Road shit I may lose my mind completely.

Salinger only gave them one chance.

Confound the life of the graduate pt.II

It's my first dole meeting tomorrow. Ouch.

Confound the life of the graduate.

Having listened to approximately three minutes of the Atlanta leg of Tom Waits' highly regarded Glitter & Doom tour in the form of podcast, I'm slapping myself once for not going and once more for ever suggesting a monetary value could be put on such a live show. Slapping myself twice hard and in the face.

The find.

I live in a dead town. Dead as in very boring and dull. As if the town itself were a person and it were dead in an unnoticeable place and hence nobody notices that it was dead. Dead as in the only fun I've had in this town was some months ago when I saw an animal looking at me while I was on one of my occasional late-night strolls and it made me chuckle to think what it was thinking; I imagined it being very tough and telling me in its unique animal voice to 'Take a hike, buddy!'. I take late-night strolls to kill time. Although killing time isn't really what I'm doing because I'm not waiting for anything. I have nothing awaiting me in the future. I don't have any money so I can't get out of my dead town unless I walk and that's very tiring. I don't have any money because it's very impossible to get a job in a dead town. All the jobs are taken and there won't be any new ones available until somebody notices that our town is dead (which they never will, as a dead town attracts no attention from anybody) or somebody with a job dies, which happens rarely (Life expectancy in a dead town is actually very high because there are no distractions from the straight and narrow in a dead town). So I take strolls to kill time. Sometimes late-night strolls, other times early-morning strolls, the time of day is irrelevant really, I stroll when I damn-well please and there's not a thing this dead town can do to stop me. One day, while strolling through a street (there are only streets in a dead town, streets and a shop, and maybe a couple of boutiques if you are extremely lucky, extremely lucky indeed) I was stopped in my tracks by the most peculiar and intriguing of all sights: a shining glimmer of light from a glimmering shiny thing in the relative distance. It stopped me in my tracks because the sun was reflecting off of it and shone into my eyes like a massive torch. After the initial shock came the intrigue, I found myself saying "What on God's holy?!" I didn't merely think it, I came right out and said it my intrigue was running so high. I began to approach the shiny beacon on the ground with a million and six thoughts shooting through my brain. I was thinking so many thoughts I damn near threw up from excitement. I was thinking about the possiblities of what it could be, as there aren't many shiny things in a dead town. As I neared the object my suspicions widened as I began to see colour and detail imprinted onto it; strange green and grey patterns, and what looked like a picture of an old person. Then it hit me! It was money lying there on the street of my dead town! Being a bit of a sleuth detective type I resisted the urge to rush over to it like a crazy old beggar and instead continued my far less crazy, slow paced strolling walk over toward it, very nonchalont, that's how detectives walk. I stood right over it's gloriousness for what could have been a whole minute staring at it. Then finally I hunched over and picked it up for a good old look and my suspicions narrowed as I realised "Yes! This is five english pounds!" Then it happened again, another million or so thoughts entered my head as I was faced with the infinite choices of what to spend it on. But I knew immediately what I wanted, and that was some ice cream and some cold cola. There are precious few nice things to buy in a dead town, but it seems the demand for cold snacks and carbonated drinks is high at the moment so they have those things in abundance down at the old shop. So I continued my detective-style stroll down to the old shop, the whole time stifling a smug grin of success from emerging on my successful rich mans mouth. I was tempted to exchange pleasantries with the shop owner but I only knew he'd be jealous of such a wealthy success like myself, working in a shop in a dead town and all, so I just bought my things and left. And boy were they a treat! I don't think there are two things better for someone bored of a dead town than some ice cream and some cold cola. I was so happy, I sipped on the cola for half of my journey back, then ate the ice cream. It's very important to do this in the right order, because if you eat ice cream it makes your mouth so cold that when you enjoy your cold cola it seems warm, would you believe?! I got home and sat down and smiled for the rest of the day, happy and full of cold food and drink. And yes, you're absolutely right, you're very astute; there's no way I could have spent all five of my found pounds on one ice cream and one cola. I did have some change, yes I did, quite an abundance of it actually. But what I did with that is another story altogether.

...

Since the last post I've:

Celebrated graduation (I mean really celebrated it) and hence left university for the final time.

Read Catcher in the rye.

Passed up an opportunity to see The Mars Volta because I "wasn't feeling so hot".

Kicked myself for passing up an opportunity to see The Mars Volta.

Bought new kicks/shades.

Hung with crews.

Talked to a stranger.

Jammed.

Been compared visually to Sir Alan Sugar.

Incited mischief. Or tried to at least.

Taken a goddam stand.

Purchased a solitary banana.

Been hassled for my lazy demeanour.

Been caught out.

Mooched about and that.



And thus your much needed update on my life is complete, now go speak to others of your findings.



Pictures may follow.

Of late.

Photographs by myself, Charlie Bull and Gareth Williams.

Three new discs

Thelonious Monk - Midnight Monk
Mos Def - The New Danger
King Tubby - Crucial Dub

My appearance

Last night within the space of a few moments two different people commented on how I looked. One asked "Are you Jewish?" and the other asked "Can you sell me some cows?" which was a precursor to him telling me I looked like a farmer.

Weekend at Wizza's

Actually, not a weekend at all but a monday-thursday hangout. But the timing of this affair is not significant, the content is. Over the past few days I've been blessed with good company, good food, good drink, good music, good fires and all sorts of general goodness. I have reached several heights of enlightenment with the help of such goodness, in company and alone, about a whole manner of different things; work/money, friendship, love, how to have fun etcetera. Despite some things not going as smoothly as I'd earlier hoped, life is easy at the minute. Given the circumstances a change is inevitable, I cannot coast like this for the rest of my life. I am optimistic however that when these changes take flight life will not beome bleak and difficult but moreso colourful and enjoyable. I'll keep you* posted.

Until next time.

Ps. I've also been to see Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan live since my last post. Highly recommendable. Seeing Lanegan in such a space for such a price eases the Tom Waits pain of weeks previous.

*If you are reading this, please say something.

Excellent?

I'm not sure how it happened, but I found myself watching the 2008 MTV movie awards tonight, and while doing so I witnessed what I feel compelled to describe as another hefty nail in the ever-closing coffin of sacredness. For those who chose not to watch it, or those who didn't know of it (either of which I am envious) you will be unaware that the awards were hosted by the comic/actor Mike Myers. For those of you who did witness it, you may be aware of where this is going. Prepare yourselves....



They brought back Waynes world.



Yes, for a five minute segment of the MTV movie awards, they brought back Wanyes World. New material, the same guys, the same set, the same ripped jeans, the same shit, they brought it back!



Now I'll confess I'm not the biggest Waynes Wolrd fan, that's not what this is about, as the segment itself wasn't overly appauling. It's about the dispicable trend of re-makes/re-mixes/re-issues/re-recordings/re-releases/re-surrections etcetera that seems to have swamped popular culture over the last few years. When it started it was cute, "Oh hey they've brought that awesome thing from ages ago back, righteous!", but now it is tired and ready to die. I cannot believe they're* getting away with this, I'm astounded people are actually going in for this shit. And I don't just mean a small section of Waynes World on some MTV nonsense, I mean all of it. Rocky 6 - Seriously? Led Zepplin reforming - What the fuck? Gladiators back on television - Hand me the cyanide. The list goes on, it is extensive (And includes another film franchise featuring Sylvester Stallone, would you believe?). This rant doesn't have much of a point or focus, I guess I'm just sad that money seems to be more important than dignity at the moment. Am I alone?





*I'm not sure who 'they' is. I'm pretty sure it's 'the man'

Condolances

Only a few minutes ago I found out (Somewhat belated) that an old teacher of mine from middle school, Mr Best, passed away some weeks ago. I'm just sending my best wished towards his family, friends, and the countless pupils he helped along his way. Rest in peace Dennis.

Read at work.

I stumbled upon this a moment ago:

www.readatwork.com

and have earned a new-found interest for Mark Twain for my efforts. Excellent stuff. Blog-worthy, I feel.

Not so innocent when you dream...

How delighted I was some two weeks ago when I'd heard that Tom Waits was to be touring Europe in the summer. A particular musical idol of mine, I found myself overwhelmed with glee at the thought of sitting comfortably in a theatre seat watching Waits do his thing on stage with all of his musical brik-a-brak and what-have-you. Admittedly I've not been listening to his music for very long, in fact the first album of his I'd heard was Blood Money which of course was released in 2002 so it cannot be any more than six years ago (And I'd doubt it was that long) that I first laid ears upon him. However, duration aside, I can only describe my feelings toward the man and his music as love. What started as a general awareness soon grew into interest, and interest made way for fascination, and once fascinated I made my way consuming any and all Tom-Waits-sustinance I could land my greedy mits on. From the beat-down ballads of Blue Valentines, through the rattle-and-clank of Raindogs and all the long way to the Orphans, I've heard it all and loved the majority of it. Hence it came with an almighty shock when on the day of ticket release I phoned Wizza, who is equally if not more so in love with Tom Waits than I am, and he informed me that he had not ordered the tickets. "Why on earth!?" I found myself asking, to which he simply answered "Do you know how much they are?". "How much?" I said "Ninety-five quid" was the answer. I didn't quite know where to put myself. I had fully expected to pay more than the usual tenner I shell out for the regular rock'n'roll show I treat myself to on the odd instance, but ninety-five leaves I couldn't quite grasp.

"But you said you love Tom Waits, surely that's not too much to pay."

It fucking is! And for many a reason. To start with, I have just finished university and find myself sturggling to scrape that many pence together, let alone pounds (Tom Waits obviously doesn't know or care about my situation, it is merely bad timing), and I already have as many post-uni events to attend as I do fingers and toes. Secondly, this is a man who stands as (Or at least stood as) an idol for the down-and-out, the not so rich, the beat, the broke; a man who carved his name in every whiskey bench across America and probably spent his last penny doing it; a man who could make the homeless hopeful with his music. And while music, like everything, inevitably changes I don't think he would ever have predicted charging £95 for a concert ticket. And before this gets out of hand I should really stress that this is not easy for me to say as he's influenced me massively in several aspects of my life since I started listening to his music. But, there has also been an 'interesting' policy introduced to purchasing Tom Waits tickets and that policy is this: Ticket purchases are limited to two tickets per order, and the buyer of said tickets must produce their card on arrival to the venue to prove validation etc. This genius new method is in place to prevent, nay eliminate touting Tom Waits tickets. And fair enough, touts are mostly cunts who overcharge you 200% over the retail price in your hour of need (A certain Motorhead incident springs to mind, but that's for another time), or rather wait until you've handed your money over to them and then do one. However, getting rid of the touts and then charging nearly a ton for the tickets I feel is somewhat of a pisstake. What's even more infuriating is that I can't even say that I chose not to go; as unless you buy a ticket on first release there is no fucking way of getting one, so they're not letting me go!

That's my first blog ladies and gentlemen, there may be more to come.

P.s If you're reading this Tom Waits, don't hate me, I'll still buy your records.