As Sir Marcus Rigsby is wont to say, Whatever you’re doing, stop it now!
I was browsing my Internet today and reading through a few random but mostly not-so-random blogs to note what the (sometimes questionably) funny folk were up to. As I am wont to do at most times, I noticed a couple of things. I shall now share the immediately-aforementioned observations.
1. Plenty people like to just make up words as they write, like I do. That does slightly take away from the joy of doing it, but it isn’t enough to make me want to stop it now!
2. People like to link. It is a compulsion of sorts that makes the writer want to distract the reader with such a venom that every second effing word of every effing line links to something else somewhere else, often only obscurely referencing the writer’s original intent.
But here’s a clue for all the linkwizards: it’s called TARGET=“_blank”. Learn it. Live it.
3. Some people are sometimes funnier when they don’t try.
4. If there is a photograph of a weird or not-necessarily-weird-or-even-just-out-of-the-ordinary something, there will invariably be an Asian tourist/not-tourist with a camera, OR the shadow of one, somewhere in the photograph.
Right place, right time... or just too many everywhere so the odds of one being in your photo are so high anyway that you needn’t bother calculating?
Sweet cream on an ice-cream sandwich! When will they stop it now?
A while ago, I had thought of starting a new series of posts based on something I called “Daniel Rutgers’ Memoirs”. Don’t ask me where I got the titular character’s name from; it was meant to be ironic... if a name can ever be ironic.
I realized I wouldn’t be able to come up with enough material to actually create something resembling a book, but I thought I could at least churn out enough to cover a few posts as a sort of regular appearance on my pages. Like Floyd... who is, in fact, pretty irregular these days.
To start with, I had the whole thing ready over the course of one night of near insomaniacal (YES!) pondering, with a complete world in which Daniel could live and breathe and be anything but real, absurdly molded characters that might never support a storyline and a storyline that could never possibly have existed before me. (While taking care to not split my infinitives, these days I also take care to follow up random negations with contradictions.)
Each post would consist of excerpts from one or more days from Daniel Rutgers’ utterly unnecessary personal log. I even had the side characters that would pop in every now and then to provide relief from Daniel’s own inane but somewhat amusing musings.
Unfortunately, due to constraints of time and deteriorating imagination, I was unable to develop Daniel into a suitable Harry Potter rebound past a single page taken from the entry of November, 17. Fuelled with disappointment in self and country, I decided it would be appropriate for me to stop it now!
Starting from scratch sucks.
“The eyes are the groin of the head”
Black Sabbath – Iron Man
Peter Frampton – Baby, I Love Your Way
I hate sitting around at airports, mostly because my international layovers are almost always reeeeallly long. But sometimes the wait is not all that bad because once you get used to the seats and find all the restrooms you don’t want to use, an airport is an airport is an airport. No matter how much I hate Starbucks, I’d probably still stop for a bagel or bear claw to pass the time. It’s nice to eat and watch people. I mean watch people while you eat what you’re eating; not people.
At Heathrow, although my wait was as long as it always is anywhere else, it was nice to be among the English for once. Good looking, fashionable folk all around, with their many accent derivatives. And all the time two things were constantly passing through my mind: I should have shaved before I left home and I am WAY underdressed! Also there was this pleasant Polish dude, Maciej (I only just figured out that his name was not spelled the way it was pronounced), who just happened to be everywhere I was, from on the way to Bombay, to on the way to the bathroom in the plane, to the security check queue, to wandering around the airport.
As I sat near the elevator bank to Gates B and C, fingers tapping at a frequency that was a varying multiple of that of my toes, sometimes integer-al(?) and sometimes fractional, I realized that it was a neat personal feat of uncoordinated motor movements. A shapely brunette with the highest heeled boots and shortest skirt I’ve ever seen introduced herself into my frame of view and turned to face me before beginning the journey downward. Her grey eyes locked with mine for what seemed like a clichéd eternity of seconds till the lift doors closed.
There was no joy in her stare. It was no fun sitting there after that.
SFO is now getting too familiar for comfort. And this time around it was as though the senior citizens of France had descended as one upon the city of San Francisco. As I waited at my boarding gate surrounded by France’s eldest, I was overcome by the urgent need to soothe an itch in the crotch. Being of modest character, obviously I did not act to deter this agent of evil in such company. But, for those 20 minutes during which I had to allow an invisible irritant gnawing at my gonads, I shall forever despise the elderly from south of Belgium.
Plus, longest pre-boarding, ever!
Damn that Katy Perry... getting me all hot with her silly song. Plus she reminds me sometimes of Zooey Deschanel.
In other news, Debra Messing reminds me of Lucille Ball.
“I would stand in line for this”
Shelley Duvall – He Needs Me
M.I.A. – Paper Planes
Everyone has to fit in. A few are good at most things they try, but most aren’t. So we get by by finding the thing we think we can do, and then trying to do that as best we can so that we burrow out our own little niche where, no matter what anyone else does, we will always fit in, ‘cos that’s what we do.
The world looks like it is fading fast; I might seem like I have made decent progress over the last few years, but the more it seems that way, the less it seems that way. I wish I had my niche, but it isn’t anywhere on the horizon.
There should be a book of rules on life, that dedicated an entire chapter to finding one’s niche. But if there was, I’d probably have rejected it anyway. Aloha irony.
I guess it’s all relative and a matter of varying perspective. Some days, everything is totally worth it and some times you have to wonder whether that is true at all.
Speaking of which, no one can know The Truth, because no one actually sees it. Now I get why people make such a big deal of this whole ‘enlightenment’ thing.
The way things are going, tomorrow could be the start of a new war. You could evaporate without ever finding your niche. You could cease to exist without ever finding the love of your life. You could go, without ever saying what you mean or meaning what you say; or both. You could end without ever starting.
“... they say Jump, you say How High?”
Corrine Bailey Rae – Like A Star
Texas – Inner Smile
01. X is extreme; obviously
02. X is algebraic; the universally intuitive variable
03. X is androgynous; until it forms a chromosome pair
04. X is je ne sais quoi
05. X is vulgar; red neon does nicely
06. X is retro
07. X is now; I wish they’d make up their minds whether it’s called Gen X or Gen Y, though…
08. X is ambiguous; we’re calling it the X-Ray?
09. X is abbreviational; Xmission, X86, etc.
10. X is puzzling
11. X is powerful
12. X is prohibitive
13. X is provocative
14. X is prefixual; as in “my ex-BFF, Jill”
15. X is girly
16. X is manly
17. X is musical; Los Angeles
18. X is religious; see: Xmas
19. X is dangerous; see: Jolly Roger
20. X is sexual; three is company
21. X is heroic; just ask Jean Grey
22. X is new and improved; but we’re still calling it the X-Ray??
23. X is mysterious; ever played Scotland Yard?
24. X marks the spot; good for Piratey Swag
“Better watch your soul; it’ll leave you like a hundred bucks”
Scissor Sisters – Filthy/Gorgeous
Belinda Carlisle – Leave A Light On For Me
Electric Light Orchestra – Mr. Blue Sky
I remember how, when I was young, I often sat by the window, gazing out at the colours and wishing that when I grew up I could be one of those people who defined COOL. Don’t assume that I wanted to be a pop star or hip designer… I wanted to be the head of a corporation bent on monopoly that decided what its weak-minded consumers ate, watched, drank, wore and smoked. Or better yet, the head of a single organization bent on monopoly, represented by a bunch of apparently unassociated conglomerates that divide among themselves the rights to influence individual aspects of their weak-minded consumers’ lives.
Fine, I lied… this only occurred to me today while I was practicing my domination technique. When I was a kid I probably wanted to grow up into a tree.
It’s so utterly miserable that no matter how much you might want to be original, almost everything you are is not what you are. It needn’t be subliminal programming that countercultures and conspiracy theorists like to believe in. As far as I’ve seen, it’s all right out there in broad daylight, in every medium that exists. Everything is projected onto you in one way or another, maybe purposefully, sometimes ricocheting off the next person, but when one of those rays eventually sneaks one of its dirty little tendrils around you, you’re already the newest victim of urban culture.
Being a tree would be nice, though. Trees are cool.
“The frontline is everywhere, there be no shelter here.”
Rage Against The Machine – Wake Up
Joe Anderson and Salma Hayek – Happiness Is A Warm Gun
The rise of Floyd!
Little Ernie was having a problem with his homework. “Dad,” he asked, “What is the difference between ‘anger’ and ‘exasperation’?”
“Well, son,” said his father, “I’ll give you a practical demonstration.”
His father picked up the phone and dialled a number.
“Hello,” said a voice at the other end.
“Hello,” said Ernie’s father. “Is Melvin there?”
“There is no one called Melvin here!” the voice replied. “Why don’t you look up numbers before you dial them?”
“You see?” said Ernie’s father. “That man was not at all happy with our call. But watch this!”
He then dialled the number again, and says, “Hello, is Melvin there?”
“Now look here!” the voice said angrily. “I told you there is no Melvin here! You’ve got a lot of nerve calling again!”
“Did you hear that?” Ernie’s father asked. “That was ‘anger’. Now, we’ll see what ‘exasperation’ is!”
He dialled once again. And on hearing the voice at the other end, Ernie’s father said: “Hello! This is Melvin. Have there been any calls for me?”
Young girl: If I go up to your room, do you promise to be good?
Young man: Baby, I promise to be FANTASTIC!
Bacteria: The rear entrance to a cafeteria
Dogma: The mother of puppies
Ultimate: The last person to marry
Vice versa: Dirty poems
A rather inebriated fellow on a bus was tearing up a newspaper into tiny pieces and throwing them out the window.
“Excuse me,” said the woman sitting next to him. “But, would you mind explaining what you’re doing?”
“It scares away the elephants,” replied the drunk.
“But I don’t see any elephants around here,” said the woman.
“Bloody effective, i’nnit?” crowed he.
Har...
Damien Rice – 9 Crimes
Radiohead – Fake Plastic Trees
(TY - Reader's Digest)
Two-five is here at last. It’s not as though it dropped in unexpectedly, but two-four was bad enough without adding another year. I expect/want to live till I’m 55 (or did I say 2055 AD?) so I may be close to halfway there already.Floyd: Wow, did you use your fingers to count that? Happy Birthday, doofus.Considering that I’ve only really gone about life for about 11 years and slept one third of that time away, that leaves me with some 7 and change years done and an actual 20 to go. All my versatile number crunching may be obvious arithmetic, but I’m bad at telling this sort of thing.I hate my computer. I want to write for the sake of writing, but as soon as I sit down in front of the keyboard, the words dry up until I find a half decent laxative. I don’t write when I’m emotional, I write simply for the enjoyment. I am probably my own biggest fan, not because I’m narcissistic but because I can go back as an unbiased reader and judge everything I’ve ever written and sometimes hate it, but sometimes love it too. And I love that I can love my own stuff.Floyd: There’s a word for self-lovin’ y’know…The rest of this post: CANCELED in favour of self-loving.“If I could be who you wanted, All the time”Opus – Live Is LifeSheryl Crow – If It Makes You HappyNow frequenting: Wendy Molyneux at
http://fakeinterviewswithrealcelebrities.blogspot.com
It is difficult to get along, to match minds these days. The world grows ever rapidly and as more people populate the planet, it will be increasingly more difficult to get along, to find a matching of minds in those days.
Happiness seems to need to be earned (which is not always a bad thing) so it is probably a lot easier to find comfort in knowing that your conveniently begotten sorrow makes you more alike the rest, than your happiness can.
Since one is alive, one is likely at any given moment, to ask the universally clichéd and redundant question of “Why do I live?” The truth is that the answer holds neither importance nor value; the real question one might want to ask is “Why should I live?”
All things must die and therefore, one must too, at whatever time is deemed proper. But, since one cannot know if said time shall be struck by the clock within a reasonable count of seconds, days or years, one can always assume that the time is near at hand, so as to comfortably take into account all that is required to complete what is deemed to be a satisfactory lifetime.
I’ve never stopped to think either way, because I already know that I don’t know either answer. It is less trouble to ignore the question than to be haunted by the knowledge of your own ignorance.
Not knowing the answer to the first question is no crime. Most would believe (or want to) that some unrevealed purpose has been pre-ordained for them and that they are merely fulfilling their respective prophecies, however insignificant/not they may be.
But not knowing the answer to the second question is abuse of the right to survive. If I don’t know why I love to live, what is the point? Lots to learn as yet.
Floyd: Fuckin’ eloquent as usual, eh? Here’s a tip, MEET NEW WOMEN! Then we’ll see how you find time to keep spouting this morose bullshit.
“Life, is a single skip for joy”
Matt Willis – Crash
Peter Sarstedt – Where Do You Go To, My Lovely?
Nothing good can ever come of the truth. Truth is an ugly, honest-to-god un-beautiful thing. It may seem sad to the altruistic mind, or even one corrupted manifold, but THIS IS the truth.
See? Nothing good came of that either.
Our entire existence is spent living in the elaborate lies we create, tangled into those woven by the people we let into our lives, and each one touching a hundred more till the web is infinity in itself. No matter how much one may say one is truthing, one will never be completely truthful. In fact one is not even capable. What good can come of it?
You’re beautiful. Although, you have that wart on the back of your neck… and soon, once I’ve seen enough of your face, I’m going to focus all of my attention on hating the wart, so that every time I see your face I see the wart and soon I’m not going to want to see your face anymore just because I’ve started to hate it just as much as I hate that wart.
The lie is what gives life its value and bearability. It makes lives worth spending in the company of friends and loved ones. Because they don’t need to hear your truth, because they know just what the truth is and because they know just how to keep the truth in that dark place where you keep their secrets too. The difference between these lies and the ones the world will tell you, are in the ends for which they are the means.
The truth is embarrassing; the truth is raw; the truth is a host of negative emotion. But if you knew it all, for the sake of naked, unashamed, white-faced honesty, would you want it still?
The truth is humbling; the truth is innocent; the truth is horrific. The truth is the child who killed himself because he understood. The lie said he was disturbed.
The truth is not love; the truth is not light; the truth is not the sacrifice. The truth is the loner. The lie is in the wedding dress.
The truth is not what’s bursting out; the truth is not what we’re dying to tell the world; the truth is not what we’re desperate to confess to our closest companion; the truth is what we don’t.
I wish I never did this.
“Be not so long to speak; I long to die” – J
Cover week:Sheryl Crow – D’yer Mak’er
Girls Aloud – I Think We’re Alone Nowimage courtesy cricinfo.com
I try hard not to be stupid. I have to try really hard sometimes. But it’s pretty hard to do.
Idiotica seems to be a facet I’ve developed quite nicely over so many years and it is now coming beautifully into bloom. I would love it as much as, if not more than life itself, if I could wake up one morning with the realization that I weren’t stupid no more. Tree of knowledge and all that. I should grow one of those.
Take for instance, the simple act of telling time. We learn to tell time as little children and that’s something, along with riding a bicycle and picking our noses, that stays with us as we grow into and past adulthood. In fact the tiny collection of my infrequent moments of glory starts with the day when it dawned on me that I was a time reader. Digital clock or one of those clocks with hands, it didn’t matter ‘cos I could tell time as good as the rest of them.
Why then, does this elegant ability escape me in public?
A peculiar phenomenon seems to be set in motion whenever someone stops to ask me the time. What it is, is there’s a bright flash and a huge swirling vortex of thunder, lightning and the colour mauve opens up before my very eyes, sucking me into its wet belly and transporting me back to the exact day before that first fleeting glorious moment of mine, so that suddenly, digital watch or any kind of watch, I can’t read the damn thing anymore. Panic sets in and I’m staring around wildly for a while, attempting to display some false sense of composure or even orientation, before making a second, pretend-nonchalant attempt at deciphering the time. Of course, that isn’t going to work… By now, it’s been at least fifteen seconds, way longer than even a celebutard would have needed, so I ditch it all, abandon every pretense and just twist my wrist around, showing the poor detainee my watch, expecting them to read the face at that awkward angle.
One might think this is foolish exaggeration, but if one only knew the minimal extent of my hyperbole, one might be quite aback-taken.
Floyd: Loser is as loser does.
I have even gone so far as, once I’ve got over the initial shock and stricken staring phase, to pretend that my watch has stopped working. So there I am, knocking at my watch, harder and harder, as if the force of each successive knock were directly proportional to the probability of either the watch coming back to life or me eventually figuring out what the pointed hands and silver numerals meant.
And those women fingers. Ah, nemeses of mine! I never fail to never look at them in time.
I can’t tell the number of times I’ve kicked myself post-first-meeting, when I realized I, once again, didn’t check out her left hand. And this last time, when I forced myself to wake up and look… well, it wasn’t worth it. Big fat band on a slim ring finger and then she can’t stop talking about life in France and why her husband doesn’t like her hanging out with single friends. Thanks a lot, life. Again.
Floyd: I rest my case. Again.
“Perhaps you’ve had an experience like that in childhood and told no one; perhaps you’ve had that brush with a world so large that you seldom or never saw it again.” – Finnegan Bell
I think I’d miss you even if we never met, said the man-whore to daddy’s girl.
Lifehouse – You and Me
Colbie Caillat – Bubbly
Sue ushered him into the room, “This is Mr. Smith and Mr. Gray”. She turned to him and winked, the hint of a smile forming on her face before she moved out of his field of vision. ‘Grey’ was right. Sitting behind a large steel desk were two gentlemen who, he judged, had not had a sunny day in their entire lifetimes. Grey haired men, in grey suits and the furniture being the colour it was... what was it about this place and monochrome?
“Thank you, Miss Pendleton. Hi, I’m John Smith!” said Mr. Gray. Sudie strikes again! She may not have brought as much efficiency to the table, as one might expect of an executive assistant, but she was beyond reprieve… just one of the perks of being the boss’ niece. Besides, it was always nice to see her pretty face before you knocked at Kellams’ door.
Suddenly he realized he was alone. Sue had left him standing just inside the doorway and was now back at her desk. He stepped forward hesitantly to accept the hand Mr. Smith was still offering to him.
The real Gray motioned him to the solitary chair. Michael sat down slowly, feeling his weight sink into the cushion, not knowing what to expect from the grey men.
Floyd: As cohabitant contributor, I reserve the right to refrain from refraining from expressing myself.
He worked in front of a computer screen in a fairly large office where everyone else also worked in front of the brilliant glow of a computer screen. If asked, he was pretty certain that he would not be able to explain his job to just any layman. But he was no exception; in an organization of this nature, with such ‘highly skilled’ operators tapping away at their keyboards all day, things were never that simple that they could be put forth in everyday terms. And if things were explained as they were, he was pretty certain they would never be understood.
So generally, no one asked.
Floyd: Smart… you obviously ran out of ideas there… dintcha?
The computers were white, the walls were white, the carpet and furniture were all white. Mr. Kellams liked things that way. “Colour does not inspire a sense of security in our clients” he had famously said.
Employees were assigned cubicle workspaces and all cubicles connected to a main aisle that ran straight down to the only thing that stood out in the room: the black door to Mr. Kellams’ office. The same aisle every male employee stared down every time Sudie had to make the long walk to speak with Barry from Finance.
Floyd: Now this is getting interesting.
She might have been romantically involved with him, but no one really knew and it didn’t really matter to them either. The fact that her cute behind had to sway past each row of cubicles every time she made her way down was good enough for them.
Michael could no longer hear the drone of Mr. Gray’s voice. His eyes had glazed over as he flashed back to the three and something years he had already spent at this corporation. The white sandy beaches, pinacoladas by the pool, the wife at a day spa, kids at her mother’s, Sudie’s polka dotted bikini… when he signed on the dotted line, this was the impression he had of the things his job would afford him. But that meeting was at The Hilton… and this was obviously not.
Kellams was definitely good at hooking ‘em.
Floyd: And what about the bikini? That’s it…?? As cohabitant contributor, I reserve the right to express my fathomless disappointment.
Tiffany – I Think We’re Alone Now
U2 – All I Want Is You
A generation gap is an oft-used excuse that has perpetuated across the years. Grandparents, parents, children and grandchildren are all content to be separated from each other by time cocoons that seem to take less time to spin as the generation number increases. The definition of a generation gap is changing now. Time was when a father would see a generation gap as the entire time between his childhood and that of his children… sufficient time for the world to work its magic. Now, even a first-born can find a reasonably well defined generation gap to its sibling.
I suppose every civilization is the cause of its own demise - the evolution of life into a form where it dictates when it starts and when it ends, and with the power to effect both. And so the world incessantly hurtles forward through time even as it hurtles forward through space. Or are they the same?
We are going faster and faster in our rush toward inescapable doom, and ironically, that seems to be our very aim: higher, faster, better, stronger, if I may steal a line. A child born today is incapable of imagining a world without Television, never mind what kind of Television it is, because its parents always had TV in some form. Similarly, the Internet. Although the Internet was not big around here till around the early nineties, since then, it has so deeply embedded itself in public psyche/culture that it may as well have been around forever. And with it came the MP3 and the cold silverage of other new-fangledness. Twenty or thirty years ago, the cut-off would have probably been Radio. A fairly large stride forward from radio to the Internet, I would think. As we go forward, technologies are being obsoleted and disposed of so quickly that it takes increasingly less time for a generation gap to come to be. Those born in the middle of a generation are lucky, relatively speaking, for they will experience both, the old and the new, with the ability to adapt well enough. The ones born at the sharp ends are the real victims of the generation.
The offspring of my generation will likely not know of Records or VHS. Or single screen theatres or potato wafers that did not come with a Lay’s tag. DVD playerss may be helluva lot more advanced than the old tape decks, but the dispensability and sheer inorganicity of NOW technology makes me melancholy so.
Gap or not, music is one thing, I guess, that will tie generations together with an ease unrivalled. I may not have always been a knowledgeable Beatles fan, or even much of a fan for that matter, but what I will never argue against is that they truly exist across time. It doesn’t matter whether or not you were around when they were, they always sound fresh. I’m pretty confident that I don’t know most of their songs, so I’m always surprised when I can fairly easily sing along to one of their tunes that I would never have thought myself familiar with. Truth be told, more than surprised, I am proud. Proud that what was created years and years before the thought of my conception was ever conceived, has had the longevity to make itself part of my consciousness, even as these days rapidly promote a disposable fashion.
Some years ago, when I fell into the deep end in my exposure to music, what I took to be an introduction, was only me revisiting the sounds that governed the formative years of my musical education in the home of my parents, more than 15 years ago. I’d say ‘a return to myself’, if I wanted to be cheesy; but it’s the truth.
My children, if and when they are, will find these same sounds in the home of their parents… It’s not as if I have any much contempt for music more recently released. Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley, Metallica, Marky Mark, Moby and Maroon 5 can all file onto the same stage on any given day. Not to forget, The Funky Bunch…
It’s like culture: those who have it will actually recognize it. I’m glad I can always depend on the musicians who I know made music, rather that having to wait for a contemporary someone to find a spark of genius, or two.
All things considered, this was pretty weak. Blame it on Floyd...
Righteous Brothers – You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling
The Beatles – Hold Me Tight
I’m in a league of my own. At least I would like to think I am. It may be more easily put that I’m not in anyone else’s league, but I guess I don’t necessarily need to have company to have my own league. What is a league, anyway? I’m not about to dictionary it.
Yes, that’s right, I said ‘Dictionary it’, NOT ‘Google it’.
I am about to write without pretense… sure, I prefer to not write unnecessarily personal, potentially defining stuff, unlike the populus, but I’ve just been watching my new fav, so I’ll allow myself a bit of blasphemation (what tha…?).
Just how far behind my contemporaries are I? At this reasonable age, here I am, working in the Hi-Tech industry, with everyone around me speaking the Hi-Tech lingo and playing the Hi-Tech game. But here I am, watching movies late at night and contemplating what the future of cinema might hold because it seems like all the honestly good stories are being taken. In keeping with all universal laws of equilibrium, they must run out of the good stuff at some time. And this comes to mind at the cost of politics, financial whiz and other grown-up discussions that increasingly surround me. Just how far behind my contemporaries are I?
Since as far back as I can remember I have never been able to imagine myself in the stereo 9 to 5 mould: the desk-sitting, the job smarts, the Honey-I’m-Home, the settling down in an urban haven… it’s the sort of picture that has never fit neatly into my thoughts. Of course, my experiences so far have all been contrary to that image as well, so that doesn’t help me any in figuring out how to put it together. As far as I can tell, I am largely living on past glory, without a plan for the future. I haven’t yet even seen enough proof that I belong in this niche of the professional world.
And these darn movies always make me itch. It’s an unjustified, indefinable crazy itch because I have no idea of its significance. Like some innate creative bone stirring; you know it’s there somewhere inside but you just can’t exactly put your finger on it. I’ve always tended towards creative stuff, but I’ve never known what to make of it. Sure, I’ve turned out a few good sketches and put down a few silly rhymes and fancy myself an as yet immature wordsmith, but that’s not enough to go by. If one is of a creative propensity, or thinks that one is, does it mean that by right one ought to pursue a semi- (?) alternative career path? Does it mean that one will discover one’s calling in a non-mainstream profession? I know these creative types are the cool ones who end up as marketing gurus or advertising geniusii or reclusive, classic novelists or acclaimed composers or sculptors or animators or screenplay writers or whatever else comes to mind when one abandons the mundane.
But I’ve always been too much of a pussy to pursue anything unserious seriously. And I’ve also been too much of a pussy to pursue anything serious seriously. That just leaves me with two empty hands and hundreds of shards of what could have been ambition, to pick up off the floor. Ok, maybe that was over-dramatising. And in the meantime, I’m busy allowing myself to surrender to the music and the movies and everything that eventually glosses over everything that’s a-missing. Phuket, Thailand…
Silencio, Old Man!
Mott The Hoople – All The Young Dudes
The Moldy Peaches – Anyone But You
As Sir Marcus Rigsby is wont to say, Whatever you’re doing, stop it now!
