Monthly Archives: May 2008

Much Like Josef Fritzl, I Don’t Do Fat Chicks.

One of the best things about journalism compared to prose writing is that a journalist can get a high word count very quickly. It’s very similar to creative writing, except that instead of having to think of interesting and novel ways to tell a story from different viewpoints, this is done automatically by quoting relevant people. I use a prosaic style in this blog, each entry of which is usually around (or way over) 1000 words. So, in true lazy writer-of-journalism form, here’s an anecdote copied and pasted from instant messenger transcripts:

David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:42):
homer simpson was in my work lastnight

Frew says (16:42):
go on

David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:42):
right
trying to close early
had everything finished by 10
ready to shut the door
and about 30 men all run in and ruin it

Frew says (16:43):

David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:43):
half of them with annoying american accents
n i mean fucking annoying
so we were ripping them off for drinks left right & centre

Frew says (16:43):

David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:43):
but the tallest, fattest, loudest one
oh my god
i’ve never heard anything so loud
he was jst shouting at everyone
David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:44):
n was about 6’8
he was fucking homer simpson!!!!
he looked exactly like him
anyway

Frew says (16:44):

David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:44):
the bar shuts

Frew says (16:44):
did you call him homer

David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:44):
fuckin quarter to 12
well, it was 20 to 12, but we lied
and fuckin homer stoats up to the bar
TWO TENNENTS
EXTRA COLD!!

David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:45):
“i’m sory, the bar is shut”
CUE THE MOST FUCKING RIDICULOUS ARGUMENT EVER
he wanted us to all go to the toilet
and wait there until he had taken everything he wanted

Frew says (16:45):

David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:46):
because in his infinite wisdom, this was a caveat to the licensing laws
eventually, after about 5 minutes of him going “OH MAN, YOU BEEN WORKING ALL NIGHT, YOU MUST GOTTA GO PEE, HUH!?”
he gave up
David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:47):
15 minutes later, i asked him to get out so we could lock the doors
his face was just perfect
that made my night.
i hate him.

Frew says (16:47):
what a fucking butt-head
you shoulda locked him in th bog

David – New blog, 27/05/08 says (16:47):
yeah, because he GOTTA GO PEE!!!!!!!

One of my favourite words is “articulate”.

The look Homer gave me as I asked him, kindly, to finish his drink and move outside showed that he could not articulate his problem with me and the rest of the staff. On the surface of it, perhaps he felt that he had not had all he wanted to drink, and that the licensing laws were archaic and intrusive.

From what he kept repeating to us about how “YOU GUYS ARE TRYING TO RUN A BUSINESS AND MAKE MONEY, RIGHT!?!? LIKE, NOONE HERE’S GOING TO SAY ANYTHING IF YOU BREAK THE LAW!!”, I sensed that there was another problem that he was too stupid to articulate; a problem which loud, inarticulate Americans in general struggle with outside the states.

His problem was that he was a jet-set imperialist – in the UK not to experience a different country’s culture, but to act as if he was in his own “back yard” and complain when anything was not done the correct, capitalist way; all the while thinking he was better than us because of the birthplace named on his passport. Essentially racism. I knew exactly why he gave me such a dirty look when I asked him to leave: he was not used to, and did not expect, such ill treatment in the form of following the law and disinterest in making a “quick buck”.

Maybe that’s not how it’s done in Florida, but if I personally went anywhere else in the world, I would try to blend in and experience a different way of living – isn’t that the point of world travel? If I was in Rome, I would not act like the Romans. I would not try to raze the city and impose my religion and government and language and army on them. Rather, I would act like the Italians. That’s my problem with Homer Simpson right there in a nutshell: he was a capitalist, imperialist pig who made me stay at work two hours longer than necessary – and if that doesn’t make me left wing, I don’t know what does.

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You Look Like A Cabbage Patch Doll But I Still Would

I know you hate my blogs about existentialism and the like, and would prefer to read about who I slept with a week ago, but believe me: this way, I have way more copy! Besides, it is important for me to address this issue. And for you to read it.

One of my good friends from work told me a theory of his, about two weeks ago. He said that everyone over the age of 18 still think of themselves as being that age; like a mental checkpoint in time. He said that he regularly thinks of himself as 18 years old and is shocked when he realises that his friends are all getting older, and thus, so is he.

I told him that I didn’t believe such crap; that it was a load of baloney; that I am in fact capable of remembering what age I am at all times. It reminded me of all the times my dad has asked me how old I am.

So anyway, these two girls came into my restaurant earlier this week; sisters. We used to be close friends, when we were younger. I was around 15 at the time, as was one of the girls. Her sister was three years older than us.

There was a bit of tension when they came in. We acknowledged each other, said “Hi”. I thought it best to leave the room at that point, staying out of the restaurant and having a whale of a time in the bar playing with the coffee machine. I really love the coffee machine. I work in a bar and restaurant, by the way.

Now when I’m at work, I get a lot of thinking done – particularly when I’m at the coffee machine. Gotta love that coffee machine. However, the thinking I was doing that day was pretty lightweight; yet I managed to mess it up. I thought the older of my former friends must have been 21, since the younger one and I were three years younger than her and… hang on…

So maybe there is some credence to my friend’s theory. Maybe I have been proven wrong. I must say, it was a total head-fuck, and I still find it difficult to believe that I am 20 years old. Yet it’s not the first time my beliefs have been proven wrong, or at least mortally wounded. I mean, I’m a Catholic and God knows how many discrepancies have arisen from that seemingly minor detail conflicting with my everyday life. However, I’m thinking more along the lines of the time I had a big argument with my philosophy lecturer about how I could definitely tell, at all times, whether I was awake or dreaming. Bear in mind that I also told the same lecturer that I was a staunch, practicing Catholic.

I truly believed that I was able to tell between reality and what goes on when I sleep, yet over the past couple of days, I have had a few things sticking out in my memory that I cannot place. I know I have picked up this certain information from someone, or somewhere, yet I cannot think back to where I got it.

The first such memory is an in depth discussion about pedal notes in music. This is all well and good, but who the hell would ever talk about pedal notes in a conversation? Who would even care? Even I don’t care that much! I wouldn’t question this conversation normally, but I was trying to think how it came about, or where it led, and I cannot recall any details about the conversation other than that I was being a smarmy dick to whomever I was talking to, claiming to know every last detail about pedal notes and trying to give the impression that I was somewhat clued up about musical theory. I’m not.

The second memory is that someone, real or otherwise, said the following sentence to me: “The most famous portmanteau is the word ‘Prada’,” followed by a description of how Prada means “Practical/Fashionable” or something similar. Now, I’m less clued up about fashion than I am about musical theory*, but I swear I thought Prada was someone’s name. If only I didn’t spend so much time thinking at the coffee machine and could “Start Living In The Real World”. Someone should write a book about that.

*This sentence reminds me of Miles Kane, whom I want to kick in. He was quoted in Uncut magazine (which I bought for an underwhelming list of the 30 greatest David Bowie songs, evidently fabricated by said magazine) as saying: “Does the aspect of re-inventing yourself appeal? You should see me at the weekend. Eyeliner, the lot”. This, along with several other quotes which paint him as someone desperate for fame and not doing it very well, riding on Alex Turner’s rather short coat-tails and spouting a load of shit about how “amazing” he is, makes me hate him. Although I did like their cover of In The Heat Of The Morning.

Enough of that bollocks, I want to have an affair with the woman across the road from me. Yeah, you heard! I don’t particularly find her attractive. In fact, I don’t find her attractive at all. Sometimes, when she wears shorts and stands next to her dollhouse-like bungalow, she looks like a child’s doll. An ugly one at that. Even so, I couldn’t compete with her total catch of a husband. He has so many things I don’t have, like an open-top sports car and a rather fetching mullet. This isn’t why I want to have an affair with Pam. I say Pam, her name is really Jackie, but I only found that out last year. For the decade previous, I thought her name was Pam. So anyway, I don’t really want to have sex with Pam/Jackie. I don’t really want to break up her marriage to the total catch with the sports car and the dodgy-cum-enviable hair, I just think it would be funny for a little while.

But I am no longer the kid I used to be. I have learned to take responsibility over my actions; to show restraint and resist temptation; to think about the consequences further down the line than two hours away… Yet I can’t even remember what age I am half the time. I swear, I get more and more like my dad every day…

DIY Psychology

I’ve been thinking a lot about postmodernism – to the point where I am very nearly physically sick. I’ve had to do a lot of research on postmodern theories this year, as well as other cultural theories; and they’ve really messed up my head. Academics are so far removed from reality that they seem to be living parallel lives to those of the people they theorise about, and reading their work just drags normal people into their way of thinking. At least that’s what happened to me. It could be that I am just highly susceptible to academic thought (read: easy target), but all this highbrow thinking with an uneasy foothold on reality is ruining my life.

Let me give you an example: I am a long term music lover, but I don’t like music. At least, I don’t just sit back and let it wash over me. I analyse the hell out of it – what instrument is this, whose fingers are touching it, how stoned was Keef when he wrote this part, how many takes it took and how difficult it would be for me to join whatever band I happen to favour at that very minute. The big problem with analysing music and reading postmodern bullshit is that said shit gets all over your ears.

I really liked the singer Duffy when she hit the airwaves with Mercy. I still like her now, as she is promoting the single Warwick Avenue. She is also hot as sin. However, Mercy’s backbeat sounds just like the Ben E. King song Stand By Me sped up. This put me on edge. Postmodernists say that nothing is really new, that everything is a copy. Duffy copied! Warwick Avenue added insult to injury: even though it is a good song, there are obvious similarities to the bass line of My Girl by The Temptations. Now I am all for white singers performing black music – as long as they do it well – but such an obvious rip off is just too much. And it doesn’t stop there, oh no! I noticed after getting pissed off with these two songs that Duffy herself looks facially like Pamela Anderson – and we all know Pammy’s gifts to man-kind were, in fact, man-made. Thus, I conclude that nothing on or related to the radio is real. In fact, have you ever even seen a radio wave!? I rest my case.

I tried to explain this to my mum, Big Kathy, because she thought I was depressed – which means I’m on drugs and the only way to sort that out is to throw me out of the house, obviously – and she gave me some stupid self-help book which I haven’t actually bothered looking at. Its title is (something along the lines of): “Stop Thinking About Whatever It Is And Start Living In The Real World”. Essentially a self-help book designed to make you stop reading self-help books.

Evidently, the book didn’t work, since my house has a veritable library written by Dr Phil et al., all of which, Kathy has read. I never have read a self-help book, especially one designed to make you “live in the real world”, regardless of having them thrust in my face any time anything appears to be bothering me. I don’t see the point in using watered down psychology to make me think less deeply about whatever’s on my mind – especially since that would spell the end of this blog.

Today while I was living in the real world and not thinking about whatever it is that was bugging me in the first place – without the aid of a self-help book, might I add – I realised that in psychological terms, performing music is one of the healthiest actions a person can make. Based on the attacks on western psychology in Island by Aldous Huxley, where he exposes the notion of repressing any bad experiences then dredging them up wholesale with a shrink over a period of several years, contrasted with the idea of working through a problem contemporaneously, and forgetting about it later; musicians must accept-and-move-on quicker than anyone else. Performing the same song, about the same issue, night after night, going back to the same emotional place, forces musicians to accept-and-move-on; whereas a painter, for example, will only delve into that certain emotional place for one piece.

As Joni Mitchell said: “That’s one thing that’s always, like, been a difference between, like, the performing arts, and being a painter, you know. A painter does a painting, and he paints it, and that’s it, you know. He has the joy of creating it, it hangs on a wall, and somebody buys it, and maybe somebody buys it again, or maybe nobody buys it and it sits up in a loft somewhere until he dies. But he never, you know, nobody ever, nobody ever said to Van Gogh: ‘paint a Starry Night again, man!’ You know? He painted it and that was it.”

I say I was living in the real world when I was thinking about this – I was actually in the middle of a gig playing piano and singing, which is kind of like reality’s en suite bathroom. It’s pretty hard to articulate a thought and focus on a song, so I probably messed up the words and dropped the title of the self-help book into one of my tunes by accident.

Even though the majority of the songs I play at gigs are covers, I still get an emotional release from playing them like the person who wrote the songs. It’s a different type of release though, because I attach certain emotions and loved ones and situations to other people’s songs. I won’t give any examples, because that’s a little too personal; but for most of the people I know, I think of them when I hear a certain song.

In closing, I would just like to make the three following points:

1. I should not be allowed near plants, animals or children. My floor is currently covered in soil because I have repeatedly dropped my cacti, Dennis and Joni Mitchell. Dennis, the big one, is the poster child for this blog. He is not Mr Blobby’s biggest fan right now. Nor mine.

2. To my fans: I have been lying to you all. My blog is not the best blog in the world. No, I’m not talking about HyPhY gHeTtO mAmI (because her MySpace profile has been deleted); but this woman here, Marilyn. She is an absolute legend. She takes more drugs than my mum thinks I take, and then makes crazy hippie quilts while she’s wasted! Yes indeedee!

3. Final point – a disclaimer: although Marilyn is fully within her right to sue for what I just said about her, I hope that she will consider the fact that she has taken my mind off “Whatever It Is” and allowed me to “Start Living In The Real World” with her brain-numbing blog faster than any useless self-help book. Cheers love!

Paranoid User Of The World Wide Web

I’m excited about this new blog. At least I was lastnight when I wrote up some notes for it. I haven’t been able to archive my old work, but you should know by now where to find it – it’s there if you care!

I tend to write notes for my blogs during the days leading up to a post, and those notes tend to be written in shorthand. I am a third year student journalist, but I will probably not be posting any journalistic work on this site; this blog is purely for use as something between a diary and a means of seeking attention.

As a journalist, I realise that I am writing for a different audience than my MySpace blog. There, I was essentially writing in-jokes for friends who were in-the-know. At most, I was writing for strangers who (for some reason) fancied me, and possibly stalked me online. Here, I hope to carry on some of my old readers – who should be by now completely sick of my introductory notes and rehashed posts – as well as pick up some new strangers from the red-light-district that is Google. Please visit more than once, I don’t like one-night-stands and am as sick of them online as I am in real life.

“I don’t have sex, I have transactions.” – Me

Anyway, my last post essentially dealt with the fact that I am not very motivated. I am an amateur singer, guitarist, pianist, painter, writer and blogger, et cetera, et cetera; yet I don’t produce a lot of “things” (as I referred to them last time). However, after the post, I seemed to become more motivated – the fact that I created this new blog site after becoming totally disenchanted-to-the-point-of-never-posting-anything-ever-ever-ever with MySpace is testament to my renewed motivation. I also wrote a half decent song, Catharsis, which I recorded straight after writing, and have uploaded to youtube. Check it out here! At the same time, I have been watching a lot of videos made by musician MusicFromBlueSkies, who is just excellent. My only problem with him – and it is a huge problem – is that he is way, way better than me. And as you may have read, I just cannot handle that.

That’s one of the big paradoxes when it comes to one’s online life – it is both empowering, in that you can display talent, but at the same time, there is always someone way, way better than you. So you’re empowered, then shot down, and because you have been empowered, the fall is greater. I can fully and honestly admit that I am both addicted to the internet, and completely disappointed by what it has given back to me. I fully believed – and still believe – that my old posts were worth far more than the response they were given. But that’s just my ego.

There’s another big paradox of the internet: we are connected globally, but in fact, looking at the tiny sub-groups which form online – in chat rooms, blog sites, even youtube – we just join a set of small communities. Hardly anything is universal online. Only very few blogs such as BloodBus and Perez Hilton (whom I refuse to link here) have mass appeal. I guess the only way to be satisfied with one’s online identity is to realise that you are at the bottom of the pile and have to blog your way out – then Darwinism and hegemony kick in, which kicks 95% of us in the butt.

Because, as I just said in the most long-winded fashion, noone is likely to read, lest enjoy, this blog, I may as well cut the tangent short and continue with my scant introduction. I work in a fancy-ass restaurant with some of the most wonderful people I have ever met, yet – another paradox – I make less than minimum wage and hate 95% of the customers and, at times, wish to kick them in the butt – mainly because Darwinism and hegemony attempted a punt each, but missed their backsides. Because of this, I think it is about time to move on. I also want to get my own flat – as I live with my crazy mum and she is, well, crazy – and do one more year at university.

Closer to present, I need to but a new mobile phone. I have been without a mobile for 5 days now, and it is so strange not to be able to contact everyone and anyone at the touch of a button. I needed a new phone, since I have a real knack for breaking technology, so I’m not too broken up about that. The real problem is that I don’t have my contact numbers! Also, the method of losing the phone poses a problem, since it was because I had them in the pocket of my skinny jeans on the bus. Sitting + skinny jeans = lost items. Add a bus to the equation and you’ll never get said items back.

That’s in real life, anyway. Online has been far less bleak. I have had so much free time since I took a hiatus from blogging, and although I usually hate every single person in the Guardian’s G2 style page – where some random prick art student from Brighton or whatever is quizzed about their left-wing fashion ideals and revels in how much money they spent on a fucking pair of shoes – but the other week, I was inspired by them. Some woman from Glasgow was rambling on – between the price of her shoes and how amazing her expensive scarf was – about how she buys clothes from London boutiques via the internet. Many of them, apparently, sell their wares over eBay and their own sites.

“Yes!” I thought, and off I went to find clothes that would make me blend seamlessly with The Kooks (I plan to join said band, whether they like it or not).

Now, you would think that by now, I would have given some shiny hyperlink texts with flashy London-boutique-esque names in them, after revelling in their wonderful silks and nylons. No. No, it didn’t work out that way. In fact, I gave up pretty quickly on the London boutique idea, since every single one I looked at only seemed to sell intriguing but highly impractical SKINNY JEANS. Oh the irony! Oh the mocking pastiche of real life seeping out of my cathode-ray-toaster-machine!

Sometimes, I’m genuinely glad that although they are a window to a second world, computers come with an off switch. Jesus…

He Called Me “The Chameleon” Which Made Me Simile

Originally posted on 15 May, but totally relevant even now, a whole five days later:

I was out on Saturday night – a rarity – with some friends from high school, whom I hadn’t seen since, well, high school. Evidently, this is even more of a rarity than a weekend spent on the other side of a bar, but that’s not the point. The point is that it was Drew’s birthday, and he commented on my insistence to change my personality and lifestyle – and whatever else may come to mind – every twelve minutes or so. For the first time, he (or, indeed, anyone) actually spoke of this uncanny ability in positive terms; referring to the pivotal feature of acknowledging music from the entire aural spectrum, regardless of whether I’m wearing a band t-shirt or maroon nylon suit; big hair or slicked back, faux-Bowie bouffant. As glamourous or pretentious as this may sound, the comment was provoked by me bouncing up and down Union Street singing The Passenger over and over again – the revised, poppy Siouxsie and the Banshees version which gracefully soars over the original, naturally; and anyone who is familiar with Union Street knows that glamour and pretention are completely out of place in this setting.

Following the narrative structure I have identified in every single episode of The Simpsons since 1991, where the writers start on one thread then drastically – tragically – cut into another, less interesting thread by way of tenuous link after five minutes, but are safe in the knowledge that these first minutes of footage have secured 80% of the audience in their seats for the next 25-mins-incl-adverts; this blog will now vear sharply to the left and continue down a completely different path. WARNING: PATH INCLUDES POETRY.

Not only does an extensive use of personality changes mean that I know about lots of different types of music, I retain other features and carry them along with me; useless baggage. For example: when I stop pretending I want to be a journalist or writer, I’ll still use shorthand to confuse people. When I moved from Marilyn Manson to Def Leppard (why?), I kept the hair – in fact, the hair just kept going. And I just can’t seem to get my mental health records changed whatsoever.

The point here is that because I used to be a Goth, I write crappy poetry. I wrote a really shitty poem the other night about the vultures that were circling in my head at the time: the fact that I can’t draw for shit unless I’m really motivated; the fact that any decent paintings I do don’t attract any attention; the fact that some people are better than me – which I totally cannot handle; the fact that I don’t have a flashy job with a personal email address and free phone calls, yet Sandy does; Paolo Nutini style drop-smoking-habits-into-first-and-fourth-stanzas; the fact that one person walked out of my gig on Sunday and it’s put me in that pissy, egotistical mood; the fact that I know big words and want to put them in a poem; and a half-quote from a half-forgotten article in what was probably The Spectator. Here is said poem in full:

Giving Up Cigarettes

Maybe if I wasn’t so caught up
In self-interest
And selfish disinterest
In everything but a stained stub cross section
And the “What jeans and shoes today?”,
I could work out just what I’m putting
Cigarette smoke into.
I would work out just what my psyche really needs;
What chemicals are missing from my brain;
What words are still to be written;
And who to address them to.

Maybe if I wasn’t so caught up
In what I need
I could concentrate on the needs of others
But even that would be selfish.
Even a saint must have an ego
But even this ego couldn’t work his way
To sainthood, for what deeds could I do
For sainthood?
Even for peace, for I am not at peace.

That’s the thing:
I don’t want sainthood
Nor peace.
I am restless, but it seems preferable to peace.
So I want restlessness?
Yet restlessness I have
And the answers are still elusive.

Maybe if I wasn’t in the same jeans and shoes,
The same mindset,
The same cigarettes,
The same brands,
Same,
Same,
Same,
Yet restless.
So can I truly be restless,
If restlessness
Is homogenous?

To know what I want, it seems
I need to know what I want.
But my mind cannot rest
And cannot settle on wanting one thing,
Having one ideal, being one person, essentially:
One life is not enough,
And is tedious – it takes so long to get to the good scenes.
I want to wake up in another person’s body.
Take notes.
Learn.
Repeat.
But this is a practical impossibility –
For believe me, I have tried.

I read somewhere that my generation does not “do”.
We think about “doing”;
About where “doing” will get us;
How to get the most attention,
The most kudos and ovation,
a little piece of fame,
but “do” we do not.
Maybe we think too much.
I think too much.

How can one really live,
If appearance and personality is all just an act?
But how can one appear to have a personality,
When one does not act?

I feel like a mime
When I talk to people.
And see anything that I do as futile –
Completely futile.
To do anything great, one must put all of one’s energy into it.
But I am too caught up in other things.
Everything comes down to a single draft,
And who really cares?
Futile.

So maybe if I wasn’t so caught up
In self-interest, futility and immortality,
I would get things done.
But what are “things”?
And why “do” them?
No questions answered,
And nothing changes.

Three points:

1. I complain about how I do not “do” any”thing”. “Thing” of course being artwork, or writing a song or a short story or A POEM. Essentially, by complaining about never writing poems inside a poem, I create some sort of hypocritical mind-bender of a problem.

2. I said that every”thing” is a first draft. This poem – which also counts as a “thing” – was actually printed as a second draft, after I unwittingly tidied up the poem. At least now it is legible.

3. “[I] see anything that I do as futile” – because it doesn’t get published anywhere, or seen by anyone, or have any purpose or use or anything. Essentially by publishing this poem, the futility aspect is removed. Plus it proved stimulus for the first blog in, what, eight months or so? Plus the blog counts as a “thing”, which just starts the cycle all over again.

So anyway, the reason I published this poem was because the day after I wrote it, I went for lunch with regular readers Chris and Max (well, regular reader Chris anyway, since Bebo blogs are not compatible with 1,600 word rambles about nothing and Chris seems to be the only person left using this website; one of the scant cockroaches left after Rupert Murdoch dropped the targetted-advertising-H-bomb on MySpace.). Chris lent me his copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s Timequake (which I managed to cover almost completely in toothpaste the other day after I left the book in a plastic bag with some toothpaste and a Siouxie Sioux live album, which was sadly recorded way before she covered The Passenger. The only covering in this anecdote concerns Chris’ copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s Timequake. And two Beatles tracks. I managed to clean the toothpaste off the book, and it is back to its original condition. Chris will never know, and may even think my house smells minty fresh once I give it back.) last week, and although I am enjoying the novel, I prefer his short stories and find his novel-writing style a little freeekeee.

However, as with any worthwhile, non-futile book, there are lessons to be learned. I read chapter 20 of the aforementioned novel after our luncheon, which strangely correlates with some of the themes in my poem, if it can be called as such. I won’t quote the entire relevant passage, even though the writing is as tight as Vonnegut’s short stories, because:

1. I can’t be arsed.

And

2. That would be a severe breach in copyright. I think.

Anyway, during this passage, Vonnegut talks about the conception of one of his favourite phrases: “How the hell did I do that?”. Looking back on his work, a builder friend of Vonnegut’s marvelled over what he had managed to build – a new extension to the writer’s house for him to work in. I think that’s the point I was trying to get at in the poem, the conclusion I was trying to reach. It’s difficult to think “How the hell did I do that?” without seeing any sort of finished product; yet one has to somehow motivate oneself into “doing”. I can’t motivate myself, and maybe I need to work on that, I don’t know. And I don’t know how. Maybe I should write more crap, pointless poetry, and try to make sense out of it.

To conclude, I’d just like to add the two other favourite phrases listed by Vonnegut on pages 68 and 69 of the toothpaste edition of Timequake. One is from his seemingly very motivated son Mark – “pediatrician [sic] and watercolourist and sax player” – “We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is”. The other comes from Jesus Christ: “Who is it they say I am?”. Needless to say, I am enjoying this novel far more now, after we have established a spiritual connection. Finally, in reading over my first paragraph in search for a Simpsons-structure ending, I realise that perhaps the answer to my problems – motivational, inspirational, poetic – can be found in the kick-off point of this blog. I went out on Saturday night, and by Wednesday, I had “done” two things – three if you count pissing that old bastard off by not being able to play piano very well. I need to go out more. And so do you. Here’s to class-As!

Fresh Start With Baggage

I’ve decided that I have to keep blogging. I am actually quite the prolific blog-person, even though this is my first post – how strange. I have kept a blog on MySpace for something like three years, but it is increasingly difficult to keep the posts updated when there are only one or two readers left on what was once a very popular blog! Let’s not get into the ego of it here, but I would just like to start something new and fresh. Hopefully, there is a way to archive my old work on this website. If so, I’ll add the old blogs. If not, they are still to be found on my old, now defunct MySpace page.

From the beginning of my attempts to break into the blogosphere, I have wrestled endlessly with the idea of moving to a different website – perhaps one which actually links from Google; but I have never had the heart to leave MySpace. Well, now that everyone who ever used MySpace has deserted it (with danah boyd ringing in their ears), I have no reason to stay. There is no demand for what I can supply anymore.

Anyway, the plan is to start writing up new, exciting posts as soon as possible; this was just an introduction. Since the introduction has fell flat on its face and I know noone on this website, there is no point in me asking for advice on creating an archive. Off I go to email admin…