| I had a very nice day today... |
[Apr. 18th, 2007|07:45 pm] |
Anticipating this morning's hangover quite some time ago, I put myself down for an annual leave day today. The many highlights of last night's Slayer gig were all the times Kerry King didn't solo. Seriously Kerry- leave the soloing to Jeff. The concert was actually full of ups and downs. Undoing all the good work my relatively recent re-exposure to the metal scene has done, in terms of my no longer pigeon-holing the mosh crowd into the "violent geek" category, were two things: Firstly, there was Tom Araya's opening question to the song "Post Mortem" (reminiscent of Homer Simpson's Stand-up routine), a friendly, exhuberant "Do you want to die?"...Mitch and I look at each other quizzically while some idiot in front of Shaun yells "YEEEAAAAAHHHH!!!!"... "I said- do YOU want to DIEEEEE???!!!"....Same idiot goes "YEEEAAAH!!", naturally. Shaun has to be moved before he hurts the man, Mitch goes into hysterics at the idiocy of the question. Then there was the incident with the crazed fan, the knife, the self-mutilation across the chest (he seriously gashed his own torso, yelling "SLAAYYAAAAAAH!!") and his decision to cuddle a frightened Mitch straight after doing it. Mitch just wanted to have a pee, and was confronted by this in the line. The cops came pouring in, the crazed moron got taken away. It's probably going to be on the news, perpetuating that this is what the average metal-head is like. In any case, good thing Mitch was both drunk and in high spirits, or I think he'd have found the blood-drenched hug rather uncomfortable...
Today's hangover was dealt with swiftly, through the good ole bacon and egg roll/ bottle of V combo. I was then able to have a long, long shower. I did some readings in the sun, then went about spring cleaning my room. Since I started on the meds I don't clean any more, which means the garage becomes a bit of a hovel after a while. I've left the vines and spider-webs, though, because I've decided they look cool. Dropped Shaun into work for a meeting (his girlfriend Jess has just found out that she's my new boss, strangeness all round, which means Shaun becomes the new Jess in his team); came home and played guitar for two hours while watching Ren and Stimpy. Then to the boxing gym. The trainer was away sick so I just did some bag-work and light sparring before coming home. I feel very accomplished today. I'm going to go take myself to the movies now. I'm thinking a Corona at the cafe first, then a large popcorn for the flick. Fuck yeah :-) |
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| Exquisite union... |
[Jan. 3rd, 2007|09:41 pm] |
Perfect hybrids. I love this idea. It takes the notion of perfection away from the realm of the absolute and into the spectrum of interrelation by degree. Think about such wonderful combinations as "the wisdom of age" with "the energy of youth"; "the comfort of home" with "the freedom of travel"; "the visceral coolness of funk" with "the cerebral coolness of jazz"; and so-on.
Tonight, wandering through the local bottle-o, I discovered Cave Creek's "Cerveza con Chili".
Chili Beer. |
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| Guitar in the Park... |
[Oct. 25th, 2006|07:11 pm] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | Cloud Nine | ] |
| [ | mood |
| |  ecstatic | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Dizzy- "Purring and clawing at my lap" | ] |
Like most of my stories these days, this one begins in the pub on a Friday night. I've finished work, gone home, then come back to meet up with Shaun and play pool with a few of the locals. There are always interesting old people about- former prisoners, former screws, ex-millitary types, cops, builders, artists, bikers etc.(I've mentioned Benny and Roscoe in a previous entry), but this particular occasion, and this particular man, will stand out in my mind for a very long time.
I am taking my first shot on the black when he staggers up to our table. Shaun gives me that look, the one that says "Paul, here's another burned-out freak with some bonding he'd like to do with you, I'm going to go and have a smoke now, see ya!" (it's a verbaceous look, trust me) and pisses off around the corner. The newcomer's not an old man, really, but certainly far from young. He's small and slightly confused- with a bit of the Geoffrey Rush air about him. His hair is short cropped and messy, and his clothes are soiled with various "fluids of the night", as I call them. I peg him as a man without a home, being the judgmental fellow that I am, and offer to shout him a game of pool once I've sunk the black. He accepts.
After going through the usual motions, chests puffed out, bullshitting about our own importance and so-on, it comes to light that he is indeed a very unfortunate man. No home, no family, no job, no options. The only things that have kept him going over the last decade are an enigmatic benefactor (he wouldn't go into details), a steady supply of meds from the government, and his guitar. My ears prick up, and I delightedly exclaim that I, too, play the guitar. His response is natural" "Yeah, you and everybody else with long hair. But can you *really* play the guitar?" My attitude becomes a tad more defensive, so he starts "testing" me on what I know. The nerve of this guy, I think, but I decide to keep the peace by taking the bait. He sees that I'm a bit rattled, and offers to buy me a drink. I know he can't afford it, but don't want to offend him, so I buy both him and me a drink and give him a handful of change (amounting to the twenty he gave me), convincing him that he bought us both a round. I'm doing fine with his music theory Q and A, though it takes me all my booze-addled memory to summon into consciousness all the theory lessons I've ever had. Besides, it's actually a bit of a farce- I know theory by rote, but can't really translate it very well onto the instrument. I've always been a very good improviser by ear/ feel, but I'm a long way off being a cerebral player. We eventually get into the murky territory of modes, and my whole facade comes crumbling down. It is immediately clear to this man, from my ignorance in this area, that all the rest of the shit I've been saying is just that. Rather than ridicule me, though, he (suddenly lucid in his element) proceeds to carefully explain the modes using only the balls on the pool table. The game is forgotten as he cracks a code that has had me baffled for years. My pride is gone, my desire to learn more is almost palpable.
After at least two hours, Shaun (who has been coming back around the corner at intervals to check on me) finally convinces me that it is time to leave. My new friend and I are well and truly drunk by this stage, and are involved in an argument about my age. He's just accused me of being too old (guitar-wise) and set in my ways to not know what the modes are. I've accused him of being too old to make that kind of judgment. It's getting quite heated. As Shaun drags me out the door, however, the man laughingly yells: "So, are you keen for a lesson, free of charge? I'd like to see if I can make a butterfly out of a 28 year old caterpillar." To his surprise, and mine (not to mention Shaun's, who will cuff the back of my head repeatedly on the way home), I accept the offer. We slur out an arrangement to meet in the park behind Coles at Epping ("No, motherfucker, you can't come to my house. How do I know you're not gonna steal all my stuff?" "Like you'd have any stuff I'd want to steal ya little prick" etc.) on Wednesday at 11am.
"If you don't show, Paul, then fuck ya and yer "Guitar Playing"."
"And if you don't show, Allan, fuck you and your high opinions of yourself".
Cut to today, Wednesday. I'm up at the chemist, anyway, and it's 10.55am. I decide to have a quick wander around the park, convinced it's just another one of those drunken exchanges that's not going to come to fruition, when I spy him, in all his ugg-boot glory, tuning up a battered (but nonehteless beautiful) hand-made, nylon-string acoustic. I tentatively scurry over to him, a little ashamed of my behaviour at the end of our previous encounter, but one look at his sheepish mug tells me he's just as embarrassed as I am. I sit down, we shake hands and comment on the weather, and then we let the guitar lesson take the edge off for us. The man is not just good- he's a genius. Even if everything else he has said is a lie, his playing speaks for itself. He moves easily (without missing a beat) from J.S Bach, to Jeff Beck, to flamenco stylings of his own creation. He performs perfect renditions of "Black Mountainside", "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" (recently made famous again by that ukelele maestro on Youtube) and old Chet Atkins songs, all the while complaining about his arthritis over the top of the magic. I am not exaggerating- I am blown away.
He is also a gentle, insightful and remarkably articulate teacher. I never feel that he is going too fast for me, or too slow. Four hours later (I kid you not) we are leaning back on the bench, laughing like old friends. He's talking about the best way to use a lure to catch three and four pound bass , I'm alternately drilling through some of the new modal patterns and chord transitions he's taught me and discussing where he could get an income. It's one of those really pretty afternoons where the leaves of the tree we sit beneath are glistening with droplets, catching the light of the soft yellow sun as it heads back over the horizon. Neither of us have anything to do (I'm on holidays again, and he's a man of many leisure hours), so we just take turns listening, talking and playing.
I'm home now, and we've agreed to do it again soon. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 13th, 2006|04:53 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | amused | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Jimi Hendrix- "Born Under A Bad Sign" | ] |
People at work have been trying to give me more responsibility for ages. They call it a "promotion". I have kept them at bay, thus far, by protesting that I can't work full time.
Today they trumped me. I can keep my hours (furthermore, my new role won't have an official start time, so long as I am there for the full shift's worth it's OK), and they'll give me a pay rise if I take it. I had no leg to stand on. Gone is my veil of obscurity. Into the limelight of productive cog-witchery I go.
Pretty cool they hounded me so hard for it, but it better not be the precursor to a "get a haircut" speech, or a "you are part of the family" speech, or "why don't you put some decorations on your desk, make it a little more like your space away from home" speech. I'll wee on their expensive equipment, I swear. |
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| So, in light of the fact... |
[Sep. 4th, 2006|06:54 pm] |
...that many of my previous entries (so long ago now that I can almost hear the baleful acoustic guitar of nostalgia playing over their grainy soft-focus) have been somewhat bleak in both motivation and content, I have decided to capitalise on my present high spirits by writing an entry when I feel good.
I think I'll mark the occasion by doing a "19* Things That Make Me Feel Like This" list. At least that way, next time the plush donkey of morbidity threatens to rub its excrement in my eyes, I'll be confronted with this record of mania (or sentimentality- you decide) before sharing the donkey-shit around.
[*more or less. The more anal and self-congratulatory among you may find it amusing to point out that some of the items are actually two or three items squeezed into a single hybrid monster. Don't tempt fate. Let it go.]
( 19 THINGS THAT MAKE ME FEEL LIKE A WEE SCHOOLGIRL AGAIN ) |
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| Invisible Inventory... |
[Mar. 5th, 2006|06:53 pm] |
All these things that build up and get left unsaid. You know- like that moment of rapture in which you want to tell those you are close to how much you love them all, but never do. Or that hidden list of traits they have that irritate the shit out of you. It's hard, dealing with people. Especially when so much of what you want to say, good and bad, stays safely stowed beneath the surface.
This gets compounded by the suspicion that others are doing the exact same thing. It ends up being like something out of the Titanic. The disaster, that is.
It's why I think we (or at least I) need a formula. Some kind of reduced method by which to engage with objects outside myself- ideas and other human beings included. Such formulae are not real. They are, however, a way to make sense of the chaos, and even in their fabrication they have a kind of compass value. They are really only dangerous once you start mistaking magnetic north for the real thing. Hence, theological, new age and scientific gasbagging.
My formula now is to live a story I'd like to read. The pain and the pleasure will hopefully wrap each other nicely, and make an entertaining or meaningful ride for its audience of one.
Pointless. But thanks for listening :-) |
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| Bedtime Stories... |
[Mar. 2nd, 2006|11:07 pm] |
So. It turns out MC Hammer has a blog (he likes stimulating intellectual debate, baseball and being a father) and Kevin Costner has his own website, complete with footage of the K-man himself (sans PR mob, it would seem) showering us, his captive audience, with anecdotal wisdom and the pithy philosophy of the worldly thespian.
I really would like to say more, but words fail me.
Hammer:
http://mchammer.blogspot.com/
Kevin:
http://www.kevincostner.com/video.html
Thanks to Giantmonster.com for the links. |
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| Late at night... |
[Feb. 5th, 2006|02:21 am] |
It's late. Was reflecting before on a beer label. James Squire. A really nice colonial beer that I drink alot of the time. Has a variety of labels for its bottles, each with a different chapter of the James squire story on it. Makes for a nice faux-grass roots feel, kinda like it's not the "Pepsi" of Aussie premium grades (a criticism I've heard a few beer snobs level at it), but a genuine piece of brewing history. The character they have created as Mr Squire (whether it's real or not) is very entertaining. Part Casanova, part Robin Hood, part Doc Holliday, and part Richard Branson, I guess. Not so sure about the last one.
Anyway, the story bits are all nice, but it was the write-up about the taste that got my attention on this occasion. You know how any product, food/ beer/ cigarettes etc, that wants to go for the high-brow angle tends to play up the ingredients, or process of manufacture, in order to whet the palate prior to consumption ? Works on me every time- I even like reading the crap they write on the back of a Pizza Shapes box, about the "wholesome baked" shit. Well, the Malt Shovel Brewery (who make the beer) have given me the answer to an important question.
After a paragraph or two about a venerable yeast (top-fermenting, whatever the fuck that means), three kinds of hop and the copper colour of the ale, it says:
"distinct richness, creamy head and a long, slightly nutty finish"...
...Paul. Just what exactly do you want out of life?
hehehe. Hell yeah :-) |
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| Ohfuckyesihavefinishedthefucker |
[Oct. 25th, 2005|01:16 am] |
I have finished my final essay. I just did four subjects in the time it normally takes me to (officially) do two and (realistically) do one. This afterglow is like being full of helium. I apologise if it affects the tonal quality of my voice at all. Consider it the price paid for the more relaxed and easy-going conversation that's sure to issue forth. No really. I'm a new man. OK, I'm not a new man, but I'm like an old man that has been given a new set of car keys and powerful lungs with which to bellow dramatic songs of praise and glory across heaven and earth. I feel good.
Time to become a liverpool... |
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