| 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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| Fuck yeah!!!!! I have slain the beast!!! Doin' tha funky chicken!!!! |
[Sep. 22nd, 2005|03:14 pm] |
I have just, this minute, finished my final essay for Ethics. I have nailed it!!! I am really happy with it, too :-)
I am now one essay and one exam away from having finished a DOUBLE workload of uni subjects, WITHIN THE REQUIRED PERIOD.
Those of you that know me will know that this represents a breakthrough of epic proportions. I can commit, I can do it, I can finish things on time, so I can finish my degree!
*wiggles eyebrows triumphantly* The world will soon be my oyster. Oh yes. Or my mung bean for those less of the oyster persuasion and more of the sprouty kind.
You know who you are, Oli :-)
(that's also a compliment, by the way) |
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| A Shrine To The Dark Lord of Sandwiches... |
[Aug. 17th, 2005|02:11 pm] |
It has been a while, but I believe I just made the perfect sandwich. I needed to share the wonder.
It started while I was looking at the modest hunk of sourdough I had left from the weekend (which was fantastic, by the way. Oliver's post says it all)What began as an attempt to craft two separate sandwiches became the ascension of a single gourmet mountain; a monolithic shrine to cholesterol and spice (it had a tomato, though!) It occurred to me that the structural properties of the loaf lent themselves to an uncanny stacking potential- the "ridges" left over after a few clumsy swipes with your average bread-knife work a little bit like tongue-and-groove, and the dough itself (while very soft and moist in the centre) peters out to form a hard crust for stability. Using the contours of the loaf, I cut the hunk into three thick slices of gradually receding surface area. To the largest "foundation" layer, I applied a generous swabbing of seeded mustard, then, to the dismay of vegetarians the world over (believe me, if it could have been helped, I would have stopped myself) I added two very fine slices of smoked beef that I got from the markets the other day, so thin you could almost see the light shining through them, and curled to perfection. On top of this delicious bed, I spread a forkload of spicy eggplant pickle (thanks Oli, top notch condiment) and smashed a couple of pieces of fresh market brie. The next layer of bread capped it off, and to this second story I added a heaped spoonful of some marvelous vegetable chutney I got for my birthday, as well as the freshly chopped tomato I mentioned earlier. Some slices of hot chorizo followed, sealed with the gracious presence of another mustard, dijon this time. The final slice of bread was then added, as was a toothpick and some heavy pressure to get the bastard squashed to a manageable thickness. I thought about garnishing it with a piece of parsley or something, but then mentally slapped myself for almost crossing the line.
This was served with a glass of Alex's batch no. 15- an Irish Stout with Belgian Trappist yeast and Coopers' dark malt, a pot of Guatemalan filtered coffee, an apple and three of the awesome little chilli-chocolates Oli and Amber gave me. What a lunch! I feel I have finally honed my procrastination capacity to an edge so sharp it carves holy artefacts from loaves of bread... |
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| Travel, Study etc... |
[Feb. 28th, 2005|02:31 pm] |
So. I have miscalculated how long it's going to take me to finish my degree. Or, as one very wise ferret told me not so long ago, I chose to ignore how long it was really going to take me to finish my degree. At present, I have 12 subjects left until completion. That's 18 months worth of uni. And that's only if my plan of obtaining academic credit for studies at Shaolin pays off. If not, then I have 14 subjects (24 months) left to do. This has pi$$ed me off a little. Actually, I have pi$$ed me off a little. Time to put the new and improved Paul paradigm to the test. Do I get frustrated and mad??? Y-y-y......no.
Things are. I will adapt. I was thinking of trimming my China trip down to a more managable 6-9 month period, rather than the 9-12 months I had originally planned. I was then planning to use it as a reward for completing second-year and my first couple of third year subjects in November. Come back the following June or whatever and finish the rest. Use another trip I have planned as my reward for finishing uni.
Money's no longer the problem. It's this sorta oath I swore to finish uni before I went travelling. I have to shake that way of thinking. I know there are some of you who would say I have to shake alot more than that about my way of thinking (i.e. obsession with the immediate future), but I'm taking small steps here.
Any thoughts about all this would be most welcome. I have a very limited handle on what I am actually capable of doing within a given time.
I hope youse is all bitchin. |
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| Fotosenbeer |
[Feb. 23rd, 2005|10:18 pm] |
Just got back from an interesting photography exhibition with one of my old school buddies. She's quite a good person to go to these things with because her enthusiasm is contagious. The artist's name was Bill Henson, and his work was really engaging, for the most part. Kind of let you drift off into your own little mental film-clip about its content without beating any dogma into you. I had some fettuccini and a glass of beer afterwards, then my friend dropped me home.
I originally declined the invite, citing my black mood and need to at least stress about study at home, but then lo and behold she comes barreling into the garage about fourty minutes later (she was at a training session just up the road) and says that if I wanted to stay home I'd better email her my essay progress the following morning. I reluctantly acquiesced, and am very glad I did so.
I needed to get out of that house.
I quit smoking until 3pm today (that's 10 hours). I was convinced that, as I was already feeling sh!te, it wouldn't make any difference. I could kill two birds with the one stone. Boy, was I wrong. I became a wreck by about 1.30, and succumbed to temptation at 3.
My intention is to try and quit until 4 tomorrow, then 5 the next day, and so-on. Then I might re-assess my appointment with the hypnotist next Friday. Can't really afford it either, right now. |
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| Firat poat (or "my S key isn't working...") |
[Feb. 22nd, 2005|08:31 pm] |
Starfish 4,928 red.
Hmmm.
Well. It has definitely been a better day than yesterday. If my whole life started Sunday night and ended tomorrow, you could safely say this has been the best day of my life...
Woke up at my usual stupidly dark, morbid and (I kid you not) ALWAYS rainy hour, and drove our Volvo-shaped ocean liner to work. Atmospheric, but not conducive to "positive thinking". God bless the idiots that came up with this idea! Think Positive, mister frowny man!
Without it, I might not be able to stay awake on the slippery asphalt as I "drive" my "vehicle" into the bowels of gainful employment. The seething fury that grips me as I think about those balloon-faced leprechauns who have the temerity to be upbeat at 5.45 in the morning is like a brisk swim in an icy stream, or a deep breath of mountain air- it keeps me going all the way to my desk at the office.
Usual shot of coffee. Can of V 20 minutes later. I start to fade into conciousness and apologise for growling and attempting to staple my colleagues to each other earlier. They politely acknowledge my plea for truce (they weren't actually doing anything anyway) and get back to whatever quiet (and no doubt vivid) reveries carry them through the shift.
Shift finishes and I rush down to the gym we have at work, looking forward to my usual session devoid of people. It's really cool, for a gym-hating curmudgeon like myself- I get the trainer's full attention the whole time. And believe me when I tell you she gets a hell of a giggle out of me. I do everything wrong. I lock my knees on the leg weights ("Don't do that, you'll break your legs!") I fling the barbell onto the rack when I'm done ("Don't do that, I'll break your legs") I never drink any water and I arrive shrouded in the reek of stale cigarette smoke. These folks seem to be under the misguided impression that a) I want to go to the gym and pump iron to be "healthy"; and b) Going to the gym to pump iron IS "healthy". Seriously- you want health, do yoga or pilates, running or swimming. At a push, do some aerobics or get cosy on one of those weird, stationary "cardio" vehicles they have (I always thought it would be more appealing if the screen graphics were better...) There is no way in any of the nine hells that lifting weights can be GOOD for you. You are ripping muscle, stressing bone, putting a great deal of strain on your heart and lungs- all in the name of improving either your aesthetic form or your ability to hit things hard. That's not health. That's vanity. And that's me.
"Health" driven thoughts often do occur to me as I walk out the door to my car, though. I usually quit smoking for about three hours each day, superstitiously convinced that this act will somehow make everything OK again, until some downer happens when I get home and I fall back on my old chum Pete. I have booked myself into this hypnotist a friend of mine got me onto last time I quit. It worked for a solid period of time back then, so I figure I should make another effort. Besides, I have started saving for my trip to China later in the year, so i can't afford to be giving all my dosh to Phillip Morris. Plus, I am about to buy a cheap little car. Took it for a test drive on Monday- blue Ford Laser, no power steering, about 8 years old with air-con, stereo and rego- all for a really good price. My step-father had a more qualified look at it for me, and gave it the thumbs up, too. That was the first bit of good news, as Krista, Mitch and I have all been stressing about the Volvo for weeks now. Rego's coming up, and I took it to my step-father's mechanic last week. It turns out it's going to cost more than the car is worth to get it up to scratch. We can't afford to fix it. Without a car, I can't keep my job, without my job, I can't finish uni or travel, without either of those...you get the idea. So this awesome Laser find has temporarily staved off a hellish bout of spiralling emotion.
The second bit of good news happened after I got home. It appears there is a way I can get the new car, consolidate all my debts ($5000 worth of parking fines, Visa debt and tax bills) and get a $10k head-start on my trip. All for $67 per week over seven years. Considering I was putting $80 into paying off debts and trying to save anyway, it seems like an awesome alternative. My sister approves loans for a major financial institution (a fact I had forgotten until I called her today), and she has all the software and formulae they use to test your eligibility at her house. She did a run through with me and said I would qualify. I'm going to formally apply, through her branch, to get the loan next week. It's a shame that a petty material triumph like this was able to shift a malaise of such epic proportions- born of regrets, life and lost love- but it did, somewhat. I don't know why, and nor do I really care. I'm just glad that today, at least, hasn't sucked as much as yesterday did.
The only things that are still bugging me are the fact that my room is once again in post-flood disarray, my Irish literature essay stubbornly refuses to write itself, and that I am feeling like the tenth wheel in just about every relationship I hold dear- with my friends, my family etc. I feel like this pathetic mutant in the corner, with not a hell of alot to offer in the way of company or frivolus discourse. I'm told it will pass, in time. Strangely, though, I'm not sure I want it to.
Still. One day at a time, and all such other cliches. |
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