I suppose I'm hitting the ground running as a new blogger with a'serious' reflection and can I say how privileged I am to be a part of it all *blush*
Here it is ...
Apparently it is as easy as just jumping off a plane... ah I mean a train, that's right. Woah that was weird. As I said... Jumping off a train - or maybe just - getting off.
When your thinking gets onto a well beaten down train it does little to try and change the course of its direction - its fixed to the pre-existing tracks. You're brain/mind self just chills out, often goes stale, moulds and vegetates to the rhythms of predetermination and expectation.
You've been there before and it's nothing new.
Deeply etched patterns of thinking are often fairly negative. it's just so easy to know where you are going. It's unpleasant and cold yet you still do little to change it because at that moment all you are anticipating is the narrative - the following sequence of events. Oh that's right and now is the moment I close the door on my face... then slam my head against the wall ...well because I just slammed the door in my face!
It's unfortunate when this pattern sticks. The more you do something the more you become receptive to the things and triggers of that thing, the easier it is to jump back on and 'enjoy' the ride. We create paths in our mind.. and if there is a loud and clear path everything will try and make it's way to that one. The more it gets reinforced the harder you think it is to just get off.
As I was speaking with a friend... we concluded that it IS that simple... you can just get off... just jump off. Just like I jumped off a pile of 10 metre high rocks into salt water on the weekend. One of the most exhilarating things I've ever done. My sternum is bruised and my neck is sore - well worth it!
Hi everyone, my name is Dogman and I'm a reformed public pisser. Many years ago I would piss in random letter boxes whilst out partying. I would always have friends with me so they could laugh at how clever I was. Sometimes they'd even join in on the fun (though not at the same letter box) and we'd piss together. That was funny for a while, but I needed more.
After a while I began to piss at the shops. My kidneys would kick into action whenever I would see something that could be pissed on. One time I pissed behind a Timezone machine, another time I pissed on a chair at the cinemas (after the film had finished and before the cleaners came in). Once I even pissed on a public phone. It made me feel... alive.
After a while pissing wasn't enough, so I ventured into territory where no PP had gone before. I became a public shitter. I began by trying to shit on a driveway one night. It's much more difficult than pissing, you truly have to need to shit. A pisser and summon piss at any moment, a shit required careful planning. If you're going to a party and plan to shit, you must first create a shit. Nourish it, grow it, respect it.
The ultimate act was taking shit on a car. One night, at a party (of course) I felt a shit begging for release. So I did what any aspiring shitter does, I gathered some comrades and searched for somewhere to off-load. This time it would be white Toyota - a Corolla if my memory is correct. I clambered onto the bonnet, dropped my pants and began to shit and piss. It was funny, in fact it was beyond funny. I would say it was probably one of the funniest undertakings ever. EVER.
I've stopped now, I'm no longer a PPer or PSer. I grew up. Thought I still find the mere thought of public pissery hilarious. I’ve lost the fire, the will, even the nerve. It takes guts to do this sort of thing. But I’ll always proudly look back and remember the days when I was known as the Piss Fiend.
Pablo Honey is the debut studio album by the English alternative rock band Radiohead, released in February 1993.
Tracklist
"You" – 3:29
"Creep" – 3:56
"How Do You?" – 2:12
"Stop Whispering" – 5:26
"Thinking About You" – 2:41
"Anyone Can Play Guitar" – 3:38
"Ripcord" – 3:10
"Vegetable" – 3:13
"Prove Yourself" – 2:25
"I Can't" – 4:13
"Lurgee" – 3:08
"Blow Out" – 4:40
Why I Chose This
When I decided to give Radiohead a go (probably one of the greatest ideas I have ever had mind you) I made an effort to listen to them chronologically. So first up was Pablo Honey and I listened to it once, maybe twice and then heard The Bends. The Bends instantly blew me away and with OK Computer and Kid A to follow, I didn't really take the time to look back ( I actually ended up looking too far forward and hearing In Rainbows next but that's not the point). The point is that I love everything that they produce and in the last few weeks I decided I should go back and give Pablo Honey a real chance. If nothing else it will provide an interesting insight into the early sounds and styles that helped mould Radiohead into one of my favourite bands.
A random excerpt from my previously never read travel diary! Shame the scanning is poor, the hand writing messy, and the language Spanish
When I was overseas I discovered something amazing. The day before I left, a close friend gave me a little black book with blank pages on the inside. This became my diary for the next eight and a half months. With varying frequency I used it as a means of expressing whatever feelings I may have had at the time. Typical diary stuff, nothing new or special really, except that it was the first time I had kept a serious diary.
The first real benefits I found was that the thoughts swimming round my head were often convoluted and only half developed. But after writing some of them down it was as if they were given a foundation and I could expand upon them from there. In other words I could complete the thoughts and they would leave my head with much more clarity. It was a similar feeling to a mild state of meditation, my brain becoming focused and at peace with my surroundings.
Then of course there is the obvious benefit of nostalgia that a diary keeps. I could re-read an entry from only a month earlier and get a clear picture of where my head was at, and how far it has come since then. There would be attempts at humour that I wrote for no one. Reminders of places I visited and people I met. It was my diary that allowed me to recapture some of the emotion I felt during my time at Villa Tunari with Roy. There were emotional states which, on reflection, offered an interesting insight into where my head could get to; whether it was frustrated, neutral, happy or deep and philosophical. My diary, even now as I sometimes read a page at random, offers exponentially greater memories of my magical mystery tour than any of the hundreds of photos I took.
And the final, and unexpected benefit, I discovered was that writing a diary was a great way to open up the avenues of creativity. Just writing about what I was feeling at the time would almost inevitably take me to a state where I could expand upon ideas for stories or complete the many existential ramblings I had (a lot of which made it onto this blogmanymonthslater).
Naturally when I returned home I realised that I should keep another diary. Although I don’t write in it nearly as often as I would overseas, I still use it to gain all the benefits that I stated above. Sometimes I use it to clear my clogged up head. It has now reached the age where I can reminisce about some of my scribbled emotions from yesteryear. Sometimes I feel like writing a blog but have nothing in my head to write about, so I just start by writing a diary entry and most the time some ideas will come…this was one of them.
Love Now. Do everything out of love, give only love. Receive only love. Be love
- A passage from from the Souh American scriptures
When I was five years old I saw an awesome movie about a bunch of kids that go on an airplane that gets taken over by baddies and they have to beat the baddies and take back control of the plane and there's this cool scene where the black kid throws a bomb out of the plane just before it explodes and you watch it blow up in the sky and the sky was black because they were flying at night and then they have to land the plane without any training after they tie up the baddies.
I never saw this movie again but it was without a doubt the most sought after movie of my childhood. Every now and then, I would think of it, wishing I could watch it again. I remember when I was 11 and for christmas my sister got a book listing about every movie you could think of (the publishers of that book must hate IMDB). The first thing I thought when she opened her present was, ohmygod, if it has every movie then it has the kidsintheplanemovie! So I grabbed the humungous alphabetically arranged book and flipped through thinking of every possible title but I needed a first word: kids, plane, bomb... I was out. There was nothing.
Cut to a few weeks ago and I'm flipping through the Foxtel movie channels. I see a movie on the family channel called Space Camp. I keep watching for a bit and I get a weird feeling in my soul. I think this is it. But how could it be the right movie. This movie is about a bunch of kids that go to 'space camp' or something. But alas, as I kept watching I realized that this was the elusive movie that had ingrained itself into my mind for years.
But it wasn't a plane, it was a space shuttle. It wasn't set at night, it was out in space. And I guess they did have some training to land the thing. But the black kid was definitely still black. Oh and one more thing, this 'awesome movie' is almost quite literally a piece of shit.
I always said I'd do anything to see this movie again. But now that I finally did, I know the truth about 'Space Camp' and my memories are tainted forever. Thanks Foxtel, for ruining my childhood.
P.S. That's Joaquin Phoenix in the middle. Apparently he used to go by the name Leaf. Yeh sure dude, Joaquin is heaps better. Faggot.
"Look at me. I'm fat, black, can't dance, and I have two gay fathers. People have been messing with me my whole life. I learned a long time ago there's no sense getting all riled up every time a bunch of idiots give you a hard time. In the end, the universe tends to unfold as it should. Plus I have a really large penis. That keeps me happy."
- Tarik from Harold & Kumar Go to Whitecastle
Last night I experienced the ignorance of misguided youth... let me explain. After an evening of drinking and frivolities in the city, Anna and I were enjoying a coffee at 4am to cap off what was a splendid night. We were sitting at the corner of Liverpool and George, minding our own business, when a drunk dude sitting at the table next to us started to sling obscenities in my direction (unprovoked mind you). As they were non-personal to me per se, I shrugged it off as unimportant and ignored him. But sure enough he continued.
As the countless insults increased, I tried to defuse the situation by first reasoning with the colprit to cease and desist with his rude behaviour, and after this failed attempt at peace, I kindly asked his friend what was wrong with his boy. I knew that if I retaliated with remarks and curses of my own that it would make the matter worse, however I couldn't help myself, this guy was really obnoxious. "Hey mate, why don't you fuck off!", I quipped, hoping that he would get slightly afraid of my larger size and stop the tirade... he didn't.
He stood up and walked around the corner to where his mate was sitting and filled him in, I suspect, that I was trying to "start" something. I thought that the first drunk guy was bad, but boy was I sadly mistaken. A pimply 19-20 year old with a silver chain dangling around his neck strolled up to our table - "Why are you trying to start my mates?!", he demanded. I explained the situation in a cool, calm and collected manner but it didn't matter. After noticing that I wasn't going to snap as I suspect most people in my situation would, he changed his mood. "Hey - can you roll me one of those cigarettes honey?", he asked of Anna in a somewhat charming way. "Umm, no", replied Anna, rightfully so.
Before I continue with the story, at this stage of our encounter with the three amigos, both Anna and I were getting really heated. Drunk guy number 2 was surprisingly good at insulting us, some really original off-the-cuff material if I do say so myself. So what happened next didn't help our tempers - with my back to them I felt a warm, slimy projectile hit my arm. I looked down to find a large wad of mucus trickling down my skin. Drunk guy number 1 had spat on me - the ultimate insult.
I'm wondering what was going through his head when he did this (probably not much considering he himself was running on drunken fury), but in any case they must of expected me to stand up and continue to play their game. Considering I'm on the journey for peace they caught a lucky break, because the way that I was feeling I felt like standing up, placing my hand around his stupid neck and driving his body to the ground in a UFC style takedown - probably cracking his empty skull on the steely sidewalk. But I didn't - in my zen-like manner I reached for a napkin and wiped away the phlegm that was now solidifying on my skin.
I was thinking to myself on the way home that night of how I would've taken such pleasure in really hurting those guys. Sure they would've got a few punches in but boy they would know my fury - or would they? They did everything they could to try and get me to fight them but I didn't. Is that playing on their minds today? Will my act of peace and love lead them to not lash out at every man, woman and child they see enjoying themselves? Maybe.
Part of me feels sorry for guys like that. I wish they could feel the love and compassion that I feel for every single person that I haven't yet met, and even the ones that I have. I know that they aren't going to change much though - after all they did claim to be a part of some "Bronx" gang that they were going to call to come and hurt me for so rudely sitting next to them at a cafe. Being in a gang is a different story I realise, being tough is a part of the rules. These guys weren't in a gang though, they were cowards. The true warrior doesn't need to accost strangers on the street by spitting on them and threatening to stab them. The true warrior maintains peace until force becomes absolutely necessary. In last nights case, I didn't need to use force, and they walked away with their tails between their legs - all fired up on fight juice looking for some poor soul to dance with the devil.
To quote The Art of War by Sun Tzu:
"Therefore one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the most skillful. Seizing the enemy without fighting is the most skillful."
The day Brooke turned 23 we were in the car with her parents and brother. Her brother asked how it felt to be 23, she said it was the same as 22. Someone then asked Brooke's dad how it felt to be nearly 60, he said the same as when he was 23.
My mind is timeless, but my body is mortal. The difference between the ageing of the mind and body are opposite in a way - while your body will slowly deteriorate, your mind will gain more knowledge, become wiser. Perhaps this is why you never feel as old as you truly are, because your mind doesn't actually have an age.
Right now I feel younger than I am. I feel like a child in a grown-ups world. Perhaps I won't ever grow out of this feeling. Maybe I'll be a 20-something for the rest of my life. I hope so.
That may seem like a weird quote to use for a blog about charity, but it has been something I have considered ever since I was young. Charity is something selfless; giving or sacrificing something for somebody or something else. Still, I remember this as the first insightful thought I had. Is it possible to be truly selfless in a charitable act?
When I was in year three, some people came round selling stickers saying ‘Lest we Forget’ for 50c. The proceeds went to war veterans. Something inside compelled me to buy one even though my friends said not to. “Think of what you can do with that money!” I still did it and when I got home my brothers laughed at me for wasting my money. They told my parents, thinking that they could further my embarrassment if more people knew of my stupidity. But my parents told me (and my brothers) that it was a very nice and generous thing to have done. I felt good.
Looking back at my hazy memory of the range of emotions that day - from the strange impulse of charity to the embarrassment of ‘wasting’ my precious dough - it seems that pride remains one of the most prevalent. I still don’t truly know what to make of this and it seems as though this is what lead to my long felt ideas of two-faced charity. Would people be even half as charitable if they didn’t receive some mild ego trip from it?
One character who has amazed me in this respect is Batman. He risks his life for Gotham but remains anonymous. In fact, his alter ego, Bruce Wayne, is viewed as a rich frivolous douche bag; camped up in his manor partying into the morning with the elite upper class. He doesn’t give a shit about the people. Yet we know better. At the end of The Dark Knight Batman elects to become the face of evil to preserve the positive work of the corrupted and recently deceased Harvey Dent. On the flip side, Tony Spark** (Iron Man for the non comic book nerds) can’t help revealing his alter ego, ready to take on the accolades and ridicule alike.
Now I’m no superhero (at least that’s what I want you to think), but I still like to explore the truth behind my charity. Whilst in Buenos Aires (capital of Argentina for the non geography nerds) I was walking to a second hand bookstore with 50 pesos in my pocket, just under a day’s budget, and not something I would like to part with lightly. I was ready to reignite my love for the written word, having not read a book for 3-4 months, and the budget traveller in me was thinking of spending maybe 20-25 pesos at most.
On my way I saw a crippled old lady with a kind face begging for money on the street. An idea flashed in my head that I should give her my fiddy and before I could chance a rebuttal I heard a voice in my head yelling DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! Out flashed my folded up billete and into her hand it went. Before looking at her new bounty, she smiled the sweetest of smiles. I couldn’t help but to smile back at it’s warmth. I kept walking and didn’t look back to see her reaction once she realised the value of my donation. This was my chance to test the valour of my deed. I swore to myself not to tell anyone what I had done; her smile would suffice as a reward. To this day - and I guess this is the day it all comes undone - I have told no one. And to be honest I still don’t know how pure my generosity was...Perhaps in the moment it was pure and the truth of all the moments that followed is inconsequential despite the potential tainted nature of my future conscience? Or maybe I- You know what? I’m gonna stop before I get all hyper-analytical on you guys.
So anyways, to get to the point of this post…On March 11th-ish I am shaving my head for the Leukaemia Foundation and would like you all to donate a bit of your own precious dough for the cause. And to make it easy for you, I will let you do it anonymously so you don't have to suffer the indignant ego boost usually associated with giving. I will bear the burden of all the glory of this amazing feat of charity. It will be received by me and me alone. Damn! I am just such an awesome person for doing this…aren’t I?
"...but on the other side, they can be gentle too" - The Flaming Lips
**It's Tony Stark...all my comic book nerd cred is lost
- Eden The Charitable (while listening to Lupe Fiasco’s Food and Liquor)
They took the 'shake the baby' app out of the itunes store because it was offensive. Here's who they are 'protecting':
- people who were going to shake their infant. Of course now they won't.
- people who have shaken their baby. Of course now they'll stop.
- people who have killed their baby by shaking it. Of course now they realize it was wrong.
- people who have had their baby shaken by someone else. Of course now they are angry.
Taking the app away won't stop the crazy people from being crazy. Nobody is gonna go on the computer, look for some cool apps, find 'shake the baby', download it, play the thing and be like;
'omg srsly this is fkd, I protest!'
or alternatively
'omg srsly now I feel like killing a baby'
Just another example of why the world I live in is weird.
In the spring of 2008, whilst studying at Macquarie University, I undertook an elective entitled Philosophy and Cinema. For the second of two essays that I wrote I chose the 1979 Ridley Scott film, Alien as my topic. The task was to explore how the film philosophises - itself reflecting on and evaluating its own views and arguments, as thinking seriously and systematically about them in just the ways that philosophers do. The essay went a little something like this...
***
As the camera pans across the empty skies of the Universe, piece by piece the letters ALIEN appear from the stars, a stern warning of what’s to come for the viewer. Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979), as Stephen Mulhall describes in On Film , explores our human anxieties concerning embodiment, sexual difference, biological reproduction, and our relationship with nature. Furthermore, this essay will give support to Mulhall’s ‘philosophical reading’ of the film through the use of filmic examples.
The opening sequence of Alien pulls the viewer into the unknown, setting up what looks to be a standard science-fiction film. After the release of Star Wars two years earlier, the underside shot of the Nostromo may suggest a similar film – that of an intergalactic fantasy. The film that ensues however is very different, drawing on techniques found in the horror genre, to produce a nail-biting thriller.
So I was 11, in the 6th grade, king of the school for the first time. I was slowly forging a musical identity, allowing myself to be influenced by just about everyone close to me (namely Rob Barton and Phil Abraham in this case). Rob was listening to Metallica, Phil to Pantera and Metallica. I wanted to listen to Metallica because my friends were, they listened because their brothers were. One weekend I was at Cherrybrook shops with my Mum and I got her buy me Metallica: Reload – I believe this was my first CD. Or was it Metallica: Ride the Lightning. Either way, I had both and enjoyed both fully, complete as albums (as best an 11 year old can). I remember lying on the floor of my bedroom listening to the crushing guitars, destructive drumming and loving it every minute of it. I’ve got to say I really loved Ride the Lightning, that album was and is one of the heaviest, catchy and most masterfully written albums I’ll ever hear.
After primary school came high school and with high school I lost my passion for metal for a few years, but in the 10th grade that all changed. Most teenagers use the music they love to define who they are to a degree, the term ‘Metalhead’ is a good example of this. To say you’re a Metalhead is really something, there is no mistaking what you mean – you listen to and you love METAL. In the 9th grade I had been watching CKY with Dean, there were some cool tracks on some of their videos (namely Puritania by Dimmu Borgir). So when I met Brendon Giles in year 10 it was a pretty big deal, he showed me some new bands that finally rekindled the flame and I fell in love once again. Soon enough I would consider myself a proud Metalhead.
Metal has some of the finest musicians you’ll ever hear if you allow yourself. There is a misconception that all the lyrics are gory and evil, this is not the case. Some bands are philosophical, and rather insightful, others are political, and then there are bands whose lyrics are so disgusting I take my hat off to them for being so creative. Rhapsody have created their own world, with its tales woven through their albums. There is even a band that have a song sung entirely in Black Speech - in fact there a many bands inspired by Tolkien in metal.
Lord Worm. Former vocalist for Cryptopsy, he is probably my favourite vokillist/lyricist. I was at this show.
Great lyrics are abundant in metal (though perhaps hard to understand). Psycroptic, Australia’s premier Technical Death Metal band has some nice work. A favourite passage of mine:
You awaken and you're shaken by the dim reality that becomes you, and consumes your mind That death is real and you will soon hold it in An embrace so tight you can't let it go. You want to believe in something higher... Social derision...blindfolded vision...need for decision... Nothings eternal...belief is infernal...your god is internal. You may not exist soon so enjoy it while you can.
The thing is, these are just young guys like us penning their thoughts to music.
I’m always impressed by just how good some metal musicians are at playing their instruments. George Kollias from the Egyptian themed Death Metal band Nile plays the drums unlike anyone I’ve ever heard (I’ve seen him live… wow). George perfectly exemplifies the double bass drum rolls and the blast-beat drumming that gets my heart rate up. Watch the first two minutes for a taste: George Kollias. Guitar work can be equality as impressive, yet still being catchy (for some!). Check out this guy playing the bass section from song called Finite, the band is Origin (I think the real bassist for the band uses/used a fretless bass) : Origin – Finite: Bass .
These days I only listen to a metal album once every few weeks and I don’t seek out new material. I get the feeling that in time I’ll fall in love again.
To finish this off I’d like to post a track by Metallica off their 1984 album, Ride the Lightning. In fact I’m going to post the title track. It’s a vivid story of a being put to death in the electric chair. Although there aren’t that many words for a 6 + minute song, they truly are some of the most well written lyrics I’ve ever had the pleasure of listening to. The song is heavy as fuck too.
“Hey guys I got a cool card game we can play. It’s called Shithead…”
These are the words of an unsuspecting young man who would later go on to truly push the boundaries shitheadiness.
***
Shithead is a game of humiliation; the aim is to rid yourself of all your cards before at least one other person. If you are left with cards, you are the shithead. There is a vast array of rules which you can read here, but really you won’t understand how to play until you play one full game. After that you should be sweet (although you will probably take a while to get used to the sevens. And always remember to pick up a card after you put one down if the deck isn’t finished).
The fatal night was a Monday, the 7th day of February; the year, 2010. A six player game of 5 cards down shithead had commenced. All were excited to do a little boggin on the noggin of some unfortunate soul. The mood was jovial, the air free of the stench that would later be emanating out of a certain curly cranium. Lee made an early exit guaranteeing himself the added advantage of taking shithead’s two best cards at the start of the next game. But as the players began to clear out, Eden Clarke - a keen shithead player, feared in most circles due to a solid understanding of the craft - found himself in a dangerous position of becoming first shithead of the night. Sure enough, he failed to escape the dreaded tag. “Shithead!” they cried in unison. The insults raining down like a spray of diarrhoea.
Typical layout of 3 card Shithead. 3 face down, 3 face up and 3 in the hand.
Eden cut his teeth learning the craft of Shithead overseas, playing under various rules and environments against an international field of opponents. Although not able to mimic the achievements of the likes of El “oohh look at me I have played 30 games without being Shithead” loco**, he was a confident player, capable of avoiding shithead but for the most unfortunate of blind card draws.
It was time for number two. Eager to rid himself of the tag, Eden dealt out the cards himself. However, he was forced to hand over two tens to Lee as punishment for having his baby face laced with gravy waste. This would prove pivotal as he found himself with one face down card left and a chance to end Luke’s frustratingly awesome run. But needing to beat a seven (i.e. go seven or lower) he drew an eight. The card proved fatal, and Luke escaped the downfall of shit like a toilet supporting an ever constipated bowel. But his day will surely come. Eden, meanwhile, had just completed a fecal sequel.
Double shithead is a loathsome outcome for any aspiring shithead player. To say one won’t understand the game unless one has played it is true. But what is more true is that one cannot understand the humiliation of being shithead until all of one’s best friends point their fingers at one’s shitty shitty head; taunting one with the most creative of defecation defamation. There is no escape, no toilet paper, no hiding of the skidmarks…only shit on one’s head. And when one becomes double shithead, the humiliation is more than doubled. That shit becomes the head. But our story doesn’t end here…
Having been crucified with a crown of brown it seemed impossible but as it is now written in the craptures of shithead: On the third game the stench would rise again. No amount of skill, agility or Imodium would save Eden. It was his destiny. He was easily bundled out, becoming Turdhead the third. His excreture feature leaving him the unenviable status:
Triple Shithead
** Luke is touted by many as a future hall of famer – Eden himself is earmarked as a potential hall of shamer
P.S. One can only imagine the horrors if Eden had continued on to take out a fourth straight shithead. I, for one, would surely have run out of witty shit quips by then. But luckily the fourth and final game of Shithead was taken out by Shelly. Just thought I’d put that out there…I am not the reigning Shithead.
“Run your fingers through my soul. For once, just once, feel exactly what I feel, believe what I believe, perceive as I perceive, look, experience, examine, and for once; just once, understand.”
Until a few months ago I was living in Vancouver, Canada. A beautiful place might I add. A place that I felt I had to reassure myself that I arrived there in a plane and not a delorean. Vancouver is amazing, the whole time I was there I felt as though I was living in a modern version of the 60s. The simplicity of that time, yet a tad more advanced; a place that has a peaceful and happy vibe constantly flowing.
In May of 2009 my older brother came to join me for my birthday, and stayed a couple weeks. One weekend of his visit, my brother and I hired a car along with a mate of mine and drove to Vancouver Island; with the help of a big ferry to glide across water. When we arrived on the Island we hopped in the car and started our journey. Towards the afternoon of our voyage, the road on which we travelled shot out through the trees and ran alongside the water, which to our surprise opened out to a beautiful secluded lake surrounded by mountains. And it was that which made us chuck-a-u’e and find a place to park. Each of us quickly walked with anticipation to the water. The sun was out so it made this endeavour quite exhilarating. When we met water, we turned right and walked along side to a spot that wasn’t accompanied by a couple in love, or a family of fun. After a few moments we found a spot of our own. I placed my iPhone on the ground and connected it to a pair of small portable speakers. A playlist of mellow, acoustic music, which for the first time featured Jack Johnson amongst it by choice; it seemed as though this moment and place was perfect for his work. So as it was, we chilled to the music and took in what surrounded us. The whole time here, just a tad over an hour it turned out, was spent in the water, not our entire bodies, t’was Vancouver in May after all, but from our thighs down. We took photos and re-enacted films that had scenes in places similar to where we were. One being Jean Claude Van Damme’s Nowhere to Run, which was the second time JCVD made an appearance that day, and not the last. When our time here came to an end we threw our thongs back on and started to head back towards the car. I kept looking back at where we had just left, because if it was up to me, I would have stayed there all day.
Just as we pulled out of the dirt car park and continued our journey for Tofino, I noticed how relaxed I was. I felt fresh, rejuvenated. It was then when I asked the rest how they felt and, to my surprise, they were in total agreement. It then got me thinking, we had spent an hour or so barefoot in this magnificent bed of water. Walking on the rocks that were the ground beneath, trying not to step on twigs or sharp edges, yet feeling every little thing underneath us. To me it felt like my body had been recharged. That I had become run down and needed nature’s greatness to bring me back to full life. This was something that had never really crossed my mind. To me, nature was just something that was there. What was always there. It’s just around us and that’s it. I never really gave it anymore thought, but after this day, this moment, it was then when I realized that I never had felt like that before. So then I looked at me, at us - humans. And it came to me; we have grown up covering ourselves, protecting ourselves from everything, never really letting anything in. And don’t get me wrong, it isn't a bad thing. For instance, shoes have been made to protect us from the ground we walk on; rocks, sticks, broken glass, etc, but my question is, do we actually feel anything? Yes it protects us, but are we also just blocking one of the most sensitive parts of our body from what grounds us? The mood your feet are in is the mood you are in. If your feet are cold, you are cold. As long as it is not a hard man made surface beneath us, it is going to feel amazing on the soles of our feet, therefore making us feel amazing. Although, come to think about it, I guess that is what’s wrong with the world these days, we don’t feel enough.
All The Pain Money Can Buy is the second album by Austin, Texas band Fastball. It was released on March 10, 1998.
Tracklist:
"The Way" – 4:17
"Fire Escape" – 3:21
"Better Than It Was" – 2:48
"Which Way to the Top?" – 3:50
"Sooner or Later" – 2:39
"Warm Fuzzy Feeling" – 1:55
"Slow Drag" – 3:37
"G.O.D. (Good Old Days)" – 3:31
"Charlie, The Methadone Man" – 3:17
"Out of My Head" – 2:32
"Damaged Goods" – 3:02
"Nowhere Road" – 3:25
"Sweetwater, Texas" – 3:53
Why I chose this:
I remember my art teacher trying to warn me off drugs (and good music) by telling me that Fastball was the name of a concoction of drugs. I guess he'd never heard of reverse psychology, because all I could think was, Cool! Not only do these guys write amazing songs, but they take good drugs too!
With beautiful harmonies, great musicianship and actual songs (a rarity nowadays), it's one of those albums that is equally great with headphones laying by the pool or blasting out of the car with the windows down.
When my husband is bored with me I understand. He'll only see what he wants to see for as long as he wants to see it. But our sexual life has been waining for some time now. We still have a goodnight kiss, but beyond that feeble exchange, we have not touched each other with passion since what now feels like a past life. But, nonetheless, it was a life filled with ecstasy. I can still remember the way he used to caress my bosom with the tip of his fingers, circling my nipples until they were beyond erect, all the while whispering his future plans. Eventually he would turn his attention to my inner thigh, slowly crawling his fingers like five soldiers on the frontline, preparing for battle in the deepest, darkest forest. He enjoyed me when I was unkempt. My husband was good at thinking of different ways to have sex. Not just positions, but environments. Once, and this was my favourite, we had sex in a bathtub filled with jelly. It took a while to set and was very expensive, not to mention sticky, but that was what made it so fun. Plus it was a bath-shower in one, so washing ourselves off was not that difficult. I don't like to waste so I, with no help from my now satisfied husband, scooped the jelly out afterwards and used it for deserts. It always tasted nicer knowing it had semen in it somewhere.
Lately, he may have stopped seeing me as a piece of shit whore, but I have not. A few weeks ago, I bought a new dildo. I hadn't seen the new types of toys out there and I was taken aback by the selection on offer in todays market. I bought some off ebay because second-hand is always cheaper. My favourite of the new items is the 'Rabbitron 3000'. I have been finding many ways of using the wonderful solar powered machine. But whichever part of it I use, the effect is always the same. I slide the contraption around my lips as they secrete what I need to take the next step. My clitoris stands at attention. My labia has no idea of what is in store. I can now feel myself becoming wet as I think about my gorgeous neighbor, Jason.
I no longer need my husband or the jelly. All of that is in the past, far away from the paradise in which I now operate. Needless to say, I am becoming extremely creative with expanding the boundaries of my vaginal wall.
I’d like to have written post about the search for extra terrestrial life myself, as I’ve watched and read plenty of amazing ideas. However, I just don’t know enough about the topic to write a good blog. I would do no justice to the imagination and complexity of the ideas.
Fortunately, I found this video. Yeah it's about aliens n shit, but even cooler is that it's Neill Blomkamp – the guy who made District 9. Enjoy:
Stepping out from the sliding doors at work I pressed play, descending the steps two at a time. As the music kicked in with its familiar beat I felt like skipping all the way to the station. Hamish and I had just talked about this song, Taxman, earlier as we discussed the fact that everything is taxed. Complaining about taxes? I think I truly am getting old. Death and taxes, right?
Forgetting that I was usually a self conscious guy (am I the only person as self conscious as I am?) I sang out the harmonies and played air drums, air guitar and air bass (I’m pretty good at air bass). I was almost oblivious to the few people who were still walking around the street light-lit streets. Almost.
I bought a slice of Veggie Pizza and walked toward the station. There was something special about my mood. I attributed it to having finished work and listening to the Beatles. Eleanor Rigby caressed my ears with her tale of woe. I heard the kebab shop guy laugh in the background as he shared a joke with his co-worker. At the taxi stand the drivers hovered around the third car from the front, chatting about stories from the day. At the entrance to Hornsby station a mulleted man in singlet and shorts (no footwear) hugged his faux-blonde girlfriend. She had big tits and enough cleavage to make sure everyone knew about it. As I entered the station I turned to look at all the lonely people and caught my reflection in a shop window. Poetic, right? It was gonna take more than that to bring me down, though. I winked at my reflection and continued on, boarding the train just as Father McKenzie dusted off his hands.
This is a blog by a group of friends. It's kind of like Seinfeld - about nothing in particular, but really good. Although this blog is by friends, we invite anyone to offer up a blog. Just drop a comment somewhere and we'll post it.
"the blog is really good, I read the lot" - Tony Bovino
