Who woud want an ex like that?

Left work, went home, made dinner, got stoned. Not extremely eventful, but that was the plan.
Around 2030hrs Petka showed up, keen on dragging me down to the 'Ditch to check out a gig at Plastic People on Curtain Road. I wasn't exactly ecstatic about going, and considering Petka looked like he could sleep standing I had hoped the whole thing could be avoided. Alas no such luck. We played a quick £5 Hold 'Em game (which I lost, surprisingly) and then we headed out. The moment we left the great British summer delivered us one of its fantastic June showers. A few cans of beer were bought and it was decided (once again to my displeasure) that a little rain wasn't going to put us off. We walked towards Shoreditch in the pissing rain, drinking Heineken and talking rubbish. It was almost eleven at night and the 'Ditch was fairly empty, probably due to the shit weather. Once inside, the ex-girlfriend of Petka's colleague began a form of sexual harassment that didn't finish until we left. Oddly enough, Petka didn't bite on this occasion (it seems she was too much even for his gutter standards :) ). True to form I just drank, nodded politely when told I looked like Christian Slater and tried to catch some looks from the more enticing of the female punters. I was eyeing this one girl up for some time, and I thought I may had established something. A few minutes later I was chatting to the DJ of the evening's band, who introduced me to aforementioned lass as her girlfriend. She waved at me with a smile that said 'BUSTED', and all I could muster was a limp wave in return. More drinks followed. The band were ok, not my cup of tea and to be honest rather dull, but they went down well with the crowd. Petka's reverse coquetry had no effect on the female beast who had pounced on him. She was a royal pain in the ass, totally over the top. Had she been a man I may have punched her. Petka went to the toilet and I overheard the beast giving a status report to her ex-boyfriend with regards to her potential conquest. "I think it's going really well" she shouted in her annoying voice. I had to quell a laugh and sensed that things could go either way at this juncture. Now the ex-boyfriend started to get the jitters, and in a private moment made Petka promise that he wouldn't fuck his ex. Hahahahaha. Not even Petka could see the attraction of this hybrid nuisance, and I actually felt sorry for the ex-boyfriend. He should be ashamed of himself (and his ex), rather than feel threatened by Petka's obvious rejections.
As a strangely deflated and defeated looking ex made his excuses, Petka and I both knew this was the time to make a run for it or get stuck with the howler.
It was only at this moment in time the beast herself realised that the chase was over before it had even begun.
I am still not quite sure why I went last night.

The trials and tribulations of a wanna be poker pro, part I

Well you can't win all the time!

Last night my bankroll took a serious hit. So serious in fact, that it'll take me a few hours this evening just to get it back on an even keel. This is what happened;
I started last Monday with $20, which in the course of the week became $160.
Then last night I lost $140 in the space of two hours. I didn't play particularly bad, I just got some extremely bad beats (lost nearly $50 with a KK 333 full house to a KKK 33 full house, a further $30 on a pocket AA Vs pocket 10's which became three 10's on the river).
Considering I am still over my $20 initial 'investment', I am not lamenting the loss too much. I wouldn't have played it any differently and on any other night I would have cleaned up. There is a valuable lesson here, and no it is not 'gambling is bad' - it is the importance of having a big bankroll to cover your ass when the cards go against you.
Alas this evening I will be playing lower stakes games to get the bankroll back to an acceptable and useful level. Online poker is fast and difficult, but it can also be fast and easy. I see it as a long-term venture. My main aim tonight will be to not go under my bankroll. We'll see how I fare!
Considering checking out some other sites to play on, as Ladbrokes consistently seems to deal troublesome flops. That is my excuse, anyway.

Who said gambling doesn't pay?

SPW and I went to the Gutshot card club on Friday (www.gutshot.com). We were a bit apprehensive as we'd never been before and as such didn't have any inclination as to the competition. Also this was to be our first tournament of this size.
We met up before hand and quickly downed a significant amount of alcohol at a near by pub. When we entered Gutshot, we found ourselves surrounded by bacardi breezers, wide boys and hardened gamblers. More alcohol followed, and then it was time to play.
114 people had signed up for this £10 buy-in tournament, and to be honest neither SPW nor myself held much hope of going past the first hour or so. I bought in after about twenty minutes or so, and then again at the end of the buy-in period. £30 down, and hardly a soul had been knocked out yet.
Time passed surprisingly quickly considering I spoke to no one at m y table, and folded about 99% of my hands. SPW was following a similar pattern. Alas at one stage SPW did get knocked out (not sure in which place), and I was left to defend the Kit Russell Cup honour. My strategy worked, and by the time only 30 or so players remained, I began to quite fancy my chances. Twelve people left, and it was agreed that final 10 places would get paid. At this stage I had nearly three times as much chips as the average, and I rode it out until it was down to the final 10.
A small break ensued, and then it was on to the finals table. The average age must have been 45 or older, but that didn't put me off in any way. I was after all guaranteed some money in lieu of having made it to the finals. Several more people got knocked out, and by 2.30am it was my turn to call it a night. Was forced to go all in with a K8 off suit, and went down to a AK suited. I said my goodbyes, and went to collect my cash. I had successfully fended off 109 people and finished in fifth place, - not at all what I had expected.
To my surprise fifth place carried a prize of £294 cash, which I gladly picked up and went home. I had been playing for 6 1/2 hours and it took me a while to realise just what had taken place. When I awoke Saturday morning I saw all the cash lying on my table, and it dawned on me what I had accomplished the night before.
£50 an hour is not a bad wage, and the £294 provided me with a sweet income supplement. I will definitely go back to Gutshot soon, and see if it was a fluke or whether I have learnt something from playing so many games both IRL and online in the last year or so. I love poker. Including my online winnings I had amassed nearly £370 in one week. Not bad going for a total of ten hours play. Who needs a job?
If things keep going this way, certainly not I!

Snake Eyes

My experiences with the dice have not been many, but all absolute. I am of the belief that once the die has been consulted, its will should be followed, regardless of reason or potential personal discomfort. That is mainly the reason why I rarely consult the six-sided goddess. My time is spent mostly listening to ’She’ by the Misfits whilst getting intoxicated. There is one incident in particular which was both potentially destructive and just really stupid, all as a result of a roll.

The night before my post grad exam I met up with a friend of mine for a drink. I think perhaps the alcohol made me more confident, because in my infinite wisdom I gave circumstance a 50/50 chance; 1-3 go home , do last minute studying, get rest etc., or 4-6 keep drinking and trust my skills of improvisation to pass. There would have been no story had not the die landed on a four, five or six, so needless to say I took a deep breath and resigned myself to a higher power.

Four or five pints followed the two I had had already, plus a few cheeky chasers. When the pub shut we headed for my place, where we drank rum and smoked skunk.
Around four or five in the morning, much against my friend’s advice, I snorted a line of ketamine, upon which I went straight to bed, completely fucked.

At nine am my friend wakes me up with coffee, Megadeth’s Holy Wars blasting at top volume. An additional coffee later, and I set out to do my exam with the sun glaring on my imploded corpus whilst my stomach acid is trying to leave it. Got off a the wrong tube stop, started walking in the completely opposite direction, hailed a cab, missed fifteen minutes of the first exam, nearly puked in the second and third, and went straight to bed whilst the others went to celebrate.

However, it seems nature has dealt me a couple of lovely cards, one being the ability to seemingly pass any exam with total disregard to knowledge of the subject or the complete lack of studying, and the other being the ability to function when drunk and with a ketamine hangover at ten am on a Tuesday. Anyway, I am side tracking.

Bottom line is, I should have failed and to follow the dice is to be prepared to do somethings that are really dumb. So what did I gain from aforementioned event? I think it is a great story, but other than that nothing. I think I am quite capable of fucking up my own life without the need for dice. Every so often, however, I take them out. I have to screw with my life. And one of these days I am going to run out of luck.

Yawn

Last night was office drinks night. One of the journalists is leaving at the end of the week, and the plan was to see him off in style. Or so I thought. Less than half of the staff went, something which sums up my workplace eloquently. Nevertheless, I went, got drunk and talked shit. It is a shame that said journalist is leaving, as he seemed to be one of the few people in the company with anything interesting to say. I didn't think it possible, but I now have to accept that this place will be even quieter. Thank the lord for personal stereos. The future is grim, the future is silence.
Oh well, live your life outside of work!

The internet is broken!

Time flies when you’re having none.

Trying to make a living playing poker online is a compelling prospect indeed.
Imagine being at work in your underwear, sipping beer and playing poker.
…I could do with some of that. Although I haven’t attained a level of consistency online whereby I can say I am working, I am playing poker in-between writing this (or should I say, I am writing this in-between playing poker…).
It’s tricky. The thing about playing online is, I become really bored and subsequently I lose discipline, which is a no-no whether in a real life game or online.

On another matter; don’t you hate people who refer to the internet like an entity, or a single piece of hardware that exists somewhere within the vicinity of places that have ‘the internet’?
All day at work we had problems going online both with our main and back-up connection. For a company that relies on the internet for everything except making coffee, this was a wasted day. We spent the whole day in the park more or less.
It was there I overheard a colleague saying “I wish we could pay someone to break the internet more often”, followed seconds later by “I wish the internet would break everyday!”. How the fuck do you break the internet?
I was also once advised by a young lady that the reason I couldn’t boot my computer, was because I had had ‘the internet’ on there, and “quite often computers break when they have ‘the internet’”. What, The Internet? Show me exactly where it is!

Gimme a break

Miller Time in London

Thank fuck it's Friday.
As Miller time draws even closer, I've accepted that the fourth film of sweat encompassing my body today will have to remain until replaced by the fifth. London is literally boiling today. Humidity has gone throng the roof, women's clothing has been left behind and the beer is soon to spill out onto the streets.
Played the fifth Kit Russell Cup last night, and much to my dismay I finished second.
There seems to be a pattern developing here.
Must take back the game, and I think I know how now.
Should be working, but with half an hour to go what is the point?
I don’t expect my boss to answer that question with a "you're right - fuck work let's all go home", but I am certainly not planning on asking her either.
Instead I'll kill what is now the last twenty minutes rambling, and generally doing everything but work.
Some days words become meaningless, unless they are: one, pint, Guinness, please.
Dammit, the sun is still glaring on my haggered corpus through the office skylight, how can I be concerned with writing under circumstances such as these?
Never mind, fifteen long ones to go, and then the trek home (which will no doubt involve the eleventh or twelfth film of sweat pouring from my pores). Oh well, it is summer after all, and I'd rather be sweating than freezing.
On the verge of passing out. That would be a funny end to my first month of employment here. If nothing else it would provide the office with a talking point (for about three minutes). Yawn.
It must be Miller time by now!

Fashionable Victims

Has anyone noticed how Shoreditch has become an eclectic mix of fashion students and fashion victims?
The amount of variation and cringe-worthy 'styles' on abundant display is hard to miss. Sadly what most folks seem to overlook is the fact that attractive people can wear anything and still look attractive. Ugly people can't. This applies as much to fashion students as to fashion victims. Traditionally fashion victims were at the mercy of the whims of the high street and the pop video. Now that Shoreditch and its associated 'scenes' has become a magnet for hyperbohemes (artists/graphic designers with shares), this distinction is becoming blurred. I will bet a not inconsiderable amount of my vital organs that 99% of the 'Hoxtonites' will look back in a year's time and feel physically sick at the clothes and haircuts they've sported. The Mullet is a perfect example; Kevin Keegan and Chris Waddle aren't exactly proponents of good taste, and even they are embarrassed by the neck-licking Teutonic heavy metal 'dos they sported in their youth. I mean, name one person who isn't particularly attractive to start with who actually looks good with a full-blown mullet!
I can't either. Then again, I don't care. I didn't have a mullet in the eighties, and I'm not about to have one now.
The problem with the 'Ditch fashion scene is the predictability and complete lack of novel thought which goes into forging what could be considered a hip attire. Six years ago I predicted that it was but a question of time before fluorescent clothes (and indeed the blindingly pathetic designer mullet) would come back in fashion. It seems in order to be hip in the 'Ditch you have to take all the worst elements of eighties fashion, mix it up with hi-tech trainers and designer beards and hey presto! Most of these folks haven't even heard of Duran Duran, let alone owned a Commodore 64.
So what does the future hold for Shoreditch fashionistas? Who gives a shit? Well.. they probably do, but that doesn't mean we have to. So let them think they're alternative, that they are cool and that wearing bright pink leggings with a stonewash denim vest over a charity shop sweater with the ubiquitous mullet / fin is the be all and end all. In a few years they'll be suited and booted, looking after their stocks and reporting to board meetings, whilst the real artists and genuine trend setters move to Whitechapel.

the fallacies of future

Sorry mate!
Bad day, bad year, bad decade, bad mental health.
The only thing that gets me excited is the possibility that I will succumb to an untimely death in the next few weeks/days/hours.
Haven't got the guts to kill myself (although said action features heavily on my 'to do' list), so I am forced to just exist, doing other people's bidding and satisfying the demands of rules pre-determined by the 'greater good'..
I place no demands on myself, because I haven't got a benchmark in terms of what has to be done and why. The last 13 years of my life have been unfortunate, another 13 would be a disaster. Have nothing left to offer the world. No longer interested in offering the world anything. But tomorrow I'll wake up again.
I hear your cries of 'WHIMP', 'SPINELESS' and similar pseudomacho utterings, but frankly I am indifferent. it takes guts to take your own life, it doesn't take guts to stay alive and never question why. Once you have exhausted all the things that you could possibly look forward too, you are left with a vacuum of pure breathing, eating and defecating.
I thought these things would get better as you got older - they just seem to get worse. At least in the haze of youth some optimism and belief in the purpose of things would sneak past the firewall of life and enter that irrational part of your consciousness called hope.
The older you get, the more you realise that it is just that.
I inhabit this planet with the rest of mankind and beast alike, I just don't particularly want to.
I hate moaning, and I have to apologise, but beyond getting so wasted that I pass out nothing stirs my blood. Cancer is good. If I got it, I would refuse treatment.
Spending your last few months 'alive' propped up on morphine sounds ideal to me.
I want to leave nothing behind, I want to my make my exit like I made my entrance. Naked, delirious and completely in the care of professionals. Working is such a drag.

At least it's a shit summer and I won't be too handicapped by my coke cold

So Monday passed, I 'm still alive and I still have a job; no repercussions whatsoever (apart from the fact that I'm a bit behind, but fuck it, feels good to make it up, knowing that this particular time I didn't totally fuck it up). Just spoke to the Professor; he's still employed as well. Petka didn't have any of his faculties until sometime Sunday afternoon, but he made up all the work in 1 1/2 hours this morning. So the only price we really paid was a physical and mental one, but certainly not a financial one (well apart from the £90 coke). Have we learnt anything? In the long run probably not, but for the next couple of weeks at least! I am ill as an otter, Lee Perry remix on repeat, whatever.

LEAVE COMMENTS PLEASE

OK folks!

If anyone is actually reading this, please be aware that as from today you can post comments without being signed up blogger.com!
Thank you to Petka for bringing this to my attention.
Please feel free to leave comments, that would be excellent.

Tseuq / Carlsson

dinosaur jr 2005 / not on a school night

Not on a school night!

Thursday was an eventful day, much to my chagrin.
Work went as uneventful as it can possibly go, which is neither good nor bad. But I had other things on my mind, - the original line-up Dinosaur Jr extravaganza which awaited Petka, myself and a select other of our acquaintances in the evening. The Professor, who had managed to get a ticket to see them the night before, was quickly roped in to joining us for his second night. Due to a late cancellation, he was able to get in for free on the guest list (which seemed to really impress him, bless), and he and I met up at Kentish Town tube around 7pm. I had already had two beers on the four-stop underground journey, and a couple more were consumed once I arrived. The ticket touts (losers), clueless, ignorant and drunk as per usual, kept trying to ‘buy or sell tickets to dinosaurs’. Now I know that Mascis, Barlow and Murph are no spring chickens, but they are hardly ‘dinosaurs’!
Around 8pm Petka showed up with an old friend in tow. None of us (apart from Petka) had seen Kennedy for years, and at first it didn’t click. On second inspection I could ascertain that he had, much like us I suspect, not changed a bit. Shorter hair and fulltime employment had done little to dilute Kennedy’s ‘unique’ take on life.
The standard exchanges of ‘what is up?’ / ‘it has been a while’ / ‘fancy a beer/’ / etc taken care of, more beer was purchased and consumed.
I was getting well fired up at this stage, and couldn’t quite believe what I was about to witness. But it was real, and I was not to be disappointed.
We entered the Forum around 9.45pm, dropped our shit in the cloakroom, and purchased more beer.
The Professor had relayed the previous evening’s escapades to me earlier that day, and he was right in the sense that 99% of the audience consisted of people our age or older. One cannot be chastised for assuming that it was exactly the same group of musically enlightened people as I rubbed shoulders with in 1994 when I last had the fortune of seeing J Mascis perform. This night was going to be different, though.
This was not be a J Mascis plus a band kind of performance, this was to be J Mascis plus equally legendary Lou Barlow and Murph playing only material from the first (and in many juniorites opinion best) three albums. So in essence, this was a pure Dinosaur Jr gig. After Kennedy had poured beer over the Professor and Petka (successfully offending them both AND the people next to us in one foul swoop), more beer was purchased.
Sometime after 9pm the band took to the stage, looking relaxed, happy and rearing to go. J Mascis was wearing a tracksuit top, hair still long and unruly but almost entirely grey (this was debated, - some insisted that he had simply bleached it. It doesn’t really matter; we weren’t there to look at a group of middle-aged people we were there to indulge in our ‘childhood fantasies’).
They opened with xxxxx ( I couldn’t remember the track name at the gig, and now my memory is completely shot…), which neatly set the scene for what was to come. I am pleased they chose a song with Lou Barlow singing as their opener, this was truly going to be early Dinosaur Jr stuff. Second track ‘In a jar’ kicked in and the crowd was enthralled. I’ve never seen so many late-twenties / early-thirties somethings moshing around with such vigour. Third song of the night was ‘Bulbs of passion’, another classic from their first eponymous album. I am not sure how many people were aware of that first album but I was pleasantly surprised to see that I wasn’t the only one familiar with the material. After that rendition, I gave up on the set list and joined the heaving throng of sweaty bodies pulsating merrily to the soundtrack of their youth. The professor went over, and I lost the crew. It didn’t matter; I was there to see the band, not to socialise. 20-30 minutes later the Professor re-emerges in the crowd, informing me that a much-needed beer was waiting at the bar.
I went over and headed bar side.
The sound was not as good from that vantage point, but overall it still pissed on the 1994 performance. I was amazed at how they played.
The rest of the gig was observed from the bar as I was exhausted by this stage and very drunk. I’ve seen a lot of bands in my time, but none better than the three-piece line-up we were exposed to this night.
As we left extremely satisfied and inspired, Petka suggested we head for the O Bar to purchase some coca and continue the shenanigans. I was (and still am) completely broke, so I agreed only on the basis that I wouldn’t be able to contribute anything but my company. By 11.30pm I found myself in Camden, about 3 liters of bodily fluids lighter and definitely satisfied. Compared to the 1994 show in Brixton Academy this was beyond scrutiny. The vibe was awesome, and to those who intimately knew all three albums being played I salute you. In the last 12 months I’ve seen Sonic Youth, the Pixies (twice), Zeke and Death From Above 1979. This gig was better than all of those combined.
I feared that anything after this would prove an anticlimax, and when Petka and the Professor discussed the procurement of class A’s with ‘the Fridge’, I was miles away.
When my attention returned to the matter at hand, it transpired that the evening’s menu consisted of £90/0.8g’s. I wasn’t paying, I wasn’t going to, so I didn’t really care. I was still on a buzz from the gig, and let my friends get on with the bartering.
£90!!! Fuck it, I wasn’t paying…
For once everyone was busy sorting out coke except me. Had I had any money I am sure I would have been party to the negotiations, which by now were getting serious. £90 is just a little steep for 0.8g’s of coke. As my wallet had snapped close several days prior to this one I was luckily left with one option, - to be at the mercy of my friends. Finally Petka and the Professor agreed to the purchase, and we headed for my place. Around 1.30am we arrived, and quickly took three massive lines each. Now to be fair, the coke was actually really good, much better than anything else I’ve ever done in this country. We listened to Dinosaur Jr and chatted shit until the coke was gone. By that stage it was 4 in the morning and we all intended to go to work that same day. In a futile attempt to rest I tried to crash. At 6 or 7 in the morning the professor left for surrey to move his car and go to work. None of us had slept. I managed to compose myself and headed for work around 9am. Halfway there I realised that I had a dentist’s appointment that morning at 9.30 in Harley Street. It bought me some time. I headed home, cancelled the dentist and tried to sleep. Petka had just called work and told them he was too hung over to show, so he spent an hour or so sitting with his head in his hands trying desperately to summon the strength to head home. The Professor called, asking if he could come back to mine and crash.
He appeared at 10am, looking and sounding like shit. He had managed to arouse the suspicion of his boss and probably the whole company through a series of ill timed and poorly executed phone conversations. This, coupled with severe alcohol angst and remnants of potent cocaine still rushing through his body, solicited a strong bout of guilt. I welcomed him to my world, and he had to admit he failed to understand how I managed to live my life like this for so long. Stupidity I answered. Because the truth was, I was getting really sick of lying and scheming to compensate for my lack of disregard towards my place of work, especially seeing as I lost the previous one under similar circumstances.
By 11.30am I called work, told them I had finished with the dentist and was heading in their direction. I managed slip in that I felt like someone had hit me in the face with a hammer, and my boss asked if I was cool to still show up. I didn’t expect to be handed a cop-out on a plate and failed to pounce. Irritated, and set on not going to work (I was still feeling like shit, still very much high and time seemed to not move), I called back ½ hour later and more or less told them I wasn’t coming. Because I am used to such behaviour, it didn’t fill me with as much guilt as it would have The Professor. That doesn’t mean I liked it, but that’s all water under the bridge.
The rest of Friday was spent trying to regain my body’s equilibrium, watching TV, smoking spliffs and trying not to be sick. Rock and Roll.
I’ve always said, if you gotta fuck up, do it in style. Just not on a school night anymore!

Inner Terrestrials

Despite my moaning, I will no doubt still go on Saturday. The Inner Terrestrial are playing. They are a wicked band. If you ever get the chance to see them, drop everything else, take some base and go!
I've seen them now more than a couple of times I think at varoius punk benefits, the best of which have been at St. Agnes Place. The Professor and I are becoming fans I think, and so would anyone else who would have the fortune to see them play live. The Inner Terrestrials are a raw sounding but highly tight three-piece powerhouse, playing an excellent mix of punk, dub and ska. Really worth checking out.
They have shitloads of energy, and with choruses like 'off with their heads' (if my malfunctioning brain remembers correctly) you can't go wrong.
... Shit now I HAVE to go..

Dutch men on a bike?

Mark05
Originally uploaded by bananeman.

Just found this on flickr.com. Sort of made my day. What the hell is all this about? Such and odd scene.

Anarchy in the UK

May have to hang out with some anarchy scum on Saturday and give them even more money than I already do through my taxes. There's a benefit gig with some cool bands playing, it's just a shame about the setting. Then again, why bother?
Dumb people with strong, irrational convictions have really started to bore me.
No one is ever going to change the world by chucking a brick at some pigs, it is pointless and at best misguided. Being on social benefits certainly isn't anarchy. They should all quit moaning and go to Colombia to join the FARC or something worthwhile like that, instead of trying to change the minds of millions of middle-class citizens who certainly won't be persuaded by a bunch of Spanish tramps drinking cider and shouting outdated slogans, whilst pointing the finger at the authorities who provide them with healthcare, education, freedom of speech and all the other basic human rights which are so blatantly ignored elsewhere in the world. I am not suggesting they get a job (god forbid they should have to pay for THEMSELVES), merely that they focus their energy on where it's really needed.
I can understand why they don’t, though. You can get killed squatting a property outside of Europe or the US, getting 'your' place hooked up with running water and gas/electricity can be a near impossibility, and let's face it, as meagre as it is in Europe, social benefits are non-existent elsewhere. How would they pay for cider? I doubt a tribe of Amazon people are going to show up to a benefit do, pay hard-earned money to enter, and then get accosted by drug-dealers, ketamine casualties and mentally deficient political preachers.
It may be true that most anarchist activists are from middle-class backgrounds, but hell they should know better. Saving the world is great, and the day someone does that by getting arrested after a scuffle with police during a protest is the day I'll take it all back.
Fighting political and financial violence with simple, brute violence is a dead end.
You will never turn the people around by representing an image they dislike.
In the case of activists, not all publicity is good.
So keep fighting, but don't bite the hand that feeds you, and chose your battle and your weapons with more consideration, hell why not try applying some intelligent thought while you're at it?
The world is run by dumb people, I don't want it taken over by even dumber people who think freedom is being able to take ketamine, receive benefits and occasionally shout at the police.

Innovative Geospatial Intelligence

Another completely pointless day at work is drawing to a close. I managed to sneak in some sunshine-time during my gratuitous one hour lunch break. It's no substitute for a day in the park, but given my current status I have to grab the moments I can, when I can. One of the millions and millions of problems associated with getting older is the fact that time becomes infinitely valuable, and as a irrational but logical conclusion one has less of it.
I miss the halcyon days when a summers' day lasted a year, and when weekends just never ended. Now everything is done to a clock, incessantly tick-tocking louder and louder, with seemingly shorter and shorter intervals. I think Peter Fonda's Captain America summed it up best, when, prior to embarking on an epic motorcycle ride across America, he throws his watch to the ground in the classic film Easy Rider.
Independence of the constraints of time is all I want, yet during the brief moments when I have it, I waste it all.

Rock and Roll

Life goes up, life goes down, everything in between is just sound.
It's fucking hard work, too.
I was I never had the urge to create explore, I am sure I would have been spared a million unpleasantries and I would most definitely have a better job.
But at the same time, if you want something bad you have to fight for it, if you have a vision you have to try everything in your power to realise it. That is what makes life hard; having a nine to five is not hard, going with flow is not hard, eating and drinking is not hard.
Making a living from a passion is hard, especially if that passion is art, be it music, writing or painting.
I think it is hard, anyway. But I am finally beginning to realise that I have to permanently burn the bridge that connects the hobby to the real. A passion have to be nurtured through inspiration and hard work if it is to be a viable means of income and satisfaction. So it's not always fun.
But life goes up, life goes down and out of it all comes sound.
Believe.

Work... it's a drag

Working can be such a drag. Who am I kidding? Working is always a drag. Ignore the voices of those who preach otherwise. Keeping your mind and your body occupied is unarguably healthy, but that is not the same as work. An artist paints because he has a passion, - it keeps him busy and probably occupies most of his time, even when he is not actually physically painting. But working for someone else doing something which is completely irrelevant to ones own interests and goals is just a socially accepted way of passing time. Now if work is supposed to be healthy because it keeps one busy, then I can think of better ways to pass time. I'd sooner prefer to be busy doing something for which I have a passion, and for which I see a point in its execution, than be a cog in the wheel of a larger machine, whose purpose is alien, or at best, pointless to me. Earning money for the sake of staying alive makes sense in an instinctual way, but not in a rational one. If the fulfilment of the basic human needs is the only reason to work nine to five, I can think of better ways to complete that goal. The options are always out there, it is just a question of taking the plunge, or being willing to sacrifice some creature comforts for better quality of life either now or sometime in the future. People have always envied those who do what they love and do it well. What we all seem to forget is that those people chose to do so, and adjusted their life to this singular purpose. They're not lucky, they just believe and follow their dreams regardless.

Ode To The Shopping Trolley

Ahh.. the shopping trolley!Such an unfortunate device, it gets used then left. Over the last few months I've come to realise just how many abandoned shopping trolleys there are within a mile's radius of my home. So I started to photograph them. You'll be surprised how many there are in London. Let's document the phenomenon of this weird, transient piece of welding. A bizarre setting, an abnormally normal setting - I don't think it matters. All abandoned shopping trolleys are pieces of installation / interactive street art.