Progress Report

It is not enough to merely make a comment or to express a thought. Art must be inspired AND inspiring. It must provoke a response, inspire thought and creatitivity in others, thus 'art begets more art'. There may be an essential human truth in here, love begets love, violence begets more violence - a vicious and delicious circle of life and progress, all of which make us human. If something claims to be art and does none of these things, it is not art, merely an outpouring of comment, a heamorrage of emotion, one more voice raised above the rabble, but saying nothing.

I see zombies parading outside my window, high on whatever they can get their hands on: alcopops, cheap wine, white powders and tablets, curries, burgers, trendy clothes, high heels, miniskirts, foolish hats, concert tickets, VIP guest lists, everything, anything that makes them feel like they belong where they are. To what? Society? Culture? To be part of a Zeitgeist?

Our ability to communicate far outstrips anything anyone has to say. Forget telephones and the printed word - web chats, text messages, IM, blogging - we speak before we know what to say; if we have anything to say at all.


If I were a thousand years old I would say: "remember when if you wnated to read and write, you'd have to find someone to teach you. And you had to REALLY want to learn. Publish a book? first create a machine with which to do it. Then set every page by hand and all at enormous cost - and it better be worth the trouble. It better be good".


Cut to the 21st century: i've got a book, but no-one wnats to publish it. Doesn't matter, I'll do it myself on the internet; they don't understand it, no-one understands me. i've got a band, make a record, a film, do anything you want. But it better be good - please make it good.


What about the audience, the great general public - lets talk about them. Desensitised, distracted, unexpectant, undemanding. Too caught up in their own reflection, comparing their boots to Kate Moss' boots, their car to David Beckhams' car, wanting everything, sacrificing nothing. They, we all, have forgotten what it means to mean anything.


When an underground MC talks about guns and cars and crime and living in the ghetto, what is he really telling that I don't already know? That they don't like it, that it sucks, that they'd rather live in a big house with a big car? What does that inspire in me?
Absolutely, resolutely nothing.


Give me a landline over a cellphone, a cinema over a home entertainment system, a desk instead of a wireless workstation, a typewriter over a fragile, needy laptop, and vinyl / cassette tapes / CDs - ANYthing over MPfucking3s. When did the technology take the place of the art? It means nothing what brand of music device or cellphone you carry. Isn't it more important what you listen to, or what you have to say?

Give me something I can feel, I can touch, or see. Technology has brought us this far but where is it taking us? We depend on it, becoming trapped by the very tools we developed to help us progress. There are many questions here - too many. And here's one more: what are we leaving behind us? what have we created recently, besides corrupted hard drives, millions of vaccuous websites and society dependant on nothingness.



Yes, I this reads like the ramblings of a deranged lunatic, but look for the truth in there.

I am.

New Pornography

I love finding new bands to love. Like last night, I walked all of the 20 metres from my flat to 93 feet East to see the New Pornographers , which is a band I’ve loved for years. ‘Electric Version’ is in my humble opinion, right up there with The Beach Boy’s ‘Pet Sounds’ for sheer vibrant, giggle-making pop. You know when you don’t want to go in to a show too early because the support invariably sucks and by the time the headline act comes on you’re a little deaf and feel sick? (maybe that’s just me)

Well anyway, I missed the first half of Immaculate Machine’s set, which I deeply regret, but was so taken with them that I immediately went to the back and bought their new CD – ‘Ones and Zeros’. I say immediately, obviously I waited for the New Pornographers to play their blisteringly fantastic set too. No Dan ‘the Destroyer’ Bejar, and no Neko Case either. I had been looking forward to hearing Neko sing live, but her replacement Kathryn Calder was excellent. Better than excellent even, especially considering she played two sets back to back as she is also in the Immaculate Machine. Way to go Kathryn!

Highlights of the Pornographers set were Mass Romantic, Slow Descent into Alcoholism, Testament to Youth in Verse (fuckin' awesome). And from the Machine's set, Invention '77 and So Cynical are still buzzing through my brain like mad flies.

Currently listening to: Immaculate Machine – Ones and Zeros

where are we all going?

we are 8 sitting around the dinner table. K has prepared a fine 4-course meal despite being moments from bancruptcy. If I were AA Gill I would describe the dinner in flowery, clever prose referrencing 'the way things are'. Except that I am not that clever, and anyway, my Blonde did not attend, jumping off the bike halfway to the party, furious with the bumpy roads and a migraine.

A funny story, funny because it's true:
Cuba. K, B, M & J are travelling through some of the most beautiful countryside on earth, but K and M have gastric flu. K and M spend several nights taking turns to commune with God via the big white telephone - it's coming out both ends. Soon the hotel room is uninhabitable, and supplies of toilet paper are running low. They decide to go to a smart hotel in order to clean up and feel human again. Once libations have been concluded, everyone freshened up, clean and nice it's back in the car for a leisurely drive. As they leave the driveway which has just been freshly mopped by a Cuban standing to the side with his bucket, M shouts: 'stop the car!', opens the door and projectile vomits accross the forecourt.

I guess it's funnier when they tell it.

another story:
a young lady, charming despite a tendancy to speak loudly and without thinking, is walking down the street when she realises that there is a hole in her trousers. turning to her friend she announces: OH MY GOD, I HAVE A HUGE HOLE!
turning around she faces a man who's mouth is gaping and doesn't know where to look.
'...in my trousers...' the correction does nothing to alleviate embarrassment.


the Blonde and I have been in the Carribbean for 2 weeks. Being back at work sucks. the holiday was nice. maybe I'll post some pictures soon...?

Alcofrolics Anonymous

When will we ever learn? At the time it always seems like a great idea. Something to lift the spirits, to really get the party started.

Then, half an hour later, you're up against the wall and the police are threatening to haul you off down the station. And somewhere in your muddled mind is the knowledge that none of this would have happened without Tequila.

four hours in the pub put us in an unusually gregarious mood, and when we got to Liam's flat someone thought it would be terrifically funny to climb up to his balcony on the 2nd floor and surprise him when he had caught up to us. Unfortunately the woman on the first floor did not think it was funny at all, and the plan was swiftly abandoned. Now we were bored, waiting for Liam to turn up. Luckily I had a pen in my pocket and the wall of the alleyway had been freshly painted, so the next minute or so was spent happily defacing our blank canvas. Alex had made only a couple of cursory marks on the wall when I spied a brace of police officers coming down the alleyway; and from the other side too - we were caught in a classic pincer manouvre by the Metropolitan police! Outnumbered and outflanked, we surrendered ourselves to our fate. Poor old Alex, who was really the most innocent of us but had been seen with the pen in his hand, was cuffed and led off, presumably to spend the night in the cells. Meanwhile, M and I were arguing with the cops, protesting our innocence; well there was reason for us all to go to jail...

Although one of the policemen pointed out to the mean-bitch policewoman that the ink on the wall wasn't even permanent and would wipe off easily, she wasn't having any of it and insisted on taking Alex in. They could have just made us wipe the wall down, but they didn't, so now the ink is dry and the wall graffitied. We were then given an ASDO - like an ASBO but less chav. This is a dispersal order: the mean cop then showed us a map:

Mean-bitch-cop: "you have to leave this area within 15 minutes"

Me: "But... our friend..... fnarrgggrrhhhh......."

MBC: " Leave the area now"

Me: "When can we come back?

MBC: "in 24 hours"

Me: "but I have to be at work in nine hours, around the corner"

MBC: "Oh"

Then we see the angry scared neighbor coming out to identify us, so we make our excuses and leave, cursing to Po-lice, damn 5-0 etc.
2 minutes later we turned around and went back to liam's flat where he had sneaked in during all the commotion, and recommenced drinking, all the while cursing the cops, the world, the neighbor, but never ourselves.

Waking up this morning was mildly unpleasant, but i must confess a mild thrill at breaking the law just by sitting at my desk.

Am I proud of being an anti-social, drunken, noisy lout?

No.

nuts in a Vice

Years ago, Vice magazine used to be funny, before we realised that Gavin McInnes a neo-con hate-monger with facisistic tendancies. If the writing was idiotic, it wouldn't be scary, but the skillful mixing of pinches of truth and barrels of fiction becomes a worry when you realise that people actually believe this shit.

Hey Gav, you know, another thing the working-class-tough-as-nails-nose-to-the-grindstone-war-vet population didn't put up with was pompous, self-congratulating posturing, posing as clever, relevant and insightful journalism.

Here's a great idea, America - kick out all 11 million illegal immigrants who do all of the menial jobs in the country , watch as the garbage piles up, nothing gets delivered and nothing gets cleaned. Wait for the social-security fattened La-Z-Boy, bone-fide Americans to stand up and do an honest day's work, and.... wait, and wait...

Meanwhile, by 'cutting loose' a third of the world's population, you'll have no food and nothing to wear without all those facories and sweatshops.

As for your education system, it's always sucked. Apart from the top 2 or 3 Ivy League colleges, the US education system has always been laughable. Engineering in the 70's was great? Yeah, right, look at your cars.

Purring growling fun

There are I suppose benefits to going on holiday to a remote Carribean island, I harldy need to list them here, but I will be missing one very important thing: this I must be punished for missing such an important lesson in my training to become a master swordsman. Perhaps I should be whipped with one of these?There are I suppose benefits to going on holiday to a remote Carribean island, I harldy need to list them here, but I will be missing one very important thing: this I must be punished for missing such an important lesson in my training to become a master swordsman. Perhaps I should be whipped with one of these?There are I suppose benefits to going on holiday to a remote Carribean island, I harldy need to list them here, but I will be missing one very important thing: this I must be punished for missing such an important lesson in my training to become a master swordsman. Perhaps I should be whipped with one of these?

Red Lipz

Red Lipz, originally uploaded by tombo79.

Yesterday was full of pain.
Q: When is a party not a party?
A: When nobody is having fun...

The solution to this problem is usually simply to drink more vodka, order more marching powder and crank up the Queen on the stereo. However, in extreme circumstances, no amount of substance abuse or perfectly crafted pop will lift you out of the doldrums and there is absolutely nothing for it, but to force a smile and ride out the storm until an appropriate hour when you may stagger out of the building and head for home.

Now convention would have it that, seeing as one lives but 2 minutes walk down the road, home is where one heads. But on this night, someone decides to hail a taxi and drive around looking for a McDonald's. When it transpires that even MaccyD's shuts it's doors sometimes, we then have to drive around looking for a bank machine that still has cash in it, from which to withdraw money with which to pay the taxi which eventually drops us back at home, £20 lighter in the pocket, in a considerably worse mood, and an urgent need to block the whole episode from one's memory. This is of course impossible since like most animals (excepting moths and dogs), our brains are hardwired to learn from our mistakes. That is why the whole fiasco is burned into my memory.

To really make sure that I learned my lesson though, I fell out of bed on the wrong side, walked straight into a blazing argument, suffered an huge injection of guilt while watching the flat being cleaned around me. To assuage the guilt, and get some fresh air. I then sweated and brawled my way around M&S, returning on a very wobbly scooter, to cleared air and a pleasant evening's cozy hanging-over.

As for Friday's good intention list? I managed to read a good book.

Er... that's it.

Now all I have to show for 2days off work is a photo of me wearing smudged red lippy. If it weren't for the naive hope that next weekend will be different, next weekend will be productive, I'd be really depressed...

Unpublished post, hiding in drafts folder for unknown length of time

Yesterday was full of pain.
Q: When is a party not a party?
A: When nobody is having fun...

The solution to this problem is usually simply to drink more vodka, order more marching powder and crank up the Queen on the stereo. However, in extreme circumstances, no amount of substance abuse or perfectly crafted pop will lift you out of the doldrums and there is absolutely nothing for it, but to force a smile and ride out the storm until an appropriate hour when you may stagger out of the building and head for home.

Now convention would have it that, seeing as one lives but 2 minutes walk down the road, home is where one heads. But on this night, someone decides to hail a taxi and drive around looking for a McDonald's. When it transpires that even MaccyD's shuts it's doors sometimes, we then have to drive around looking for a bank machine that still has cash in it, from which to withdraw money with which to pay the taxi which eventually drops us back at home, £20 lighter in the pocket, in a considerably worse mood, and an urgent need to block the whole episode from one's memory. This is of course impossible since like most animals (excepting moths and dogs), our brains are hardwired to learn from our mistakes. That is why the whole fiasco is burned into my memory.

To really make sure that I learned my lesson though, I fell out of bed on the wrong side, walked straight into a blazing argument, suffered an huge injection of guilt while watching the flat being cleaned around me. To assuage the guilt, and get some fresh air. I then sweated and brawled my way around M&S, returning on a very wobbly scooter, to cleared air and a pleasant evening's cozy hanging-over.

As for Friday's good intention list? I managed to read a good book.

Er... that's it.

Where were you while we were getting high?

Where were you while we were getting high?, originally uploaded by tombo79.

From here at my desk, I can see the darkening sky, streaked with rain.
By the sallow glow of dimmed lights in the offices across the road, I
can see overfed worker ants whiling away the last couple of hours of
the working day. There is a sadness to Fridays; as the hangovers,
headaches, broken hearts, stolen handbags and vomit-stained shoes that
will have shaken our realities by Monday, draw inevitably closer. Above
London a thick cloud of anticipation forms - 10 million prayers to the
god of weekend. Some people will be drinking, some will be dining in
fine restaurants, others will self-harm by going to Ikea. Me? I'm just
hoping the rain stops long enough for me to get home without getting
soaked.

Things to do this weekend:
Eat healthy
Do yoga
Be frugal
Watch a good film
Read - a book, not just magazines
Work on screenplay
Avoid excessive partying
Ditto alcohol and other refinements
Listen to Radio 4
Make major career-changing decision.

Let's give me a score out of 10 on Monday then, shall we?

Don't stop me now!

Don't stop me now!, originally uploaded by tombo79.

Don’t stop me now…


“I’m having such a good time…
I’m having a ball!”

(Everybody now…)


1 very stressful week – (old flatmates + narcotics x alcohol) ÷ Queens Greatest hits = This.


There is a moment at which you lose your inhibitions, a point after you’ve lost contact with everything that went before – work, bills, stress – and before you begin to feel sleepy and/or sick. At this point, nothing exists but the pure moment of living. You are balanced; without a past or future you are truly present. That moment for me, happened at about 4am on Saturday morning.

The journey up to this point is usually enjoyable, but compromised by the conscious effort to ‘have fun’. Everything after this moment moves towards droopy eyelids, horizontalness, pillows, and the necessary evacuation from the body of toxins. But right now, none of that matters because you are alive, and you are probably singing.

Shortly after this photo was taken, I staggered to my feet and decided that it would soon be time to go to bed.

Eez theez you?

Eez theez you?, originally uploaded by tombo79.

hallo,

is this foto you or your friend? i meet you and limp-drunk friend with many scarf, friday night and promise to put photo on internet for you. well, here is.
sorry, but, i don't remember your names or e-mails. but you talk like thees.

and you, meester beardy-weirdy, you can stop flirting with my girlfriend, hokay? good.

living in a box

I remeber when I was a kid walking past 'Cardboard City' in the South Bank complex, before they kicked out all the homeless people and built an Imax. Despite the ovbious drawbacks to having a carboard house in the middle of London - (fire hazard, little sound insulation, definately not piss or puke-resistant) I did see the appeal of box-living. Don't like the new neighbors? Move your box. Drunk twats keep pissing on you while you're asleep? move your box. Council facists giving you grief? Move your damn box.

At the other end of the live-in-a-box market is the Loft Cube. It has none of the drawbacks of an actual cardboard box, and comes with fabulous extras like a hot tub, and designer bathroom. Of course, if your box is card, you can just pick it up and move it wherever you like. To move your loftcube, you need a fucking helicopter. But other than that it's sweet.

Right, I'm off to find the caretaker of a tall building in the City, then I'll bribe him for the roof, order my cube; and like that, I'll stick 2 fingers up to the stupid, shitty housing prices in London.

Rainy Days & Mondays

"Talkin' to myself and feelin' old
Sometimes I'd like to quit
Nothing ever seems to fit
Hangin' around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down."

And: why is it everytime it rains I forget my beautiful waterproof pants for the wearing of whilst commuting on my scooter? Is it that I have a subconcious desire to chill and marinate my testicles with cold rain? Or simply that I am an idiot in the mornings?

However, balls, rain, and monday work tasks aside, it is a good day because I still have 'America's Next Top Model' and 'Boston Legal' to look forward to. During this slump in Channel 4's programming, I thank God for LivingTV. You think i'm joking, don't you? Would that i were, but my life is precisely this exciting.

Slightly disjointed post i know, but i'll leave you with this bombshell:
I is acceptable to quote Carpenters lyrics, it is totally unacceptable to go around humming it. So go and listen to some Stephen Malkmus or something. Just flush that satiny, satany, pop-smoothness out of your ears.


P.S. I wonder what's going to fuck up Tuesday?

Dragonfly faces Demon

tombo, originally uploaded by tombo79.

'Tombo' means 'dragonfly in Japanese.

When I was a boy, I went on a camping trip with my uncle and my cousin on the banks of Lake Yubara, near where the Japanese half of my family lives. Uncle had a brand new canoe from which we intended to spend the weekend fishing.

After setting up camp, we launched the canoe, fitted the swanky little outboard motor, and chugged into the middle of the lake to spend the morning casting and re-casting without success.

After a lunch of 'onigiri' (rice balls) Uncle went for a nap, so Cousin and I decided to take the boat out. Young boys mucking about in boats don't pay much attention to what's going on around them, and before long we had drifted up an inlet. The water was dead still in this sheltered corner of the lake and vegetation floated on the surface all around us, rotting and putrid.

We tried to start the engine, but the propeller was clogged with rotting leaves and twigs. As I leaned over to try and de-tangle the engine the canoe rocked once, twice, and tipped us unceremoniously into the muddy water.

We scrambled to shore, retching and spitting the rancid stuff from our mouths. Uncle came running to wee what the commotion was about, but concern turned swiftly to anger as he saw the prow of his new boat dissappearing beneath the soggy skin of the lake.

He ordered us to retrieve the canoe immediately, and is not a man to be denied. Cousin was ashen faced at going back in the water, but I, felt more than partly resposible. For the first time in my life I made the active decision to take responsibility and face the consequences of my action head on.

I took my first steps into the water. The stench rose into my nose and I was gagging as i waded out. When my feet could no longer touch the bottom, I paddled a gentle breaststroke so as to avoid splashing my face. When I got to the site of the sunken vessel, I took several deep breaths and dived. It seemed to take forever, feeling around in the murky depths, to locate the prow of the boat sticking up from the lake bed. I found the tow rope, and holding it tight, reached for the surface.

Desperately trying not think about the rotten crud in my hair and on my face, I began to swim as hard as I could for shore, towing the submerged canoe behind me.

I didn't notice it at first. It was heading straight for me, or more accurately I for it; standing on the rigid surface skin of the water, a gigantic dragonfly. Its stripes were crimson and astro-turf green, it's shiny spherical eyes turquoise-blue. Desperately tring to stop before i swam face-on into it, I back-paddled until the dragonfly and I were nose to nose. I hardly dared breathe; the insect did not stir, its wings and body perectly parallell with the water.

I realised after several tense moments that although it was equipped to see in almost every direction, this beast could not see at all - it was in fact dead. I wondered what to do: I could not go forward without colliding with the deceased. I could not go back for fear of losing the boat. The solution I found was to waft my hand under water until the insect drifted away.

When I dragged myself from the water, shaken but victorious, I was changed. I knew that when you take responsibility for something, you'll always get more than you bargained for. And I've been facing my dragonflies ever since.

The Unbearable Heaviness of Commuting

My scooter is being serviced (by a couple of grumpy south african neanderthals at Scooterden). This means that for the first time in 3 months, i have been forced onto the London Underground. Personally I think the name 'Underground' should be changed in favour of something that doesn't constantly remind you that you are basically trapped in a mass grave. And I have never felt so uncomfortable. This morning's thunder and rain, combined with the hot and muggy summers day rendered the atmosphere on the platform soupy. Jostling our way to the train door, we hear the soggy slopping of cheap suits drenched with rain and sweat flapping on commuters' sour skin.

Stepping into the carriage is like entering the communal sauna in the nether regions of Hades. Steam rises, billowing in the arch of the roof before descending in drizzles down the steamy windows. Any handhold is sticky with condensation and grime; the opressive presence of other people is everytwhere, in the air, on my skin, creeping itchy up my legs. When the train disgorges most of it's passengers at Holborn, I take small comfort in the extra space and try and hold my breath for one more stop.

It was never a pleasant experience travelling on the tube, but since getting my Vespa and ceasing to be dependant on public transport, I have realised what complete madness it is that we as Londoners put up with a system that is practically medieval. I cannot think of another country where getting from A to B is as unpleasant as in London. The Parisian Metro may smell a bit of wee, but at least it's spacious. The Tokyo trains may be overcrowded, but at least they run on time, are cheap, and are air-conditioned. The New York Subway may be full of crazy people, but at least it's convenient to use and runs all night. The Underground has all of these failings, and more, and none of the benfits. I am amused by the statistic that the most expensive journey on earth, is a single on the Picadilly Line from Leicester square to Covent Garden. £2.20 or so to travel 100 yards? That's more than Concorde - and you aren't exactly travelling in the lap of luxury.

So what's to be done? Livingstone, the Mayor of London, has offered a reward for anyone who can solve the problem of air conditioning on the tube. I don't understand why they can't attatch an extra carriage at the end of the train to carry the A/C unit. Or put dry ice in the seats. Whatever. But I'm going back to the grumpy south africans and bribing them hurry up with my scooter. 2 wheels good, 200 wheels - very bad indeed.

Sick

I am sick. have been sick all weekend, and feel liked life is cheating me out of its fun. what have I done to deserve this I wonder?

On second thoughts, the answer to that really doesn't bear thinking about.

Happiness

There is something about being in a boat, on a quiet river on a lazy summer's day, that relieves you of all your cares; and for that small window of time, between the previous and subsequent trials of life, you may consider yourself truly happy, if only for a while.

sexed-up nu-koncept: PROCRASTIN-8

Some thoughts about procrastination. I am a master of procrastination. Right now I am managing to put off doing any work, calling my mother, returning an e-mail to my friend, starting my novel AND finishing my film scripts. of which there are several in various stages of incomplete. I know, you think I must be exhausted and I am.

Procrastination is often confused with laziness. Whereas laziness requires one to do nothing much at all - and is therefore far from taxing; procrastination on the other hand demands constant thought and attention to what one would be doing if one were not too busy just thinking about it.

Unfortunately, becoming distracted is fundamental to procrastination. For example, I am listening now to 'Take 5', that over-popular number by Dave Brubeck, and am sorely tempted to take five myself, make a cup of tea and think about something else...

"Procrastination is one of the most common and deadliest of diseases and its toll on success and happiness is heavy." - someone said that. Can't be bothered to look up who.

It's not all bad though: procrastination gives you something to look forward to.
I am looking forward to many things; finishing my film scripts, becoming rich and successful, retirement, the list goes on.
All of which will surely happen, just as soon as I actually apply myself.

"Procrastination is the thief of time." - lots of people have said this, including my father and many of my teachers. You would think that old people would keep themselves really busy, since the less you have of something, the more likely you are to notice it when someone steals it. Unless of course watching repeats of Countdown is considered an actual activity among the elderly.

"Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday." - Whoever said this was wrong. I couldn't possibly keep up that kind of pace. Besides there's enough to worry about today and tomorrow without getting bogged down in the past.

Finally:

Why do today what can be done tomorrow? I'll tell you why - because some disgruntled teenager may very well put a rucksack full of bomb on your bus and there may well be no tomorrow for you or me or anyone else. Well, there may be for me, because I ride a scooter to work. So maybe i'll put off finishing this post until tomorrow...