Please Replace the Handset and Try Again

I don't like people going through my post, or checking my e-mail. And I'm not too fond of others hearing my answer phone messages either. And so it was with reluctance that I hit the play button last night in my parents' company. They had given me a ride back to my apartment and insisted that I stop its beeping by checking the machine for messages. They then assumed their positions around the phone, and unnecessary as it was, stared at it as it began.

The first was a message from my ex-girlfriend Beth, with whom I still share a close, though not geographically close, friendship. After all, we were together three and something years and, although we see other people (but not actually each other – Beth being in California), like close friends we occasionally say 'I love you.' No big deal. However, all but those three words were inaudible, and if this message were a stick my parents would have had the wrong end. They looked at each other and then back at the machine as it beeped onto the next message.

It was me, leaving a memo for myself and, rather bizarrely, one for the apartment: "See you soon," I said. Then, like the unwelcome encore to my answering machine circus, the final message began before a bewildered crowd, who listened with some bemusement as my friend Pam did her turn as a young and very much alive Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday to a similarly iconic and living President Kennedy. "Happy Birthday Mr President," she sang in her breathy – I’ll say it – sexy voice. "Happy Birthday to yoooooooooou..."
"End of Messages," the machine announced.

And with that my parents shifted their gaze from the answer phone to their son, ten months from his birthday and clearly not the President of anything. Blushing that maroon colour Indian people do, I switched off the machine and said with a shrug, "probably got the wrong number."

Curb Your Enthusiasm

I was surprised to find my parents enjoying the HBO sitcom, Curb Your Enthusiasm. My dad, I think, sees himself as a sort of Larry David figure, bald and broody, albeit without a career in Hollywood, experience in stand up comedy or the hit TV show Seinfeld in his writing credits. When I left the DVD box-set of its second series at my parents place for a couple of days and returned to find it still in its case I asked whether they'd like to watch an episode. "Nah, we've seen it before," my mum said. "No, this is the second series. I haven't seen it yet. Shall I put it on?" "No, that's alright. We saw it yesterday." "What - all of it? Back to back?" "Yep." "In two days?" "Yep." "There are ten episodes here," I said, taken aback by their marathon session. "Well Dad, what did you think of it?" Without turning to face me and with his enthusiasm clearly curbed he said, in all seriousness, "a bit repetitive."

Technical Problems

Though a feature in Fortune Magazine is still a long way off, my recent move to self-employment has brought with it the sort of fiscal benefits not enjoyed by much of my peer group. As a result, it is with surprise that I read my bank statements in black ink and with absolute recklessness that I purchase and surround myself with gadgetry of the highest order. As I sit in my lounge typing this, an iPod plays through the JBL Creature Speaker system, a Marks & Spencer Ready Meal cooks on timer to coincide with the start of The West Wing and a video fireplace loops and crackles on the DVD recorder.

I am even beginning to buy first hand clothes, but in my black pinstripe suit and white iPod cable collar I'm just a crosshair for the countless charity collectors and insurance sellers that stalk shoppers on the High Street. As I appear less and less shabby it becomes more and more difficult to disguise my sudden wealth from their persuasive, guilt driven rhetoric. "You look like a well off guy," they start. "Surely, you could spare £2 a month to help poor, endangered, penguins learn to fly. Your money would go to restoring their confidence and letting them know that we believe they can."

Their spiel sends me into the shelter of a nearby shopping centre, where the soft lighting and soft music makes me feel calm and where I inevitably spend much more than £2 a month on some sort of gadget that promises to make the running of my life a tiny bit easier. The new Chip and Pin system, by which you enter your pin number rather than signing at the checkout, certainly makes such purchases a breeze – and far more secure. Or at least I think so.

I was at a checkout the other day when I overheard a reaction to the new technology that was so utterly English in its manner. "This Chip and Pin's a new thing, isn’t it?" said the lady behind the counter. To which the customer replied, "I know." And then with disdain, "It's ridiculous, isn’t it?"

The San Sharma Show

A post this overdue must, of course, begin with an apology. And an opening sentence that mundane should end with one too. So for both I am sincerely sorry. My life, now that I have one, has undergone a transformation of the nip/tuck kind. I don’t have a new nose unfortunately, but I do have a new apartment, a new 12-month contract and a new sunny outlook on life, a disposition completely at odds with the tone of this blog. Formerly a dumping ground for the malcontent, my blog has fallen silent through a period of, dare I say it, relative contentment – a good patch. Rest assured however, any grievances have been duly noted and you should expect reference to them in the ensuing posts. Without further ado I welcome myself back onto the stage and thank you, the audience, for your patience.

Home Alone

Thrilling Me Softly

When a Dublin quintet opened for Morrissey last year and introduced themselves as "the Trills", a capacity audience at London's Albert Hall paused and asked, "the what?" That summer The Thrills, as they became known, dominated the airwaves with their take on Sixties sunshine pop and now, after a fittingly bleak English summer, release their sophomore effort, the darker, sometimes sinister, Let's Bottle Bohemia. The critics this time around are far less unanimous in their praise and I, feeling more aligned to the New Musical Express than regional newspaper, The Shropshire Star, am inclined to say that I don't like it, it's rubbish and Pete Doherty is God.

However, none of those things are true, at least as far as I know, but my relationship with The Thrills prohibits an objective review. It began a holiday romance and, having simultaneously returned from the West Coast of America, the band and I traded beached tales and sun-drenched stories of our time in California. "Let's go to San Diego," sang front-man Conor Deasy in all the excitement. "That’s where all the kids go!" And it sounded like a good idea. I would work, save up the cash and follow the kids to Southern California.

However, that plan never came into fruition and a year later we meet again, glancing awkwardly across a non-smoking Irish bar, as you do when you recognise an old flame. But what was ablaze before is now but a glimmer of hope in the dull disillusionment that this country generates in its young. With their debut album, So Much for the City, The Thrills and I shared a professed love for the West Coast and, evidently, the tunes of The Byrds and The Beach Boys. But behind those deceptively upbeat melodies was the longing and loss that marks the end of a summer holiday. Its follow-up, Let's Bottle Bohemia, however makes no effort to disguise its gloom, with song titles such as 'Faded Beauty Queens', 'Our Wasted Lives' and 'You Can't Fool Old Friends with Limousines'. Now when we meet it is to moan about how much it sucks to be here.

"Is this what they call 'love'?" Deasy sings in album highlight, 'Saturday Night', a tirade about the Great British nightlife. And tonight, which is actually a Friday, I found myself asking the same question, sitting under the disco lights with my mate, Sukhi, relinquishing conversation to the Top 40 at top volume, and watching what Deasy calls "dry humpin' on dance floors." "Is this what they call 'sex’?" he continues.

With Let's Bottle Bohemia, The Thrills are again remarkably in tune, not just musically (as expected), but somehow, and rather unfortunately, with my current state of mind – once thrilled, now somewhat disenchanted. "Is this what they call 'hate'?" Deasy asks in 'Saturday Night', and in his breathless, once intense, now tired vocals, kills me softly with his song.

Here's hoping the next Thrills album is more upbeat. As much for my sake, as theirs.

What Not to Wear

It ain't the air in your new Nikeees that puts the spring in your step, or the bottled bohemia of your new brown cords, and it sure ain't that trucker cap. But there is something about wearing new clothes that makes you feel a certain...je nes sais pas. (And there is also something about discussing fashion that necessitates un peu de Francais, non?)

There is sadly something about my financial situation too that demands I shop for clothes at thrift stores. But, I am told, buying "second-hand" is the new "full price", and there are plenty of bargains to be found. I stumbled across one yesterday: a classic, three-button, black leather blazer for under £10. Wearing it today has made me feel a little, dare I say - cool.

In fact walking with it provoked the sidewalk flirtage of a really hot girl. And I attribute this wholly to the jacket. I was otherwise having a pretty bad hair day, but nonetheless this young lady, with great style herself, smiled from across the street and waved. A little stunned, I returned the gesture with regrettably uncanny likeness: a girly wave, all five fingers a-fluttering. We both laughed at this but unfortunately deadly traffic kept us apart - isn't that always the way? - and as a big truck passed she was gone. I don't mean dead...the truck didn't hit her, but I thought to myself, two lanes was probably a safe distance. Second-hand clothes can really stink.

As mine hangs in the Febreeze, I'm watching What Not to Wear, a TV show that inspires this entry, and the rather less profound thought that its presenters, Trinny and Susannah, if it were at all possible, could combine to make a very hot woman. That face and those breasts (respectively)...Ooh la la!

Films Dogs Might Enjoy

And that, readers, is the topic of a BBC Radio Shropshire discussion. I urge you all to tune in, if not tonight, whenever you're in the area. In fact, it's worth moving to the area - the late night DJ is really that good. Still not good enough however, to keep my friend, Pete, in town. He's moving back to Uni tomorrow, but not without a few fond memories of a fairly fun summer. Tonight will surely rank up there with some of the least rank evenings of the past few months, as plans for a farewell few in Shrewsbury were shelved in favour of drinks at Telford's newest and I suspect only Italian American bar, Frankie and Benny's.

We arrived feeling a little underdressed but nevertheless utterly surprised at Telford's alarmingly large, pinstriped Italian American community. To our further surprise was the way in which bar staff served glasses on napkins and lit our cigarettes for us. (So impressed was I that I gestured a tip on the counter, which was ultimately retracted and spent on booze. There's a tip for you.)

Nothing could prepare us however - not even the Italian for Beginners tape playing in the bathroom - for the surprisingly moving speech by one half of the Frankie and Benny brand. With the words of leadership and wisdom usually reserved for the Presidents, football coaches and Morgan Freemen of American movies, Frankie or Benny (it was hard to tell which, or if indeed it was either), spoke to the small crowd of kitchen staff, waiters, bar men, managers and us, waiting patiently for our mention in the long list of thank yous.

It never came. The applause signaled the end of the speech (though I half expected an orchestral crescendo) and, drying a glass (I suspect, only for effect), the bar man leaned in. "We actually don't open until Monday," he said. "This is an invitation only event."

Then, with a courtesy not bestowed the Italian American stereotype of cinema, we were politely asked to leave. "You guys just sort of snuck in," he said. It was the easiest break in yet, and a rather painless break out. No violence, no guns, no hitmen: hardly Reservoir Dogs. Now there's a film a dog might enjoy...I'm calling Radio Shropshire. Goodnight.

Whatever happened to Corey Haim?

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF-8&q=%22corey+haim%22 If you were wondering...

It's great to be here in...Knoxville, Tennessee

Such is the enormous power of the Internet that I can locate my visitors geographically; though - no longer concerned with the surfing habits of my ex-girlfriend - I've neglected that resource somewhat lately. This afternoon however, in a fun filled lunch hour, I got back in the habit, so to speak, and was alarmed at the stats, which, they assure me, don't lie people. They beg the question however, who do I know in Knoxville, Tennessee? And to all my fans in Croatia...who are you?

http://guru.msn.com

Like all cow-respecting, yoga practising, PVC preferring Hindus we have our own guru, a holy man who tours his teachings to families nationwide, who, in return for his wisdom, blessings and soothsaying, house him for up to two weeks. We did so a few summers ago. In fact, he insisted that he sleep in my bed, since - and I may have chuckled when he said this - it was untouched by the impurity of sex. Still, I let him have my bed. After all, he had just chewed part of his dinner and offered it as a sort of Holy Communion, and, after reading my cousin's palm, told him he had the hands of a killer. It was the least I could do.

Having relinquished (most of) his worldly belongings, the guru is actually homeless and survives on the kind donations of temple goers, the support of priests, and the communication link provided by his otherworldly Nokia mobile phone. It was from said device that my mum received the message that the guru is now undertaking a vow of 'silence' and, in his liberal interpretation of the vow, can only be reached by e-mail and instant message. I better go - guru_uk@hotmail.com has just signed in...

The Best a Man Can Get...

(...and pretty good for a woman too.)

I've often wondered where it will all end. When Gillette brought out the Mach 3 in 1999 I thought they'd peaked. "Four blades surely," I thought, "is too much." And yet, Wilkinson Sword, "makers of the finest swords and knives in the world since 1772" (and David to Gillette's Goliath since the Sensor Excel days of '92), this week announce the release of Quattro, "the world's first four blade razor..." As if we're supposed to gasp in amazement...when to be honest, anyone who can count might have seen this coming. Four, after all, follows three. The sword makers turned cosmeticians may see themselves as a cut above the rest now, but in five years time will run into problems when U.N. Special Forces are called in to keep 9-blade razors - weapons of face destruction - off the streets.

Their rivals meanwhile are wise to explore other avenues and, having acquired Duracell International, release the truly awe inspiring - and I did actually gasp when I saw this - battery powered, vibrating triple-blade razor, the M3Power. Although a somewhat unnerving experience to hold three blades against your neck in an unsteady hand, the latest offering from Gillette delivers a remarkably close shave. And when I switch it off I can almost hear the boffs at Wilkinson Sword. "Got it!" they exclaim. "How about...five blades?!"

Burn It: 'Songs in the Key of Death'

"Are you dead?" said the voice at the end of the line. It was very dark, I thought. And I was lying down. "No," I said, a finger on my pulse. "What are you doing?" "I’m calling you from Puerto Rico!" It was Beth, my ex-girlfriend in the Caribbean with current beau Krishna, delicately reminding me at 3:23am that our lives could not be more different. "I'm having pena colada and sangria – on the beach!" "You shouldn't mix your drinks like that, Beth." "Why haven't you e-mailed me with that advice?" she asked. "I thought you were dead."

I am indeed alive and well, fret not loyal readers (or royal leaders). I do apologise for my absence but this is in no way an indication of my demise. Continuing with the theme however I present to you the third in the Burn It series, following 'Songs to Fall Asleep' and 'Wake Up to'. A mix CD on the subject of death would therefore be called 'Songs to Die to', but deeming that a title too bleak I call this compilation 'Songs in the Key of Death'. Enjoy, if you can.

Songs in the Key of Death (Total time – 1:14:08)

1. 'Sheep Go to Heaven' – Cake Chosen as the opener primarily as to avoid interrupting the compilation's otherwise sombre tone. If you don't know it, the refrain is "Sheep go to heaven/Goats go to hell," which is about the most rational lyric in the song. Others include, "I just want to play on my pan pipes..." Don’t we all, Cake lovers? Incidentally, I know a girl whose younger brother sings in the chorus as part of a children's choir. Bit of trivia for you.
2. 'Jenny Was a Friend of Mine' – The Killers A deliciously sinister update of 'Girlfriend in a Coma', in which Morrissey sang, "there were times when I could have murdered her..." Here lead singer Brandon Flowers does just that, and admits it in a police confession that sounds like a cross between Joy Division and the Cure.
3. 'Atlantic City' - Bruce Springsteen "Everything dies baby, that's a fact," sings the Boss. "Maybe everything that dies someday comes back."
4. 'Lullaby' - Emitt Rhodes I saw The Royal Tenenbaums again last night, and was reminded why I love it so much. Not least because of the two for one offer on the Wilson brothers, but the soundtrack too is amazing. I was listening to it this morning and the shifting balance effect of this song made me think my iPod was dying. Reason enough, I think, to include it on this compilation.
5. 'If You Go Before Me' - Terence Trent D'Arby If you can stomach the conceited little poem that precedes the song, in which D'arby, the artist formerly known as wanker sighs, "I’ve been the hermit and the love thief" and uses the word "extemporise", this meditation on life after life is otherwise rather brilliant. It comes from his fourth and daringly titled album, Vibrator, which is more to do with death than sex but nevertheless connects the two on more than one occasion. "One day in the year," he sings in his remarkable son-of-a-preacher-man voice, "a bullet screamed and ripped straight through you." His performance is so believable you might just check yourself for exit wounds.
6. 'Rock N Roll' - Ryan Adams There is a chance that Adams, Ryan (not Bryan), will appear on every compilation I make without fail. And that it is because he is one of the most prolific and consistently good singer-songwriters in my collection. This, from perhaps his weakest effort, a mock-rockumentary of the same name, is not what the title suggests but a simple piano ballad. "I miss my best friend," a girl can be heard sobbing, taped and looped as the track fades to a sombre close.
7. 'The Scientist' - Coldplay A break-up song that's meaning is forever changed by a video in which Chris Martin, as if he didn't look strange already, sings backwards and like the Superman of the first film, reverses the death of his Gwyneth. It nevertheless wins the Free Willy tear jerker award and I defy anybody who has ever been in a relationship to listen Martin's falsetto refrain, "nobody said it was easy..." without a sniffle or goosebump.
8. 'What Will You Say' - Jeff Buckley Contrary to popular belief, April 5th 1994, when Kurt Cobain took his life, was not the day that the music died. Five months later and within a week of each other three classic records were released more complete and realised than anything by Nirvana. Those records were Definitely Maybe by Oasis, The Holy Bible by the Manic Street Preachers and Jeff Buckley's first and only complete album, Grace, which turns ten this month. It is a masterpiece of indisputable beauty, breadth and brashness, torn between themes of love and death, made all the more poignant but never overstated by Buckley's death in May 1997. 'What Will You Say' is taken from a live album, Mystery White Boy, and is a dialogue with the dead, a conversation with his estranged father, renowned folk singer Tim Buckley, whom Jeff never met but never quite escaped comparison. "Father, do you hear me? Do you know me? Do you even care?" he sings. "What will you say when you see my face?"
9. 'Fruit Tree' - Nick Drake Like Buckley, Nick Drake died before his career was fully realised. His records have since sold far more than they ever did in his lifetime, articles have been written, books and films proposed. The attention and respect his music now commands is justified. (Just listen to Five Leaves Left.) But the quest to understand Drake and his music is all the more intensified by his prophetic lyrics and eerie foreshadowing. The words of 'Fruit Tree' have become a reality: "Fame is but a fruit tree/So very unsound/It can never flourish/Till its stalk is in the ground/So men of fame/Can never find a way/Till time has flown/Far from their dying day."
10. 'Speedway' - Counting Crows Long before Counting Crows joined the likes of Phil Collins and Bryan Adams to record songs exclusively for children's animated films, they made some very brilliant very unchildish albums. This from their third, This Desert Life, is not their first to hint at suicide as a topic. The hint comes with the lyric, "I'm thinking about breaking myself" and continues with the line, "I'm thinking 'bout getting out," which is repeated into the song's fade.
11. 'I Know It's Over' - The Smiths Morrissey at his most morbid delivers a sensitive and intelligent song that brings the best out of his band mates - Mike Joyce (drums), Andy Rourke (bass) and Johnny Marr (guitar) - and a performance more expressive and honest than anything he's done before or (possibly) since. The image laden song about the end of a fictitious relationship is brilliantly framed by the lyric, "Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head," and explained by a middle section, in which the singer equates his forthcoming death with a feeling of utter helplessness.
12. 'Exit Music (For a Film)' - Radiohead While on tour with Alanis Morissette in September 1996, Radiohead was sent the last half-hour of Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet and asked to write a song for the closing credits. Impressed by the clip, Thom Yorke wrote this for the film. His original plans to use lines from the Shakespeare play were (thankfully) scrapped, and he instead took inspiration from the scene in which Claire Danes's Juliet holds a Colt 45 to her head, whilst keeping in his its 1968 film outing. "I saw the Zeffirelli version when I was 13," Yorke explains. "I cried my eyes out, because I couldn't understand why, the morning after they shagged, they didn't just run away. The song is written for two people who should run away before all the bad stuff starts."
13. 'Whatever Happens' - Michael Jackson Michael Jackson's sales, despite his record breaking bad publicity, better reflect the state of the music industry than the quality of his work. He may not shift the units he did in the Eighties (when Thriller became the world's biggest selling album), but for a 'has-been' it is a remarkable feat to outsell new albums by Beyonce and OutKast with a second, hastily compiled greatest hits package (Number Ones), released the day police raid his house with allegations of child sex abuse. His last studio album, Invincible, is sadly overlooked in favour of the tabloid details of those allegations, but on closer inspection reveals a focused, highly polished - if over produced - R&B record. Here is an aging Michael Jackson, facing his mortality, no longer dancing with the dead with the vigour or youth seen in the landmark 'Thriller' video. "Whatever happens," he sings. "Don't let go of my hand."
14. 'Fields of Gold' - Eva Cassidy Alone, it's a remarkably peaceful ballad. As the soundtrack to a Cancer Research television campaign, it's haunting. Sung here by Eva Cassidy, the Washington, D.C. singer who died of cancer in 1996 at the age of 33, it's even more poignant, and an evocative example of the singer's ability to cut straight to the emotional core of her music.
15. 'Hold On' - Spiritualized Even Spiritualized's back-to-basics album, Amazing Grace, has the odd moment of grandiose. Here it sandwiches Jason Pierce's simple chorus: "Hold on baby to those you hold dear/Hang on to the people you love/'cause death cannot part us/If life already has/Hold on to those you hold dear." Listening to this song, as I seldom do, transports me back to a candle-lit apartment bedroom on Rue Bugeaud, where, with Pierce's instruction, I slow danced with an American in France, before life - and my return flight home - indeed parted us.
16. 'Higher Ground' - Stevie Wonder Stevie's fascination with Eastern religion produced something far funkier than Christian Rock could ever manage: "I'm so darn glad he let me try it again/Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin..." Beat that Christian rockers.
17. 'Sometimes It Snows in April' - Prince Not quite what you'd expect from the funk-lovin', pint-sized Musicologist, 'Sometimes It Snow in April' is as beautiful as anything I've ever heard, a love song for a dead friend that rewards upon careful listening. The one word in the chorus dissonant to the song's melody is "wish", since wishes, perhaps Prince is suggesting, can be incongruous with the lives we are forced to live. "All good things, they say," he sings, "Never last."

Holiday in Wales

Donkey Bonding

"Better donkey bonding," or so the saying goes, "than donkey searching." And if you're unfamiliar with those words of wisdom you obviously don't know Alexandra, Pete's lady friend from Greece where that saying, which she translates for us here, is the equivalent of our "better safe than sorry." In the week that I knew Alexandra there was indeed a degree of bonding, albeit minus the donkey (perhaps Pete), and now that – a week on – she's back in Greece, preparing her place (and attractive girlfriends) for my upcoming visit I’d like to dedicate this post and picture to her.

Pains, Trains and Polyphonic Ringtones

The 8:32 is cancelled. But I'm on time. And with forty minutes to spare (or despair) I retreat to the station's humble waiting room, in which a girl, whom by probability I assume is a hairdresser (I've met three in a week) smokes beneath a no smoking sign and a teenage boy fulfils a stereotype: trucker cap, low rider jeans, skateboard. He's listening to what sounds like The Clash. "It is," he responds, when I ask to confirm.

Our conversation, if you can call it that, is interrupted by the polyphonic ringing of his phone, which plays the theme from Indiana Jones, somewhat ironically. I see this guy five mornings a week and have concluded that unlike the Harrison Ford machine of machismo he is largely a man of inaction. He sleeps on the train and I’ve yet to see him use his skateboard. Still, the thought of him leaping aboard, whip and skateboard in hand, clutching at his trucker cap before the train door closes, passes the time and elicits a silent chuckle. You might call it a smile. It too is interrupted by a polyphonic ringtone. This time mine and a text message from my boss, Em. "Meeting at 10. Will you make it?"
"I think so," is my response. "Unfortunately."

De-Gay Me

Or Is There Something Gay About Me - Part II

It was just the icing on the cake. It was lovely. And for that I must thank Pete's granny, a little old lady in a big old house between the towns of Ironbridge and Shrewsbury, in a place seemingly with no name. Similarly, I straddle the divide between two states, wandering a no man's land somewhere between bubbling hyperactivity and bloated constipation. I've had far too much cake and caffeine today, and Granny Pete's tea party was indeed the final straw, a bridge too far, or – and this is my favourite from thesaurus.com – "the straw that broke the camel's back."

Before the straw got the better of this camel's back my self-esteem also took a severe clobbering. I was walking with some friends tonight when three separate parties in the park threw what can only be described as abuse my way. On all three occasions, rather shockingly, homosexuality and its wrongful assumption formed the core of the abuse. "Are you gay or something?" asked the first passer-by. Before I had the chance to make my choice – and I would have gone for "something", by the way – his friend, also clad in shell suit and baseball cap, chimed in: "He’s über-gay!" It was a surprisingly articulate insult from such a twat. The others were not so eloquent.

It's all sticks and stones though, isn't it? It didn't bother me too much to be called "über-gay" by a bunch of people who, I think it's fair to say since they made a gross assumption of my lifestyle, will assert their heterosexuality by fathering a child before high school is through. (And by that I mean 3:45pm.) What bothers me however is the presumptions people make based on such elementary things as having styled hair, wearing a blazer and holding a briefcase. Are those really the tell-tale signs? Had I been engaged in an act of man love at the time I might have understood the assumption. Tonight however I was clueless. And my friends, one of whom I was meeting for the first time, were a little weirded out.

"We need to work on my image, Pete," I said. "De-gay me or something." "I think you need a girl for that San," he replied. "Ideally."

Moonwalking in the office

Home is where the noise is

Home, I've decided, is not necessarily where the heart is. I left mine in (or near) San Francisco, but that wasn't home. (But then that, I suppose, was its appeal.) Home, on the other hand, is what you can't wait to return to but then – soon enough – can't wait to leave. It's upstairs in this 12 X 12 room, walled in thin plasterboard, surrounded by my sister's appalling taste in music and 25 almost identical new brick houses. It's the writers' block that's kept us apart and, at the same time, the hideous muse now pushing the keys.

Are we programmed to hate our homes to build our own? Is an innate aversion to the home a necessary impetus to procreate? If we all stayed at home we wouldn't reproduce. (Of course, in some southern states of the U.S. they manage both, but we only need look to their President to see why that’s a bad idea.)

In traditional Indian culture, rather unfortunately, the youngest son (in this case, muggins here) is expected to live with his parents indefinitely. That is through teenage rebellion, his roaring twenties and marital life. So, if an evening with the blood relatives seems a bit much at least I’ve something to look forward to.

How to Lose a Girl in 10 Seconds

Appear homosexual I'm metrosexual, I've been told – smart, well-dressed, urbane. It's what your granddad might call "dapper". It's what some call "a bit gay." It's also an issue I’ve already discussed (Is there something Gay about me?). This afternoon my urbanity may have gotten the better of me, as I peered desperately through the gaps in the crowd, trying to see the shoes that would complete her near-perfect outfit: a crisp white blouse, a snug black sweater vest and the sort of pink skirt asking for a breeze and a blush. It was Sex and the City, it was 1954, it was almost French, but it all stood on a pair of shoes. To stare at them is bad. To comment is worse. "I love your shoes," I said. Strike one.

Reject hints I had no sooner finished my declaration of love for her shoes, blinked and they were gone. The train had pulled into the platform and without a word she was on her beautifully housed feet, literally running away to another inconveniently distant carriage. "I’ll see you on the inside", I thought, and boarded the train.

Be weird "You know, you look like somebody off TV," I started, realising that I'd have to finish. "Have you ever seen The O.C.?" I realise now that Sex and the City would have been better - anything on HBO would have been better. Hell, The Sopranos would have done. "Yeah," she said. "Something in common," I thought. "Good." Going with that I went on. "Do you know the character Anna?" She shook her head. It might be a failed compliment, I thought, but there was still room to impress her with my acute knowledge of the show. "She was introduced in episode 105 and dated Seth before he and Summer got together." Strike three. And out.

Is there something gay about me?

Maybe I picked something up in San Francisco where a straight man, to quote an episode of Frasier, is “like a Snickers bar at a Fat Camp”; maybe the abuse of neighbouring comprehensive, the Borough, was true and the seven years at an all-boys Grammar School are responsible; or maybe I’m just one of the fortunate few – a straight guy with a queer eye. Whatever the reason, there’s a blip on the gaydar and it’s me, and another case of mistaken sexual identity.

I’m not saying that I wasn’t a little bit excited when my shoes appeared on Queer Eye, or that I’m not flattered by the subtle and nervous advances of the salesman in Zara. And I did appreciate the drinks bought for me by the bearded guy in Berkeley, but I’m just saying, and for the Disco record, that I won’t be giving up my, er, seat at the gay bar, or visiting a gay bar whatsoever: I am not gay.

This wrong assumption, I’m sure, has cost me many opportunities to prove my heterosexuality, and I write now with the intention of straightening out this kafuffle, once and for all. Sure, I may watch re-runs of Frasier, shop at a clothes store called Zara, and occasionally use the word kafuffle, but to reiterate, I’m as straight as the next guy. Wait..that guy has a one in eight chance of being gay. Er...I'm like the guy next to him.

The Salon

Some homes have a gardener, a cleaner, some might have a Mexican pool cleaner; we have a hairdresser. The only Tiffany I have ever known (outside of Eighties pop music) has been keeping our family groomed for the past three years. I, on the principle that I don’t trust hairdressers with appalling hair, am growing mine and won't fall prey to her stationery scissors. This morning however my sleep was cut short by the unsettling sound of shears and the sharp sermon of a woman scorned. Tiffany, I can tell you, has been dumped by her boyfriend of two years and her conversation this morning extended beyond the usual "been on holiday?" banter we have come to expect from stylists. When she was done my mum came into my room. "Bloody hell," she said. "We're going to need a new hairdresser." I can just imagine the conversation: "It's not you, Tiffany. It’s me…"

Simply the Breast

There is one phrase that encapsulates all the things I hate, three words, four syllables and all walls of a nutshell, in which tabloid newspapers, eighties softrock and ITV can be found. Simply the Best is that phrase, was a big hit for Tina Turner in the Eighties, is the slogan of small businesses nationwide, and the name of a new ITV game show designed to pull viewers back to the once primetime Saturday night slot. It comes hot on the heels of a Channel 4 documentary, Who Killed Saturday Night TV?, and hopes to resurrect ratings by enlisting the cheekiness of Phil Tufnell and the breasts of Kirsty Gallacher, which are - frankly - worthy of the phrase and reason enough (or alone) to tune in tomorrow at 7:30pm.

The Expensive Handshake

Three years, eighteen classes, around £15,000, and it all boils down to one handshake. "Sandeep Kumar Sharma" Principal Roger Gould called, as I handed him my slip of paper, half-wishing that I'd altered it to read, "the Amazing...", "the Incredible...", or simply "sansharma.com". Careful not to trip, I walked slowly across the stage towards a flamboyantly dressed Pro-Chancellor and bent down to shake his hand. "Congratulations," he said. "Thank you," I returned, ready to clutch my gown and take flight. But he wouldn't let go. His chalky, white hand clasped mine and - I gasped - he went on. "What will you do now?" Well, I was actually planning on sitting down and watching the rest of the show, but I could hardly say that. "Um, a masters...probably." "Ah!" he exclaimed, perhaps more excited at the prospect than I was. "Here? At Lancaster?" "Er, no...I don't think so," I replied, not meaning to sound so condescending to the man handing me my degree. But then he wasn't. He was just shaking my hand, and as he released his grip I took one look at the crowd of proud parents and investors, and around for a scroll, a book token – something in return for my hard graft. Nothing. "Good luck," he added, before I left the stage, thinking that an actual certificate might be more attractive to employers.

The Untouchables

There are few stories more inspirational than that of Monica & Gabriela Irimia and their ascent from obscurity in Transylvania, Romania to superstardom in the testing pop charts and unusually tough music industries of the UK, Germany and Japan. In 2002, now known as the Cheeky Girls, they broke into the charts of those countries with their debut single "Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)" and today, almost two years later, they reached another highpoint, performing at a Twins and Triplets Festival at the Telford Town Park.

Although currently without a record label, the Romanian rump ravers were not without fans this afternoon as they performed a revue of their greatest hits. That's three songs: "Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)", "Take Your Shoes off" and "Hooray, Hooray (It’s A Cheeky Holiday)". Not willing to pay the £10 admission charge or to pose as triplets to enable free entry, John, Pete and I snuck through the surprisingly slack security to enjoy an afternoon of 'live' music.

Although not persuaded to take off my shoes I was nevertheless impressed with their showmanship, if a little disappointed that – despite the invite – I was unable to touch their bums. Better luck next time, eh?

Three Days, Two boys, No Girls

My high school buddy, Pete and I have been hitting up the Midlands like the Hilton sisters do Manhattan. He, having returned from a year in Portugal, and I, from the similarly exotic Lancaster University (and once upon a time, California), have alternated days in each others company in an implicit programme of support.

On Saturday we met in the park where a very young boy, clearly having just grasped English, observed with some confusion that we were "two boys, no girls". Unperturbed by the juvenile naysayer we staged a gatecrash of the school governors' ball in an attempt to remedy the noted circumstance. But without suitable attire and not a quart of booze we instead and rather feebly snuck behind some trees and listened to the band.

Monday we ventured further and to the England's second city and home to its most peculiar accent, Birmingham. It is also a hotbed, we have decided, of hot totty. (And that readers, I assure you, is my first and last use of the word.) We fished sushi from a conveyer belt and established a music club whose members, currently Pete and I, buy and burn CDs for each other. First to the flames were The Killers and The Walkmen with their stellar albums, Hot Fuss and Bows + Arrows.

Wednesday, and we extended our party to three boys (still no girls) with the induction of (ooh ah) John McGrath, a current Lancaster student and recent alumnus of the University of North Carolina. With him we saw Shrek 2 and, like two ogres and a donkey, looked out at a summer together in this swamp of a town, dreaming of a land Far-Far Away where we might live Happily Ever-After.

An English July

"We ought to get you out of those wet clothes," the cliché said, before peeling off my jeans, jacket and shirt – soaked not in the sunshine of summer but the torrential downpour of an English July. And glad I am too, to be in my pyjamas and out of the flooded Weston Park stately home where, peering at my watch, Jools Holland and his Rhythm & Blues Orchestra are probably still performing.

Unperturbed by the sort of apocalyptic weather akin to the Old Testament (or the more recent smash, The Day After Tomorrow), Jools Holland waited out the driving rain, lightning and an actual tornado, before playing to a Staffordshire crowd perhaps more prepared for a plague of locusts than a lively revue of Rhythm & Blues. I wondered if the audience of middle-class white folk would otherwise listen to R&B had the tickets not been so overpriced and Holland's ensemble billed as a band rather than an "orchestra". I wanted somehow to transplant them to Beale Street, Memphis and see how they enjoyed themselves at a bar with W.C. Handy.

Tonight though, the largely inanimate crowd (save for the occasional twitch) were having a grand time, constructing elaborate dining tables complete with candelabra and quiche and all to some of the finest background music money could buy. It was an evening of triumph over adversity and a shining example of the British innate ability to make the most of a bad situation. In a country where tornadoes can occur in July it's a very good, if essential trait to have.

Rock the Temple

You know you've made it when you're recognised at the temple. True story: Today was the birthday of a multi-limbed Hindu deity, and in Birmingham the believers were out in full force to celebrate. It is true that there ain't no party like a Hindu party, and of course, sansharma.com was there to testify.

Once there I found it odd that so many "Aunties" (as is the blanket term for older female Indians) were paying me the sort of attention usually reserved for elephant-headed idols and monkey-tailed Gods, when one turned to me and whispered, "We’ve seen your web site." Even more strange, I thought, since the site is unknown to the general temple going public. "I didn’t know if your parents knew," she added cautiously. Knew what, I wandered. My experiments with the Hindu diet? The dabbling in horseplay? My penchant for non-Punjabi women? (All of which are recklessly documented on the site.)

She declined to elaborate and returned to the festivities, leaving me to wonder how I would cope with my new-found fame, or rather infamy. Maybe I ought to get a disguise...elephant head?

Oasis live at Glastonbury! (On BBC 2)

Not quite the same...although we're only ten minutes into their set and I've already seen three pairs of tits in the crowd (and that's not including the two on stage). Still, I'm looking forward to the V Festival in August, the Pixies and their triumphant and profitable return. Greatest Hits CD anyone? Oooh, Kings of Leon are on next. Goodnight.

River Man

Totally feeling Nick Drake tonight.

Get Rich or Claim Benefit

"I'm a little worried about my future," started a pint-size Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. "I just want it to be..." And so, taller but no more assured I embark on my career, whatever that may be, with those very same words. Hopefully, like Hoffman in the Mike Nichols classic, I can look forward to a summer of casual sex with a friend of my parents'. On second thought however that's not quite as appealing as it sounds. But then neither is the job hunt that awaits me. It's a very dull and uneventful safari, looking out for a vacancy amongst the tall blades of grass, and waiting to take my best shot.

What I'm looking for however will need to provide beyond the next Student Loan instalment purely because there won’t be one. For the first time in my life school's out forever, and my next step might be on the career ladder to money, a mortgage and a Mondeo. Before I submit to suburbia and visit the local Ford dealership however I want to think about my options. Pursuing a masters and the semi-independence of University life sounds infinitely more attractive than living at home with my parents, the Martians.

I need to think of something, and fast. I'm on a train, quite literally, to a sort of Friends Reunited weekend in Edinburgh, where the question, "what are you going to do now?", will be raised as often as glasses, I imagine. "Off to Mars," I’ll say. "On a NASA scholarship." And for those similarly undecided, one word: "Plastics."

iPod...therefore I am

Most of my friends are indeed small and white, but very few are as attractive as my most recent and least sensible online purchase, the iPod - Apple's super-sexy digital music player, capable of storing 5000 songs whilst weighing less than two CDs and maintaining a sort of smug, minimalist cool. Still, nobody is more smug than its owner, who today - he admits - sported its exclusive white earphones with several test outfits, coming to the conclusion that the iPod looks best against a black shirt [model's own].

During my 'test walk' onto campus, my iPod's first time, I picked up a copy of Rolling Stone magazine to read that I am not alone in my revelry of the little white device. "From the moment I saw it, I was stunned," says Moby in the cover story, '50 Moments That Changed the History of Rock & Roll.' The story continues, "By the end of 2003, the iPod has become a cultural phenomenon. Close to 3 million of the devices have now been sold, and they’re expected to soon outsell portable CD players... 'I never used to see people walking around listening to music on the streets,' said Moby. 'Now everywhere I go, I see the iPod’s white headphones.'" Everywhere he goes? Obviously not a well travelled man is that Moby. At a street value of £259 it would take a lot of rich kids or, in my case, those with overdraft and abandon, to pack the streets with the sound of digital music.

On my return and with my newly aquired membership I logged on to the iPodLounge web site, only to feel pride like a lump of sick in my throat at the really sad user submitted photos of "iPods Around the World". I swallowed, and determined not to be the kind of person who photographs themselves with digital music players, promptly replaced those uncomfortable, bass-light white earphones for the black Sony ones I've used for years. Realising that nothing quite replaces the interactivity of human relationships I called my friend, Rachel, for a game of racquetball. She's small and white too, but unlike the iPod she listens, and is less likely to inspire the cult-like worship of Geekdom and its disco king, Moby. No offence, Rachel.

Poet Tree: 'Anniversary' & 'The Wedding Planner'

With the news that the bank has extended my overdraft ("to help meet with the demands of being a graduate"), I went online and made one final stupid purchase, a very demanding 20 GB MP3 player by the name of iPod. More on that soon once it arrives, and I become far more attractive to the potential mugger. Meanwhile, I was preparing my computer for its arrival, you know, giving my desktop a Macover, clearing some space, re-organising files, etc., when I found some poetry that I had written for an English class at UC Davis and had completely forgotten about. The class was ENL166: Love and Contemporary American Poetry, was as awful as that sounds and taught by a blubbering old lady who consistently closed her show in tears.

In a more composed moment she assigned us the task of writing our own 'love poetry', some of which I nervously include here, as a first stab at verse. The first is about the three year anniversary of my relationship with Beth, my girlfriend at the time, who incidentally broke up with me not long after I wrote this, and hopefully not as a result! I'm under no impression that this is actually any good but I thought that, at least the sentiment, makes for more cultured blog filler.

Anniversary

There is a good foot between us¹ and an hour and a half.² Then of course, the leagues above me that you are. People look at you as we walk past: Are they together?

We walk together in this new place, your hand in mine, the bag on my shoulders and the weight of the world lifted. I admire your skin, as always.

Supple, delicate, kind! Your fingers would slide between mine and clasp at my palm! But now they clutch the handset

and finger the cord. We laugh, we cry we argue but in the pauses the silence is dark. I strain to see the alabaster skin that coats your hands like the low afternoon sun.

You step down onto the platform, a bag in your grip, smiling. The journey was long but comfortable: Three years and an hour and a half. You put your hand back in mine.

The pauses glow in the afternoon sun and we walk together as people look on and wonder. I hold on to your hand as we walk, and admire your skin, afraid to let go as always.

¹A reference to our difference in height. ²At the time Beth was living in Berkeley while I was living in Davis, an hour and a half away.

This next poem might make a bit more sense if you're familiar with the Indian wedding process. But then I don't think that's supposed to make any sense!

The Wedding Planner

A white horse, of course. And a fifteen piece
Brass band playing The Beatles.
Naturally, the best man should wear
A white suit and sit behind
The groom veiled in strands of gold.
It would be nice to have those
Indoor fireworks – white lights – maybe
Chris De Burgh’s, ‘Lady In Red’.
Cups of tea in China cups should
Await the guests. Don’t forget to
Have a Mercedes ready for
The bride, who by the way
Should be Brahmin/Hindu/Punjabi.¹

¹Caste/Religion/Origin

Burn It: 'Songs to Wake Up to'

It seems logical really, to follow on from the first in the Burn It series, 'Songs to Fall Asleep to', with this, a compilation designed to lure you out the right side of your bed, or if Dylan would have his way (see below), your window. Besides, the help of Dylan et al is much appreciated on a morning like this, grey with cloud and lined with the damp Tarmac of a good night's rain. If the day follows like this playlist however, it will be a good one. And by track 8 you're going to get lucky. Albeit with James Brown. ;-)

Good Morning: Songs to Wake Up to (Total Time: 1:15:50)

1. 'April Come She Will' - Simon and Garfunkel What better way to start the day than with Paul Simon twiddling away on his guitar on this, one of my favourite Simon and Garfunkel songs, and a memorable moment from the film, The Graduate. The economy of the lyric and melody evoke the changing seasons and a young Dustin Hoffman, alternating between hotel room rendezvous avec Madame Robinson and lazy days around the pool. Inspiring.
2. 'Sunrise' - Norah Jones Not my favourite Norah Jones moment, but nevertheless it here begins a cycle of songs to welcome in the sun and forcefully control the weather. I would also like to draw attention to its awful, awful video, which can be seen here.
3. 'Summer Sun' - Koop You could always flatter the sun into coming out.
4. 'Don't Rain On My Parade' - Bobby Darin "Hey world, here I am...", Darin sings and with gusto attempts to ward off adverse weather conditions. If you're having a parade Darin's delivery and the punchy big band sound will ensure that it will not be rained on. And that's a promise.
5. 'Laissons Entrer le Soleil' - Julien Clerc Mildly annoying French pop song introduced to me by an American ex-girlfriend who at the time was living in France and getting into the worst European music. Some things I don't miss ;-) Nevertheless, the refrain, "let the sunshine in", might do the trick or at least get you out of bed, if only to turn it off.
6. 'You Are the Sunshine of My Life' - Stevie Wonder That's more like it. Classic Stevie Wonder, before he totally replaced live sound for synthesizers and sincerity for sentimental drivel, like 'I Just Called to Say I Love You'. Why he did that I may never know. He plays every instrument on this track from the amazing Talking Book album and sounds fantastic.
7. 'Good Morning Baby' - Bic Runga and Dan Wilson The cute New Zealand singer and the slightly less attractive Dan Wilson of Semisonic would make average looking kids, but here a pleasant track for the American Pie Soundtrack. And a great start to the upcoming trio of songs for people not alone in their beds this morning.
8. '(Get Up I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine' - James Brown Because I love the use of brackets in song titles, and because the thought of a screamingly horny James Brown would make anyone leap out of bed, 'Sex Machine' is included here as an archetypically unbridled expression of masculinity with an signature funky hook from the Godfather himself. "Get on up..."
9. 'Instant Pleasure' - Rufus Wainwright Probably an even better way to start the day than a Simon and Garfunkel folk meander, Rufus sings, "I don't want somebody to love me/Just give me sex whenever I want it..." For all the, er, morning people out there.
10. 'Red Morning Light' - Kings of Leon I loved the beardy Southern rockers' 2003 debut, Youth and Young Manhood, and 'Red Morning Light' is a as dirty and deep fried as anything else on the album, full of greasy licks and howling vocals: "You always like it undercover/Tucked in between your dirty shee-e-eets."
11. 'The Ascent of Stan' - Ben Folds Included a) because of the pretty melody and piano part, and b) because it sounds like 'The Ascent of San', as I rise from my bed.
12. 'Take Me Out' - Franz Ferdinand NME darlings Franz Ferdinand are actually very good and perhaps the best band ever named after a World War sparking Archduke.
13. 'Orpheus' - Ash On the sunnier side of metal, Ash deliver another radio-ready rocker with a sentiment I think we can all relate to: "I need sunshine in the morning..." We all do mate. It's an essential source of Vitamin D.
14. 'Can You Please Crawl Out of Your Window?' - Bob Dylan One of my favourite songs, the rare 'Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?' is incredibly strange lyrically, but for 1965 Dylan, it was really just another day at the office. Sure, it seems to make no sense, but it is convincing all the same. Not that I'm heading for the window or anything.
15. 'Here Comes Your Man' - Pixies One of the more accessible Pixies tracks, 'Here Comes Your Man' is a nigh-perfect three-and-a-half minute pop song and a great theme for the early riser.
16. 'Bright Side of the Road' - Van Morrison With a punchy brass section, a charming melody and an all-girl backing, you can't help but smile listening to this from Van the Man's 1979 release, Into the Music.
17. 'Mrs Potter's Lullaby' - Counting Crows Despite its title and the opening line, "Well I woke up in mid-afternoon cause that's when it all hurts the most/I dream I never know anyone at the party and I'm always the host", this winding narrative makes for great morning listening, uncharacteristically optimistic and lyrically a strong point for the Crows, who incidentally got their break filling in for an absent Van Morrison at his Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction in 1994. That influence shows here, and apparently the song was written after singer Adam Duritz saw Jennifer Aniston on Friends. She heard it and they dated. Must start writing songs...
18. 'The Boy With the Thorn In His Side' - The Smiths Since we're on about meanings, this one, I suspect is about a love that dare not speak its name. That is, gay love. It's also a remarkably upbeat Smiths song with characteristically quirky lyrics: "...behind the hatred there lies/A murderous desire for love."
19. 'Just When You're Thinking Things Are Over' - The Charlatans Lovely, uplifting and highly decorative. This will get you on your feet.
20. 'So Alive' - Ryan Adams Alt-Country bad boy goes electric and does a very good Bono impression on this track from Rock N Roll, Adams' mockingly good response to the label execs who deemed his latest offering Love Is Hell "too dark" for release. The latter record would only surface, the execs bargained, if Adams delivered a big, shiny new rock and roll record. And true to its promise, Rock N Roll, is certainly that, or rather a reflection of the singer's impeccable music collection, with titles such as 'This Is It', reworking the Strokes' 'Is This It', 'The Drugs Not Working', the Verve's 'The Drugs Don't Work,' and 'She's Lost Total Control', a play on Joy Division's 'She's Lost Control.' For something original, albeit a bit depressing, check out Love Is Hell. For our purposes, 'So Alive' rocks.

Bird dropping hits singing Lauper in mouth

Sorry, it was a story too funny not to copy and paste up. PopDirt.com's headline was Bird Tries To Shut Cyndi Lauper Up In Boston, which is marginally better.

Associated Press
May. 25, 2004 07:57 AM

BOSTON - Cyndi Lauper has gone above and beyond what should be expected from a performer.

The Boston Herald reports Lauper was performing at a concert sponsored by a radio station WXKS when a bird relieved itself over her head.

It's bad enough that it hit Lauper. It's even worse knowing Lauper had her mouth open for a high note and the bird made a one-in-a-million shot.

Lauper delicately turned away from the crowd and wiped her tongue on her shirt - and finished the set.

http://www.azcentral.com/offbeat/articles/0525Lauper-ON.html

Picture This: 'Patrick Hagopian'

Having literally just - minutes ago - posed for this wonderful photograph with my professor, Dr Patrick Hagopian, in which we appear either to be holding hands or dancing, but nevertheless having some kind of fun beyond the standard teacher/student relationship, I have decided to establish a new regular feature to my blog. 'Picture This', like 'Burn It', invites you - the reader - to share with me some of my favourite sensory pleasures.

Tonight's offering was taken at the tail end of an American Studies social event, where Dr Hagopian was presented with a gift from his students. I think his appreciation, his sheer joy, comes through in these pictures. Feel free to append this photo with a caption of your choosing. There will be prizes for the best.

Kerouac Makes Me Look Good

I couldn't help feeling like a poser, sitting on the steps of my university square this balmy evening, reading Kerouac and wearing a tie, the fashion accessory with absolutely no ascertainable function. Tonight however I was unashamedly wearing it for pleasure, a throwback from my Grammar School days, when it was a compulsory part of the uniform. I was reading Kerouac too, not because it is assigned reading, but purely because - like the tie - I wanted to. And I've decided, they both make me look good.

My thoughts of this, and my road trip with Kerouac and company, were interrupted by the loud, loutish laughter of a couple of ruffian youths, drinking below the legal age and clearly demonstrating the effects. They had stumbled onto my university campus, perhaps already drunk, and found themselves like me on the steps, not sporting ties or Kerouac, but a kind of vocabulary not foreign to the Beat Generation. I gave the illusion that I was actually reading - or that I could read at all - and listened in on their conversation, as if observing a Tourette's Syndrome case study.

"F****ing university man," one slurred, looking to a crowd of girls huddled by the ATM. "One big gangbang" - a combination of words I've not before heard to describe the three years and thousands of pounds spent here, and certainly not one I'll use when thanking my parents, the investors, on graduation day. He continued to describe to the younger ruffian his view of university life, clearly a bit skewed and inspired by the filmic output of the San Fernando Valley. I hated to burst his bubble with the pin that the girls by the ATM were probably not on their way to a group act of love and instead got up from my step, clutching Kerouac, and said simply, "Yep. Gangbang." With that I walked off into the sunset and further into an evening of reverse orgy, alone and unaroused.

On my walk, I thought to myself that university life might not be the gangbang of the ruffian's perverse imagination, but nevertheless I felt inspired to dedicate this post-exam period to doing those feasible things that I enjoy most. Like reading Kerouac, or wearing ties. Or writing in my blog more often. ;-) I'm sorry it's been so long. I'll see you tomorrow.

Procrastinating on the Beach

Dear readers,

I’m sorry that I haven’t written earlier. I should say that being immersed in intense revision for my upcoming finals has kept me from updating my blog, when in truth the reason boils down to nothing more strenuous than the simple yet embarrassing fact that I have, head over flip-flops, gotten into The O.C..

For those of you whose televisions – or meaningful lives – have so far remained untouched by its beached splendour, The O.C. is a teen drama in the vein of 90210, a sort of Dawson’s goes west, and if Fox Television has been criticised for its recent reality TV binge then it may have redeemed itself by creating something so unreal that it airs as a sort of unattainable wish list. At the top of mine is Mischa Barton, who plays Marissa, and whose image unashamedly adorns my desktop as possibly the most attractive on television. Seriously...hot.

But then everybody is - even the geek, who I, with just the slightest nerd-identification, am rooting for to get laid. I’m nine episodes in after only three days of downloading/watching/visiting the official website and I tell you, he’s getting warm. Go Seth! And although the Southern California of The O.C. differs from that where I spent the last academic year, I still pine over the opening credits and cajole other viewers with stories of my brief time in L.A. (pictured left). I, like the show’s protagonist Ryan - played like a wooden stool by Benjamin McKenzie - was an exotic outsider. Well, sort of. But seriously...hot.

Wish me luck in my final tomorrow, San

Bugger

Up to Here

I once lived with a guy from Essex - and this isn't a limmerick - who, at least twice a day, would raise his palm flat above his head and exclaim in his whiny, southern accent, "I've had it up to here." If I had the energy, it being a good two hours past my bedtime, or if I felt I could do Steve justice, I might motion the very same gesture. I'm tired and my head is filled with the stories of woe, sorrow and sickening torture that I've read today in print and online media.

Hoping for some lighter bedtime reading I set my lapdog, as I've decided to call my computer, to Best of Craigslist, a refreshingly ad-free, no frills online community with user generated content, the best of which usually warrants 'LOL' in the true sense of the 'word'.

I read a post from the Missed Connections section on the recommendation that it was 'funny'. That word, I think, is banded around perhaps too much nowadays. The post, one man's story of losing his love in translation, didn't make me laugh. It, the news of the world, and the very desperate fact that at 2:45am you're all I have to talk to, has left me feeling kind of sad. Well, if I'm going down...Here's the link: 'I Chased You for 12 Years...'

Night night.

The Sounds of the Summer

Since the Windows Media Player to iTunes migration that inspired the previous blog entry (Burn It: 'Songs to Fall Asleep to') I've been listening to a lot of glorious and illegally downloaded music, from Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, to Prince & the Revolution, Joss Stone and The Libertines, not of course performing together, but wouldn't that be a treat for the ears? Then, when a 'fatal exception' error message occurred - probably a reaction to the Joss Stone/Libertines pairing - I was forced to restart my computer and for a brief moment the juggernaut that is my MP3 collection came to a halt and I was left alone with only those sounds emanating through my open window; sounds inextricably bound to those few months in the middle of the year that this hemisphere calls summer.

Today that distant sound of the good people of the world mowing their lawns was but a few feet away, somewhat deafening and a bittersweet reminder that the smell of newly cut grass, once a calling card to the summer holidays of my youth, is now Kryptonite to the allergy sufferer that I have become. Nevertheless, through itchy eyes and running nose, I appreciated the familiar and harmonic sounds of man taming nature, albeit with a lowered rotating blade, and the great machines of flight, birds and aeroplanes, both of which can be heard chirping and humming through the white striped, blue skies.

Why is it that you hear more aeroplanes in the summertime? Is it because you just have more time/make more time to lay on the grass and stare up at the skies? Is it because the skies are clearer, and sound travels better? Or am I being stupid, and do people just take more trips in their planes in the summer?

By act of coincidence, DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince's 'Summertime' has shuffled its way to the top of my playlist and it's just occurred to me that none of these points are raised by the Philadelphia duo. In fact, my summers are rarely like that rendered by the song:

It's late in the day and I ain't been on the court yet
Hustle to the mall to get me a short set
Yeah I got on sneaks but I need a new pair
Cause basketball courts in the summer got girls there

And actually, that is a good point. I haven't been to the court yet. Well, I'm off. See you tomorrow.

Burn It: 'Songs to Fall Asleep to'

I spent the most part of the business day, that is 9 'til 5, not revising as I should be for my upcoming-'round-the-corner finals but instead coordinating a mass migration of my considerable MP3 collection from Windows Media Player to my new digital jukebox of choice, iTunes from Apple, the company that bought us the iMac and the iPod but who claim no involvement in the Eddie Murphy-Owen Wilson box office bomb, iSpy.

As I scrolled the 3545 songs in my collection (that's 10.3 days of continuous music), burning a CD for my sister "on the fly", as is an advantageous feature of iTunes, I imagined myself an artist, crafting a piece of work from the pieces of others. After all, burning a CD is in itself an art, like the mix-tape that came before it, which when done right could sustain a long distance relationship or bring a short distance one even closer.

In recognition of this art I have decided to present my masterpieces here in a series that I, and NME magazine from where I stole the idea, like to call Burn It. Of course, feel free to add your comments and suggestions to my tracklistings, which after all are compiled only from the music in my collection. But if you plan on taking my advice literally and actually "burn it", please do so only with the written permission of the artists involved. Without further ado and since I'm about to turn in myself I present to you the first collection in the Burn It series...

Night Night: Songs to Fall Asleep to (Total Time: 1:16:15)

1. 'Turn Out the Lamp Light' - George Benson I don't think jazz/soul crooner George Benson's intentions are for sleeping with this track but nevertheless, for ours the rich, floating arrangement has quite the lulling effect...before George makes his move.
2. 'Don't Leave the Light On Baby' - Belle & Sebastian Scottish Chamber Pop stars insist the light is turned right off, but from the opening line, "it's been a bloody stupid day", their intentions differ from Benson's pillow talk, and I can't think of a better lyric to summarize most of my days.
3. 'Come Away With Me' - Norah Jones Who has not heard this? Chosen for the lyric, "I want to wake up with the rain/Falling on a tin roof/While I'm safe there in your arms." I want the same, Norah.
4. 'Nightswimming' - R.E.M. R.E.M. lyrics have a way of conjuring memories in the listener that don't actually exist. Whenever I hear this I'm like, "ah...I remember that, by the lake, under the moon, yeah...", when the truth is I've never been skinny-dipping.
5. 'So Far Away' - Carole King A theme song for long distance lovers this is gorgeous, especially when the flute improvises into the fade at the end. And yeah Carole, so true - nobody stays in one place anymore.
6. 'Harvest Moon' - Neil Young I love this. So sweet and vulnerable. And a little bit country.
7. 'Simply Beautiful' - Al Green The sexiest song ever and a great start to the trilogy of bedroom tracks I've included. The sparse instrumentation and Green's really close vocal make up for the fact that there are almost no lyrics.
8. 'Lay, Lady, Lay' - Bob Dylan The fact that he already sounds like an old man, and it's increasingly difficult to remember a time when he wasn't, makes this a somewhat unsettling listen. If you can get past that, and the lyric "lay across my big brass bed", the lazy country-pop groove is pretty cool.
9. 'If I Should Die Tonight' - Marvin Gaye Many forget that Gaye's erotic concept album, Let's Get It On, is actually an homage to monogamy and this, its most sensitive moment, is a classic slow jam.
10. 'Lookin' for Another Pure Love' - Stevie Wonder I really love this, and the guitar solo courtesy of Jeff Beck is to die for. I've had it on loop before, just over and over...
11. 'If I Fall' - Aqualung The Aqualung CD will actually put you to sleep because it's pretty boring, but this is a good pick for a mix CD with that in mind.
12. 'Wonderwall' - Ryan Adams Everybody knows and loves the Oasis classic and so most people hate this stripped and slowed down version. I personally love it. It's haunting and understated, and the riff that loops and fades out the Oasis version is here just faintly echoed as a brilliant aide memoir of the original.
13. 'No Surprises' - Radiohead "No alarms and no surprises" sounds like a good night's sleep to me, and the lullaby-like xylophone driven track might induce just that. I think there should be more xylophones in pop songs.
14. 'Perfect Blue Buildings' - Counting Crows Don't listen to bearded Rasta man Adam Duritz when he sings, "help me stay awake", and instead drift off into the pretty melody, "a little oblivion".
15. 'Sparks' - Coldplay Chris Martin's falsetto is one of the best things about British music and here it works sparingly and in contrast to the verses sung in his lower register. Very simple but lovely.
16. 'The Blower's Daughter' - Damien Rice Imagine if Leonard Cohen could sing well...Damien Rice, the Irish folkster, has a knack for storytelling and although the stories themselves are sometimes unclear it's the details that grab you. On his magnificent debut, O, Rice moves from the living room intimacy of guitar/vocals to the orchestral grandeur of swelling strings in a heartbeat, with a closeness of production that sounds like they were recorded in the same room with you sat on a footstool in the corner. 'The Blower's Daughter' is my favourite, melancholy, optimistic, longing, it's almost magical and reason enough to buy his album.
17. 'Mothersbaugh's Canon' - Mark Mothersbaugh Two instrumental tracks from soundtracks close this mix-CD. This, from The Royal Tenenbaums, a poignant and atmospheric piece and...
18. 'I Love N.Y.E.' - Badly Drawn Boy You would probably be deep into the Land of Nod already listening to my mix-CD. If not, this graceful and dreamy instrumental should do the trick and is a perfect way to say goodnight. Thanks for listening.

My Morrissey Moment

There comes a moment in a young man's life when he finds himself in the forlorn, Mancunian melancholy of Morrissey, lead singer of '80s indie band, The Smiths, and general naysayer of misery. Don't worry if your moment hasn't yet come. It will, however happy and content you feel now.

It came for American singer Ryan Adams, whose Morrissey moment was recorded with Smiths' producer John Porter for his new album Love Is Hell, which I will review once I've decided whether it's as good as Jeff Buckley's Grace, as I'm beginning to suspect, or more Will & Grace. I'm still not sure which, but one thing is certain and that is that Adams is one of many young men on both sides of the Atlantic suffering from what experts call, Morrissitis. That is, he is experiencing his 'Morrissey moment', a deep understanding of the romantic angst and social alienation of Smiths songs, and - just as every sibling claims "black sheep" status - an affinity with the Mozza himself, as NME so affectionately nickname the singer.

With songs such as 'Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me', 'Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now', the observational 'Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others', and my favourite, 'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out', The Smiths were clearly in tune with those on the cusp of youth and young manhood. The latter, pointedly their most romantic song, boasts the chorus:

And if a double-decker bus Crashes into us To die by your side Is such a heavenly way to die And if a ten-ton truck Kills the both of us To die by your side Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine

It was a song that I heard the morning of my cousin's wedding last weekend and one that I had stuck in my head, where I tried desperately to keep it, fearing that the newlyweds might misconstrue Morrissey's most romantic song as being somewhat downbeat. Another cousin, Praag, recognised my incessant humming and a conversation soon ensued between two Morrissitis sufferers. "'Girlfriend In A Coma' is really the quintessential Smiths song," Praag said. "The upbeat melody and the shockingly downbeat lyrics are classic Morrissey."

Girlfriend in a coma, I know I know - it's serious Girlfriend in a coma, I know I know - it's really serious

There were times when I could Have "murdered" her (But you know, I would hate Anything to happen to her)

No, I don't want to see her!

The quintessence of Ryan Adam's Morrissey moment can be heard on 'Anybody Wanna Take Me Home', the most obviously Smiths influenced track on Love Is Hell that sees our hero lurking in the corner of a bar, watching others and "dancing in the coma/of the drinks [he] just had". Elsewhere, his flirtations with love and death lack the tongue-in-cheek, or rather foot-in-mouth, of Morrissey's lyrics. On 'Afraid Not Scared' Adams sings, "I'm really dying here", and indeed the grave sincerity of his album makes for a penetrating and challenging listen, and one that I'll evaluate soon. For now, I'm going to take Love Is Hell out of my CD player and go to be bed. Heaven knows I'm miserable now.

A Ham Sandwich

Argh! Michael Jackson is driving me crazy! And not like in the Eighties when he rocked the suburbs with his infectious grooves, driving a rainbow hued generation Off the Wall and moonwalking to the discothèques. This time, twenty years from Thriller, his latest record might be criminal, as he faces ten charges of child molestation, abduction and conspiracy, as read to him yesterday at his arraignment in Santa Maria, California.

He is again everywhere, and the sensational coverage of this case, although not yet a trial but already that of the century, has driven me to use my blog as an occasional alternative news outlet and since, as I’ve just seen, CNN enlist an expert panel of entertainment moguls, television presenters and Loyola State University law professors, I might offer my ‘expertise’.

CNN’s expert panel spoke with an assumption of Jackson’s guilt and yet dedicated a segment of the show to defending his prosecutor, District Attorney Tom Sneddon against charges of unfair practice, even advising that we not judge the D.A., as he has been unfairly represented by the media and Jackson’s interchangeable lawyers. Well, the King of Pop has hardly been treated like royalty by CNN and other such news outlets.

I have to go, but before I do I just want to remind you – because CNN won’t – that Jackson, or anybody facing trial, should be presumed innocent until proven guilty and that an indictment is just a formal accusation arising from a Grand Jury, having been presented evidence by the prosecutor only. There is a saying, ‘you can indict a ham sandwich,’ but I would still advise that you presume its innocence.

A Blast From the Past

It's not unusual that when writing a blog entry I might consult the Internet for research purposes, accuracy of dates, an online thesaurus for my fancy words, that sort of thing. For my last post I came across this video clip of Lancaster University students in the 1960s, discussing their time on campus. Look out for the foxy German girl ("we have been designed a special tutor for our academical problem"), and the American, glad to discover that "they have Coke here!"

Unfortunately, this video clip is only available to viewers on the campus network. So Mike, Nick et al., this one's for you.
Video Clip (Windows Media).

The Rain in Spain

I think I'll miss living on campus when I graduate in July. It might not be the best looking University, and I do wonder whether it even looked good on completion in 1963 when it was meant to resemble a Spanish village, but for last two out of three academic years it's certainly been mi pueblo - a rain drenched cluster of white, flat-roofed buildings.

Living on campus is one step towards independence, two from your parents and a mere bus ride from the real world, but very soon, I realise, I won't always have my meals taken care of, the kitchen cleaned for me or a comprehensive counselling service, should I require. And that's all courtesy of my neighbour and good friend, Beth - with whom living is one of the principle reasons to miss this place.

In a familiar configuration, we sit typing at our desks in our adjacent rooms, our doors propped open, and, turning to my right I channel my voice past our wardrobes and shout, "What should I write about on my blog?" Once we graduate, of course, we'll have to phone in such questions, but for the mean time she replies instantaneously, "whatever's on your mind."

So I scratch my head, hoping to conjur an interesting thought, a bottled genie perhaps, but instead find a pimple the size of my fist. Well, I thought, if can't write about what's on my mind, I'll at least write about what's on the side of my head. It's one of those spots you just knew was coming. I woke up this morning and realised that in a drunken stupor I'd fallen asleep on a potato chip. And now if I look up I can almost see it, it's that big. Damn Pringles. I'm going to resist the urge to pop.

The pimple incidentally, and the bad weather today, have rained off the scheduled dating show (see Country Feedback), and that's not a cop out. Perhaps the girls just need a little longer to get ready for this jelly. Then they'll see, and I've been waiting for the right time to say this since I read it on a t-shirt, that I am what Willis was talkin' about. Yeah.

Country Feedback

"Crazy, all the lovers have been tagged," sings Michael Stipe in the raw, despairing R.E.M. song that is a current favourite of mine and which shares a title with this entry, during which I'll impart some feedback from my part of the country, with as much angst but not half as much eloquence as those Athens, Georgia forefathers of alternative rock.

I'll admit, recently it feels as though somebody else is doing all the "tagging" - there has been a dry spell of sorts, and not just pleasant atmospheric conditions. But that is not to say that I am as despairing as the Michael Stipe vocal. At least not yet. With the onset of Spring the literal dry spell has been lovely - conducive to flip-flop wearing in fact - and as if by process of evaporation a bevy of beauties have risen from their dorm rooms to lie about campus, catch Frisbees and tans, and my unnerving glare.

Since my recent admittance to singledom, my first visit in over four years, making eye contact and smiling has been my most aggressive form of philandering. During those four years, I'll admit, I always listed flirting, alongside basket-weaving and shepherding, as one of my hobbies, but now that it is dalliance with amorous intent - and my very sex life depends on it - I am just no good.

About thirty girls in the North West of England are smiling back at least, but awaiting my second move. And whereas in California, where I spent last year, a simple "hello" in my English accent would elicit a phone number, I might have to step up my game this time. I fear if I don't soon I'll be elected Mayor of Singledom, a position of authority without the perks. And so tomorrow, as blog turns dating show for the day, I will pick one from the flirty thirty and make my second move. And then maybe I'll have some positive feedback. Stay tuned, Shiny Happy People. This is about to get interesting...

A Post for the Asking

Once upon a time, 10,000 words ago, I sat here to begin writing my dissertation. Tonight it sits beside me, printed and bound, and as finished as a piece of furniture, but perhaps not quite as polished. And in a student room that is really saying something. But the main thing is that it's done and at 11pm so am I. [Yawn.] I'm off to bed. Tomorrow is a new day, to point out the obvious, and (the tragic) a new paper is due. Here, I suppose, is as good a place as any to ask for an extention. So Dr Jonathan Munby, if you are reading, is Monday okay? Please direct your answer to the usual essay extention e-mail account, and I'll see you non-faculty blog readers tomorrow.

HIStory Continues

Hey, just a quick post to update you on the Michael Jackson story. I wrote the following a few days ago as a comment to the previous post regarding those allegations but thought I'd bring it here to the fore, as rarely do people read replies to entries:

"Of course, Michael Jackson should be presumed innocent, but the legal eagles and other such ‘beacons’ of justice involved in this case should not be presumed guilty of orchestrating a conspiracy against Jackson and his right to a fair trial. Sadly, in a week in which a new allegation of child abuse against Jackson has been reported by the media I suspect this is the case.

"The reported incident took place in L.A. twenty years ago and if, as CNN reported, the alleged victim is now eighteen years old, Jackson may be guilty of molesting an unborn child. These new complaints were brought to the police by the familiar team of lawyer Gloria Alred, professional critic of Jackson’s lifestyle, currently working the daytime TV circuit, and Carole Lieberman, the same Beverly Hills psychiatric who filed last year’s allegations and counselled the new alleged victim, helping him recover repressed memories of the assault. It’s a small world, but one in which surprisingly the numbers work in Jackson’s favour. According to a study conducted by the National Crimes Against Children Laboratory, only one in three accusations of child abuse leads to indictment. And incidentally, when this new claim involving Jackson was uncovered by the LAPD as a hoax it was reported with far less zeal.

"The claim’s dismissal could have gone unnoticed altogether, leaving a potential jury pool thinking that third strike means out for Jackson – guilty by association right? Where there’s smoke there’s fire? Not quite. The allegation and its timing suggest that Jackson is an open-season target for those with a get-rich-quick-scheme in mind. After all, he still represents deep pockets. Oh, and while all this was going on, did something happen in Iraq?"

And this just in: The sordid details of the actual charges were leaked to ABC News today, most probably by Jackson's prosecutor, Santa Barbara DA Tom Sneddon, whose case against the singer suffered a blow yesterday when it was reported that the boy's testimony was 'shaky' and 'inconsistent'.

The coincidental leakage of a child psychologist report in all its horrid, tabloid worthy detail and the graphic images it conjures (just imagine Michael Jackson naked sans make-up) will inevitably taint the jury pool if the case goes to court. We must remember of course, while the media might forget, that these details allegedly took place, and that word is very important. Too often the boy is referred to in the media as "the victim" rather than "the alleged victim." And very few media outlets are commenting on the statement in the report in which the psychologist told the alleged victim that he could get money if he won a lawsuit against Michael Jackson. And so the story continues...watch this space.

While you do that why not use your other eye to read this rather brilliant editorial from the anti-corporate, politically aware arts magazine, popCULTmedia, The Slow Murder of Michael Jackson: Fear and the Sexiness of the Undead?

Four Weddings and a Final

I went to a wedding yesterday, but it was not my own, and although I am going away it is not on a honeymoon to Barbados. It is in fact the last day of my spring break before I return, without a wife, to England’s Barbadian equivalent, Lancaster, where I will resume my studies, much of my social life, and pick up my final instalment (getting weepy) from the Student Loan Company, only to spend it willy-nilly on beer and the like.

My final semester at Lancaster will be interspersed with alternating exams and weddings, as it is the season for both. Yesterday was my cousin Sunny’s wedding, next weekend is my cousin Rajesh’s registrar service, the weekend after is the proper Indian ceremony and the weekend after that is another cousin, Vicram’s. So you might be wondering what the probability is that three of my cousins are getting married within three weeks of each other, but to recap my explanation from yesterday’s post, ‘cousin’ in our hybrid society is a blanket term encompassing second-relatives, friends of the family or just fellow British Indians in the locale.

Sunny is the latter, and his wedding was a traditional Indian affair, an all day programme at the Sapphire Banquet and Conference Suite in Digbeth, Birmingham, during which the groom arrived on a white horse wearing a veil, the two families exchanged gifts, formally a dowry, and three meals were served while the couple, tied to each other with a literal knot, walked around a fire and were thus wed.

My grandma kept a lookout for a “nice Indian bride” so that I could one day soon tread the fiery path to marriage, while I in fact had an eye, but not for marriage, on the young lady in the pink sari at table number 23. This would have pleased my granny had lady in pink not been Muslim, which in her words, is “worse than marrying a white girl.” So, there you have it. Our short lived, glances-across-the-room relationship ended with a relative statement; no plans for marriage, not even a phone number! I hope I do better in my finals.

...seeks "nice Indian bride"

I’ve that familiar ringing in my ears that follows a raucous shindig, except tonight’s jamboree was no keg carrying red cup affair. I’ve just returned from what in Punjabi is called a Sangeet, or what you might call a sing-song, and the second part of the three day affair that is an Indian wedding. My cousin, which is what we call fellow British Indians whether blood related or not, is getting married tomorrow when I’ll have more to report. Until then I’ll leave you with what you might call a funny anecdote, which in Punjabi means “embarrassing story”: I was sitting at the party tonight when an uncle (or older British Indian male) came over to say hi. As I started to stand to greet him I realised that the wallet chain that usually keeps me looking somewhat ‘street’ (even at a sing song) was caught in the narrow space between the seat and the chair leg. Any upward motion lifted the chair with my derriere, and until I could free myself I looked either rude or the victim of a practical joke.

It wasn’t the first time tonight that I felt victimised at a rouse of comedy: My mum’s suggestion that I look out for a “nice Indian bride”, was initially received in jest, but when I overheard my Grandma suggesting the same, on my behalf, to her senior associates, I saw the serious side. The funny thing is though, if I were to meet anyone at a traditional, family only Indian wedding we would either already be related or soon to be – and if they were British Indian, by association we’d be cousins, right?

More tomorrow night readers, at which point I might be fixed up. In which case, you’re all invited. (No wallet chains.)