A Leap of Faith

Just to tease, I'm sitting here, clad in a hand towel, dripping wet and smelling of Radox shower gel. It might calm you somewhat to know that, if I was ever "in shape", I'm certainly mishapen now, resembling most closely a hairy, small breasted woman in the early stages of pregnancy. (Feeling a little morning sickness?) I'm typing this now since I get the bulk of my good thinkage done in the shower.

It being a leap year, the date today, according to your Sunday paper/Casio/Katie Price calendar, is February 29th, and the last time you'll read that for another four years. Big Brother MSN reminds me that now's the time for "my woman to make an honest man of me" since global law states that women may only propose to men in leap years.

This leap year will mean something special for the more than 3,000 gay couples married in San Francisco since the city's new mayor, Gavin Newson, decided to defy state law and allow such weddings. Outside of "everybody's favourite city" there won't be much honest man or woman making for the same sex couples that threaten, what George W. Bush calls, "the most fundamental institution of civilization". This from a President, a little behind the evolution scale, who we understand is quickly learning to use tools but is oblivious to the fact that you can't legislate against a person's pursuit of happiness the way you could in the "grand ol' days" of the Jim Crow south. His call for a constitutional amendment to "protect the sanctity of marriage" is monkey business, to say the least, and I hope that Mr Bush is denied his request and the thousands of happy couples wed in San Francisco City Hall this month do not become a phenomenon of the leap year.

'Good Life'

The title of this blog hails from the Francis Dunnery song I'm listening to right now. I recommend you open Kazaa, iTunes, message your mate Dave - wherever you get your music - and download it, before of course you buy the Scrubs soundtrack on which it appears. Ah, great show. And good song. Way better than the pressed curd of milk the DJ was spinning tonight at my college bar. In the dairy section was, amongst others, Kylie Minogue circa 1989, A-Ha, and those prophetic/pathetic Weather Girls warning of man showers. What a blood bath that would be.

Still, little could be quite as depressing as Friday night at Pendle Bar. Designed as a sort of airport lounge with surplus disco lights and insufficient seating, with aforementioned playlist and the sort of imaginative clientele that tonight reworked the bar crawl form with some clever word play that put their bras on the outside of their shirts. Bra Crawl see? Once they've exhausted that they'll try a Brawl Car evening, combining racing with fighting...A-Ha.

Somewhere behind one of those bras tonight was a girl that earlier - I think - was sort of into me. Yeah, that's right readers; an end to the sexual frustration? Well, I think it was for the best that I didn't find her. It was probably a sign of its prematurity that she shared a name with my recent ex and, hey, if my sexual frustration was cured - what would I write about? 'Til next time blog fans, good night.

The Passion of the Blog

Having just walked back through a snow crested campus to my dorm room and through the kind of atmopshere conjured by AJ's inspirational journal, the blog that got me into this game in the first place (see entry Stockard Channing and other funny things), I feel somewhat commited to write this before I slip into my jim-jams, knock back a glass of milk and drift into my usual dreams of jeannie with the light brown hair.

I was out with Beth, Mike and his girlfriend Caroline for a bargain dinner that is becoming a Thursday night fixture, it being 'curry night' and priced at a very reasonable £3.99 (including pint). It was the pleasant sort of evening filled with meandaring conversation, lots of laughter and at one point tears from yours truly. (You have to understand I have very watery eyes. I just have to tilt my head and a tear will roll, which sometimes works in my favour, say in an essay review meeting or when I don't get exactly what I want.)

When I could compose myself and stop blubbering long enough to articulate an opinion we discussed the talk of Tinsel Town, Mel Gibson's third and probably last Hollywood film, The Passion of the Christ. If you've heard of Jesus you've probably heard of this film, it's extreme violence and the charges of anti-semitism against it and Mad Max star Gibson, who, it is fair to say, has undertaken an enormously risky project that could be his last in the close-knit world of Hollywood and with the prominent and mostly Jewish figures that make the deals.

It's a film that I've been oddly obsessed with for months now. I can't quite figure it out...I'm a Hindu, albeit a fervent Christmas celebrator, not a particularly big Mel Gibson or Jesus fan for that matter, but somehow the hype surrounding The Christ has gripped me, more so even than the pre-release Spiderman and Hulk buzz. Jesus, I suppose, is a far greater superhero and, outside of the critical press, personal reviews of Gibson's Passion tell of a sort of a spiritual awakening - a desire to be a better person - from the very act of seeing a Jim Caviezel Jesus crucified "for all our sins."

Although I squirm even at the operation scenes of E.R., I feel compelled to watch the final brutal hours of Jesus's life, perhaps by watching to be a part of the hype, to participate in an event shared by so many, to experience that enlightenment. The Passion of the Christ has a lot of people talking. From accounts I have read it has a lot of people thinking too, affirming their convictions. This film might be the last two hours of Mel Gibson's career but it might be Christianity's most powerful recruitment tool since that other controversial text, the Bible.

Now would be a good time to purge my sins and formally apologise for my comments concerning Mary Magdalene. Monica Belluci may be hot in The Passion but the things I said, I realise, were a bit rude. And any gossip, of the secular sort, surrounding Mary's friendship with the Christ is just hearsay. So...sorry Beth.

Out There

So, a month into its online life and my musings have their first review. What's the buzz surrounding 'Goodbye Picasso, Hello Blog'? Well, I've just overheard a telephone conversation that compares "my work" to that of an angst-ridden, teen virgin, wreaking of "sexual frustration in every line," but nevertheless funny - at least somebody's laughing.

I'd like to say this to the unnamed critic, whose e-mail address is fozstar@hotmail.com: I might be a little inbetween right now, but hey - I could get it, alright? I'm just not putting myself out there right now. And I'd also like to say this to the actress who plays Eliot on Scrubs (Sky One, Sundays 7:30pm), on the off chance that she's reading: Would you like to go out sometime? Just please...think about it. (Putting myself out there...so...)

Doggy Style

My six-year old Border Collie cross Spaniel had a close brush with death yesterday and I had an epiphany. According to the excellent Dog Years Calculator from OnlineConversion.com (where you can also convert to Judiasm in a few simple clicks), Candy is 37 - a primary school six to you and me but a firm middle-age for her and her canine-kind.

By either calendar it's too soon to go, surely, but consider this: if I were a dog, and the jury's still out on that one, I'd be 97. 97! And what have I done in my dog's life? I ain't never caught a rabbit, that's for sure. And I've not been working like a dog either.

Although I'm not quite sure of the exact meaning of this epiphanic moment, I will take from it some sketchy lessons nevertheless. I'll work harder, I'll be a more loyal friend, I'll listen more, I'll sharpen my sense of smell, I might even catch a rabbit, so to speak.

Candy's going to be okay. She might need an operation on her back leg but she'll live to chew another bone. And I spoke to my ex-girlfriend yesterday and held back from most of what I wanted to say to her. One reason the dog has so many friends: He wags his tail instead of his tongue. And from the same page of Dog Related Quotations and Sayings, I'll leave you with this from Groucho Marx, of the Marx Brothers and Marxism fame:

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.

Spring Break for One

Last year I was part of an English student community that expatriated to California for the academic year 2002/3. About this time we were planning our 'Spring Break': an American college extra-curricular extravaganza in the vein of 18-30 holidays to Lanzarote, but with monied students, more (if you can imagine) pent up alcoholic frustration and a fairly autonomous spin-off porn industry. (Just type "girls gone wild" in Google and you'll see what I mean.)

At the tail end of my romantic relationship with Beth I was practically single and the guys and I decided on the very suspecting town of Ensenada, Mexico for a Boys Gone Wild excursion into the world and wonders of the Spring Break. And excur we did. With our uniform t-shirts, second-hand blazers and more Brylcreem than the team of mechanics behind Greased Lightening (and that's just me), we hit up Baja California and all it had to offer: burritos, tequila, brothels in disguise, and the hottest spot south of Havana, Papa's and Beers, where I met the reason for this blog entry, who e-mailed out of the blue last week as I was planning this year's very different Spring Break that happens to fall on the one year anniversary of 'Boys Gone Wild'.

In March I'm going to Boston on a £30 flying e-Bay win, probably alone and probably without the screen printed t-shirt declaring my drinking nickname and the place and time of my vacation. I'll most likely take a book, sit by the harbor and shudder in the New England chill. But I'll pack my Brylcreem, all the same, and raise my glass of legally purchased booze to those five man-monkeys that made Spring Break 2003 what it was. Here's to you

• Alekzander ‘Audrey’ Piekarski
• Jack ‘Jimbob’ Jenkins
• Colin ‘Cuthbert’ Brightwell
• Dave ‘Dwayne’ Andrews
• Nick ‘Norbert’ Holmes

Valentine this, buddy

I wrote on my home page, and I'll shamelessly copy and paste here, that Valentine's is about being with the people you love. When that's not possible, friends of friends will do. This year I spent Valentine's weekend with some of Beth's friends from Berkeley (by way of England, New Zealand and Australia). It was a great weekend and although no flowers or cards were exchanged as such, platonic love was indeed in the air.

Platonic love is really the way forward, I think. For me personally, I mean. I don't imagine it would be very good for the world. It would bring about its end, in actual fact. But last weekend was cool. Being around friends - granted, not really my own - and looking forward to this coming weekend with my friend Pam, really puts things in perspective and has a calming effect when I'm freaking out about the, er, D word (last mention: dissertation). I just wrote this sentence:

With this recording, James Brown developed the fundamental funk principle, ‘on the One’ – to hit the first down beat of every bar of music – and discovered that he was “hearing everything, even the guitars, like they were drums.” With “New Bag”, and subsequent recordings, James Brown employed ‘the One’, reversing musical priorities by subordinating melody to rhythm.

You've gotta love the funk. Well, I do. I'm writing a d***ertation on it! Okay, as if St Valentine's hasn't been flogged enough already, in the vein of last weekend, here's a list of things I love today:

1. Sally Shurter, in an e-mail: "I quit my job selling women's shoes to go to Costa Rica for a month."
2. Spike Lee's Do The Right Thing (1989): At the peak of his powers, Spike delivers a film about race in America that doesn't take sides, and is tragic, moving and utterly fair. "Wake up!"
3. The Onion: "Osama Bin Laden Found Inside Each Of Us"
4. Mini-Cheddar snack biscuits sandwiches with cream cheese and chive filling. Think about it.
5. Michael Penny: Always a pleasure. And for a limited time only, comes with new clothes.

Celibacy and the Village

Sitting down to write my blog, I feel somewhat like TV's Sarah Jessica Parker. Except, I'm far from both sex and the city. Recently single and in a campus based university nestled in the Lancashire countryside, my life is far from the sexcapades of those four nubile New Yorkers (Channel 4, Fridays 10pm). I might be nubile, but I'm not a girl, and "not yet a woman."

If I am a TV show, I'm probably more of a Dawson's Creek (E4, Mondays 9pm) than a Sex and the City: Overly sentimental, alarmingly self-aware/obsessed, constantly analytical and with enough angst to spawn six seasons of will he?/won't he?/she loves me/she loves me not. But then I can't really relate to either of the male characters. I'm hardly an inspired filmmaker like Dawson nor do I posses the kind of endearing boyish charm of Pacey that can bed a high school teacher, however hard I may have - at one point - wished for both things.

In reality, I'm no more than an episode of The Office (BBC 2), this blog being the sort of talking head sequence that makes that show as funny as it is awkward. Is reading this as uncomfortable as watching David Brent compare his departure from Wernham Hogg to that of Jesus leaving Bethlehem for Nazareth? Or Gareth Keenan brag of his ability to "catch a monkey"? If that is the case, if I am like an episode of The Office, I don't know if I should apologise. I just won a Golden Globe. In your face.

Stockard Channing and other funny things

Man, I've got to write this blog 'live'. Like, strap it to my head or something. I always think to note the funny things that happen in my day. I've just logged on to get this down after talking to Beth, who oddly knows the ages of B-list celebrities off the top of her head. "Stockard Channing," she pauses, "59."

What are the other things...oh yeah. Walking to class the other day, I was thinking of a friend of ours, AJ's online journal. I say to Beth, "AJ's blog is so much better than mine." I had read in his a description of walking through Harvard, snow falling on the Quad. "It really inspired me to start a blog," I said thoughtfully. "Hmm..." Beth said "It really inspired me to go to Harvard."

There are more funny stories, I'm sure, but until I remember them or find a way to strap this blog to "my head or something", I'll leave you with a New York Times article about, amongst other things, gay penguins: Love That Dare Not Squeak Its Name. Sticking to the penguin theme, try this Shockwave game.

Sylvia Plath

I was just shaving by the sink, my mass MP3 collection shuffling in the background, and on came this curious little song by Ryan Adams, a strange elegy, I guess, for Sylvia Plath. Shaving in the mirror like that is nothing quite like the Gilette adverts. No foxy girl swings from behind me and glides her hand over my silky smooth face. In her absence, I am usually deep in thought and accompanied by two songs, depending on how thorough I am.

This morning when 'Sylvia Plath' played it brought to mind a very specific memory, as often music can. The song reminds me of being in Paris, looking for a pencil. Mandy, just starting her study abroad year, was sightseeing with her school and I was one of many, many tourists that Bank Holiday weekend, but one of the very few looking for pencils. I had the day to myself and my MP3 player, then filled with Ryan Adams' Gold and I think, Counting Crows' This Desert Life, and I wanted to do some drawing.

So I'm wandering the streets of Paris, only knowing the touristy bits, looking for art supplies, stumbling into hundreds of street artists and wondering where they bought their pencils from, all the time listening to Ryan Adams and trying to work out his ode to Sylvia Plath:

And maybe she'd take me to France Or maybe to Spain and she'd ask me to dance In a mansion on the top of a hill She'd ash on the carpets And slip me a pill Then she'd get me pretty loaded on gin And maybe she'd give me a bath How I wish I had a Sylvia Plath

I never really did. I'm still not sure whether it's a joke. But before I met Amanda again, I managed to find some pencils and paper and made this sketch of the Notre Dame cathederal.

There'll be a more substantial entry later tonight, when I get back from work. Thanks for reading!

Virgin on the Blog

Not to be mixed up with the word 'blob', which is a rather horrible sounding 'euphemism' for a lady's time o'the month, this is my first 'blog' - a sort of online diary, whose name derives from the term, 'web log'. See? Interesting piece of trivia for you. If you're wondering where my blog gets its title from, another tit-bit from the department of trivia, there's a cool song called 'Holding On To You' by the Artist Formely Known As Wanker, Terence Trent D'Arby with the lyric, "Goodbye Picasso, Hello Dali/Dolly." I think the song is about leaving one relationship for a very different girl, symbolised by a move from the East Coast of America to the West. Its an idea I'm fond of (and I think Picasso is pretty good too), and I guess I see myself as a sort of wandering 80s musician, rambling the frontier, in and out of relationships. Bohemian? No. Pretentious? Moi?

Anyway, why a blog? Why now? Well, technical difficulties and a 'wardrobe malfunction' brought down the old and oft-praised, sansharma.com indefinitely, so to cater to demand and with minimal fuss I set up this free Tripod thingymeblog.

I mentioned that I was in and out of relationships. That's not strictly true. I've been in two for the last four and a bit years. Not simultaneously, of course, but I'm just out of one now. So I hope not to offend my recent ex, or the pre-'99 girls (the stripper, the lesbian), by sharing too much. Amanda and I recently broke up and if she's reading this I hope she's doing okay. Even if she's not reading this, I wish her the best. And all of you for reading all the way to the end of this entry! Well done. ;-) Feel free to leave comments or browse the links to the left. Sign the petitions as your good deed of the day. You can't count it towards your five items of fruit or vegetables though.