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.)

Bad Karma

The karmic pendulum of life has swung my way readers and its punishment for the brief - and may I add accidental – visitation of untoward web sites has left a plague upon my homepage of a dozen viruses. The sudden hijacking of my computer by said viruses – an online act of terrorism – and the careful removal of such has unfortunately kept me from updating my blog earlier. And as we suspect that the evil network of viruses possess weapons of mass e-mail distribution I am sorry if you’ve caught anything off me. I would recommend that you update your Anti-Virus software as soon as possible and keep a fair distance from your computer screen – I have a nasty cough to boot, though I don’t quite know what I’ve done to deserve that.

I’ve been a good boy times of late: I’ve stuck loosely to the 9-5pm work day and at my dissertation, which I mention not because I know my supervisor reads this page (hi Nick) but because it’s going reasonably well; I’ve done my share of the chores around the house, enough to forestall my mum’s “this place is not a hotel” speech; and I’ve been practising the art of compromise/anger management with aforementioned, menstrually diverse sisters, even agreeing to an unwise shopping trip to the Cheshire Oaks Designer Outlet Village last Monday.

It was unreal. There’s no other word to describe it really; ‘village’ would not be my word of choice. Sure, the stores were housed in mock-Tudor outfits, some of which sported hay-effect thatched roofs, but how many villages do you know with five-thousand car parking spaces? Or a food court? Or a Dolce & Gabbana, for that matter? Despite being stony broke I nevertheless spent the Bank Holiday spending, but I won’t be laughing all the way to the bank – I’ll be putting my paycheque against my Mastercard bill. I’ll have to wait until the end of month to see that what goes around comes around. But that’s not bad karma. That’s just bad sense.

The Father Michael Jackson Paid Off

Since being home from University for Spring Break television has sadly been some of the best company I’ve had, and for the most part the stimulus for my blog musings. Tonight’s entry is no exception, as last night’s viewing compels me to write on an issue I have thus far refrained from discussing, and that is the child molestation case against Michael Jackson.

Child Sex Sells

It is an issue that last night the BBC raised with the usual sensationalism that surrounds child sex hysteria that, like regular sex before it, is selling like hot cakes and is sure to draw in the crowds. Throw in arguably the world’s most famous most living man and you’ve got yourself a ratings winner. But like most products boasting appeal but lacking substance (think luxury items – chocolates, perfumes, Schwarzenegger movies) the pointedly titled The Boy Michael Jackson Paid Off was exquisitely packaged with deftly edited archive footage, a remixed Jacko soundtrack and (thankfully tasteful) dramatic reconstructions, but ultimately lacking the hard facts to make the tagline, “Is Michael Jackson a lost child or a paedophilic man?” a real conundrum.

The documentary come crime saga come music video dealt with the first of two allegations concerning child sex abuse and Michael Jackson, its recurrence perhaps the only reasoning for serious trial for both prosecutors’ –the Santa Barbara District Attorney trying Jackson and the salacious media prematurely hanging him. Otherwise it told a story that not only seemingly exonerated Michael Jackson but proved him a twice victim of extortion – the scams of this and the last century. You might be forgiven for believing he was guilty of these charges, considering the erroneous media coverage, but you’d be wrong.

From the Dentist’s Chair

Michael Jackson may in fact be guilty of poor judgement, having made himself vulnerable to such charges by not addressing his penchant for the bedtime company of small children since the 1993 allegations, but he is no paedophile. Those allegations, and the subject of the BBC programme, sprung from a sum of child custody, Hollywood aspiration and dodgy dentistry and went public when a private settlement with Jackson was not reached. That original settlement of a movie deal was solicited by dentist and aspiring script writer, Evan Chandler, the estranged biological father privately accusing Michael Jackson of molesting his son, Jordan. When that deal was not met the accusations went public, and as Evan Chandler had promised in a secretly taped telephone conversation, “I will get everything I want, and they will be destroyed forever. June [the mother] will lose custody of the boy and Michael’s career will be over.” When Dave Shwartz, Jordan’s stepfather and the other half of that conversation asked how his plan might help the boy, Evan replied, “That’s irrelevant to me.”

Although ‘the boy’ admitted to sharing a bed with Jackson he had never himself accused the star of any sexual misconduct. That was until Evan performed dental work on his son, during which he decided to intravenously administer sodium Amytal, a psychiatric drug unusual in baby-tooth extraction but known to provide false memories. Evan then took Jordan to a child psychiatrist who was required to file a report with the authorities, a criminal investigation began and the media had something of a field day.

HIStory Repeating

The first case of child sex abuse involving Jordan Chandler, hence the title of the documentary, was settled out of court when it became clear to Jackson and his lawyers that justice might not prevail, not without an agonising ordeal. The LAPD had invested millions of dollars in their investigation, interviewing scores of children all over the world, not one of whom accused Jackson of any wrongdoing, despite the zealous and maverick techniques of detectives: they told interviewees that other children had admitted to it when they had not. A humiliating strip search was then issued on Michael Jackson and photographs were taken of his body but they did not match the description Jordan had given. And although a plethora of ‘witnesses’ had appeared before the court of public opinion, on television and in the press, none agreed to testify against Jackson and when Evan accepted the out of court settlement the LAPD reluctantly announced that no criminal charges would be brought against Michael Jackson citing a lack of evidence.

Despite being investigated by the Department of Children’s Services and dropped, the same district attorney from the 1993 case Tom Sneddon jumped at the chance to pursue claims that arose after the Martin Bashir documentary, Living with Michael Jackson was aired in February last year. In his final year of service before retirement Sneddon, having been ridiculed by Jackson in a 1995 song that accused him of “brothering with the KKK”, could not contain his excitement at an initial press conference where he jokingly encouraged the media attention that might improve California’s failing economy. The excitement wore off when Sneddon twice asked the presiding Superior Court judge Clifford Anderson for more time to gather evidence.

This time however Michael Jackson is going to court. But when you consider the history of the previous case, for which Evan Chandler actually hopes to sell the movie rights, and the history of the current accuser, who has twice previously claimed that her son has been abused to receive out-of-court settlements, we might wonder why the media is seriously asking if Michael Jackson is a paedophile. He might be an idiot most of the time but he is not as Bad or as Dangerous as his album titles would have us believe. And I certainly hope he is not HIStory.

Watch Out: Horror-By-Numbers

The only thing missing was a dead phone line. Otherwise Gothika, the new Halle Berry film, was horror-by-numbers, and although it made for an unsettling drive home just now I doubt that it will leave any long term damage, like say the more inventive, The Exorcist and The Shining, which just by mention has me looking over my shoulder.

It relied almost exclusively on formulaic technique: darkness and lightning; a soundtrack of amplified sound effects and stabbing strings; and a script that actually included the line, "But that's impossible. She died four years ago..." Watching Gothika was like being on one of those fairground ghost trains, with horrors leaping at the sides of the carriage, crawling slowly along the dark track and towards the man in the black cloak and Scream mask that fondles your hair. Like the fairground attraction that unfolds from a truck, Gothika had a sort of short-lived shock value to it and a shoddy construction that adds a second layer of fear.

Its construction is what is always most frightening about horror films, and that is how we, the audience, is cast. Our participation in Gothika was so apparent to deserve billing beside co-stars Penelope Cruz and Robert Downy, Jr. Because when the camera was stalking the heroine around the women’s prison, in her car, through her house, it was clear that we were not, like Berry, the victim, we were the perpetrator; we were not to sympathise, we were to kill. And it is always that perverse pursuit of the female body in horror films, so explicit in Gothika, that scares me.

But that is not to say that it is a bad film. The plot might make no sense, the script may be preposterous (“I’m not deluded, Pete – I'm possessed!”), and it won’t leave you pensive or a changed person, but like the ghost train Gothika is involving, scary and absorbing for precisely its running time. It is a by-the-numbers horror film. And a very good one, at that. But there is no accounting for taste.

Word of Mouth

My sister Suman, the teacher, has just moved into a new apartment in Derby in the East Midlands, and this weekend - being from the West myself - I put aside any rivalry of the 2 Pac/Biggie sort to help with the move. Once we'd pivoted the sofa up the stairs, walked the refrigerator into place and pulled our muscles out, we sat down on our work and enjoyed a few drinks with a few friends.

My wingwoman Beth, currently in California, had earlier provided remote encouragement with the suggestion that I might realise the teacher/student fantasy I’ve had since high school with one of Suman’s colleagues in Derby. So naturally I was somewhat disappointed that the party consisted of my sister and her friends Gareth, James, every bit the I.T. teacher – comic book t-shirt an’ all – and his girlfriend of two months Danielle, still in that horny as hell honeymoon period.

To be fair, even if the faculty member of my dreams was in attendance I’d only score poor marks. After the strenuous move I was emitting a smell not unlike onions and since the apartment was without hot water I was without shower; the mouth sores that seem to precede even the slightest chance of sex were back and the medication I was using, might taste like liquorice on application, but reeks of fish when dry.

Although I somewhat regret being so presumptuous to pack condoms I had a good weekend all the same. I was completely impressed with my sister’s new place and my own skills at drunken charades; I quite liked James and Danielle but seeing them together, although a little gross, made me realise just how much I miss being in a relationship. As much as I do, I’m taking the recurring mouth sores as a sign that I’m not ready for such – I’m so not over my last relationship – and I should probably sort out my own problems before I pass them on to others. That, and I might want to see a doctor. My mouth really hurts.

Unreal TV

Since, I'm told, Thursday is the new Friday, I didn't feel so bad about having spent the night in front of the telly. That was until I saw There's Something About Miriam, a reality TV show from the warped minds at Sky that left me feeling a little uneasy to say the least. I will however, for the sake of my good readers, try and say the least on the subject, which tonight in a dramatic final episode was revealed to the contestants competing for the affections of one Central American model, the offer of a yachting trip with aforementioned beauty and £10,000 smackers.

You see, the model was to reveal her secret before the lucky guy set sail for sea with his maiden. Or his master, as it turns out - a penis is that "something about Miriam", if you were wondering, and a season of flirting and making out left the contestants feeling, and quote, "disgusted." The winner turned down the prize, not wanted to be alone with "the shemale" for a week, the "losers" laughed into the end credits and Sky TV execs thought they were onto a ratings winner, having tapped into the reality TV market and given its knickers a twist.

My uneasy feeling was not at Miriam's surprise. She, bossom and all, was lovely, convincingly so, and utterly dignified. My disgust is at the TV executives who were the real stars of their "freak show", a relic from the Victorian era that should have gone with the plague and chimney sweeps. Poor bastards.

Mad Dogs and Englishmen

An American once asked me why English folk always talk about the weather. I was in California at the time, not missing my homeland one bit, and answered that it was indicative that the bad weather is the best thing about England. Yesterday I was eating a lunch of my own words, when unseasonably the sun put his hat on and came out to play. “Hip-hip-hip-ho-ray!” I exclaimed as I led a chorus line of lawn-mowers rockin’ the suburbs in the B-Flat that signals spring officially sprung.

The American posed an interesting question, and one that responds directly to that asked nationwide yesterday: “Nice out, isn’t it?” Indeed, people were talking about the weather, and they were making the most of it too. Joggers were out in full force, regretting the New Year’s resolution they thought was in vain – “as soon as the weather picks up I’ll start running again”; Telford’s disenfranchised youth sat on the hoods of their souped-up Honda Civics to eat their Happy Meals; and even my sister and I took a walk, slide and swing in the park. I embarrassed myself a little by stopping a pre-teen kid to ask if he was on the TV show, Fat Camp. He wasn’t. But nevertheless, it was a lovely day – perhaps not for the fat kid – and it looks as if it’s warming up to be another.

And would you look at that? In keeping with the English tradition, I’ve just talked about the weather. But it is nice out…

A Family Holiday

As you know, I’m back home from University for the Easter Holidays, and having served exactly one quarter of my time here I thought I’d commemorate this auspicious occasion, invite you to ‘meet the family’, and write about my break from the Spring Break tradition, which last year took me south of a border to Mexico. This year I’m in Telford, neither north nor south, in the middle of England, and as far as possible from the sea and any immediate route of escape. Here, el mariachi play drum & bass from bloated car stereos, burritos are filled with cigarette butts and the senõritas push prams to McDonald’s. My holiday this year cannot be further, not just geographically, from Spring Break 2003. And instead of spending it with five other likely lads and their matching t-shirts, I’m with the friends you can’t choose – family. They are:

Mum

Mysteriously, neither of my parents is tall and yet at 6’3’’ I am perhaps their collective height. My mum is particularly small. Even on tip toes she struggles to slap my face, should the need arise. Her rather grand personality though adds a couple of feet, and draws more than a few laughs. Funny, overwhelmingly optimistic and tea-total from the start, my mum is an unlikely counsellor for alcoholics, and I fear would find an ample client base amongst my peers. At home her work manifests itself in the question “…and why do you think you feel like that?” which is raised at several points during the day and to a creeping feeling of unwitting analysis. She once asked me if the colour I chose to paint my bedroom represented the way I was feeling, which if true would mean that I felt white.

Dad

With a curious cross-pollination of Delhi and Wolverhampton accents, my dad is a soft and rarely speaking man, exuding a seeming wisdom from an oft-lotus position. A news junkie, dad trades political views with a Michael Moore than enough inaccuracy and a fervent distaste for people in power. Having been his own boss for a number of years with a number of businesses, dad once maintained a cartel of corner shops in my hometown. He now ironically keeps a living speaking at a call centre in Telford’s only high-rise building, barely scraping the sky, and dabbles in delegation of the YDIY sort on his days off.

The Not-So-Ugly Sisters

Being the youngest in my family there was little left in the way of good looks after my senior sisters – the Bollywood starlets – were born. First came Suman, who loved school so much she went back to be a teacher, then Uma, who, I guess, loved home so much (and her money) that she went back to be a rent free resident. She thought she was lucky to find a career that combined work with socialising, but it turns out social work is not so much that. She spends her weekends shopping for windows, while my eldest sister Suman spills over essay plans for the German class she teaches. When working in a tag-team formation they can really kick my ass, but hey – where would I be without my menstrually diverse sisters and their fit friends! (Danke Shön, Su!)

Progress?

When we were last here I proclaimed the car "the ultimate symbol of freedom", and while that might be true for us in a capatalist society where car salesman is king (I'm referring to the Car King showroom in town), freedom holds a different meaning for the people of Ghana, focus of a BBC 4 documentary playing in the background as I write this.

It was from Ghana, a former British colony, that the Atlantic slave trade began; the selling of men and women to European plantation colonies in North America became an enterprise, and a new nation became the capital of the "free world." It was also Ghana that in 1957 became the first state in sub-Sahara Africa to gain political independence from European colonial rule. Despite being well endowed with natural resources, Ghana remains heavily dependent on the West for financial and technical assistance. A dependence that a talking head from aforementioned documentary understands to be a new form of slavery: "We now lean on the western world," he said. "If they don't bring you your food, your vehicle, you're in that same position...you hear ol' massa's voice."

We don't have to worry about food; most of us at least have access to a vehicle. Our leaders have set their sights beyond such issues, beyond the clouds even. The BBC 4 documentary was not so much about Ghana's national history - I got most of that from Encarta. It was about an issue affecting an inordinate number of Ghanians. It was investigating the affects of the Apollo 6 space shuttle landing in the country. "It seemed that American progress," the talking head continued, "was a disease for the people of Ghana."

A Ride Into the Sunset

So my sister Uma passed her driving test today, bunked the day off work and celebrated with a Macarena of synchronised screaming, clapping and jumping. To be honest I haven’t seen her this happy for quite some time – not even her ‘A’ Level results summoned the sort of celebratory jig witnessed today. Of all the tests we undertake in this assessment obsessed society, from SATs and GCSEs, to University finals and psychological evaluations, passing a driving test is probably the most liberating. Getting behind the wheel of a car, the ‘ultimate symbol of freedom’, opens a bottomless mug of immediate possibility and independence.

The first (substantial) trip I took as a new driver was to the theme park Alton Towers in the Staffordshire countryside, not really reachable by public transport, the journey itself is a white-knuckle rollercoaster of sorts. I remember the steep hills and winding roads and periodically checking my rear view mirror to see who was incessantly honking their horn. It turned out I was honking myself so to speak, leaning on the horn in the centre of the steering wheel as I turned the corners.

My fondest driving memory, a rather specific category of recollection, is from my time in America. My then girlfriend Amanda and I spontaneously took a roadtrip from our base in Davis, California to Portland, Oregon; so spontaneous in fact that our first excursion upon arrival was to go underwear shopping. Since, unfortunately, the sound of a car engine puts Mandy to sleep, I undertook the bulk of the driving. However liberating my licence was it didn’t quite permit me to drive in America nor without insurance, so this time when I was checking my rear view mirror, besides the obvious safety reasons, it was to look out for the stars of the hit TV show, Cops. Fortunately, I never did see a cop car, the view in my mirror was far more impressive if you can imagine: I had a sinking sun behind me and the rising colossus of Mount Shasta up ahead. It was worth staying awake for, Mandy and I agreed, as I drove on – eyes wide open – into that ‘ultimate symbol of happy endings’, the sunset.

Back to the Future

Good evening blogees. I'm coming to you live from the year 1994, thanks to the marvelous technology of...coming home for Easter Break. Somehow every homecoming is like time travel. Whether I'm returning from a semester at University, a year abroad in California or a trip to the petrol station down the street, I can always rely on everything here remaining exactly the same - not a scrunchy unscrunched, a Bush in office, or an episode of Friends yet begun. Unfortunately, it also means that I'm back to the World Wide Wait of dial-up Internet, and so I'm writing this offline, not downloading an episode of Friends (because it doesn't exist yet), and not peppering this entry with Google search results.

(For better or) worse still, unlike my blog studio at University, where I've no TV, Channel 4 is playing here in the background and I'll admit that The 100 Greatest Films show is very distracting, and unexpectedly comforting. At #18 is The Matrix, a scene from which just flashed on the screen, its title superimposed and, in brackets the date of its release, 1999. If by coming home I have gone back in time, I'm at the most only five years back.

So I'm going to see which film makes #1. While I'm gone post a comment and let me know what would hit your top spot.

Termtablist

The last class of term is usually an emotional one - farewells to friends, 'thank you's to staff, the final handout. This time however, considering how hard this term's been, relief was my primary emotion, and since Beth has scolded me for my overly self-deprecating sense of humour, which borders on self-hatred, I won't tell you that the fewer friends you have the easier the farewells are. (It's not true anyway. It's worse.) The teacher, Nick - big up, showed a documentary about the history and art of scratching in hip-hop culture. I thought aloud to Beth that I should be like the first famous Indian turntablist or, and it's easier to type than say this, "turban-tablist". It's almost worth wearing a turban for.

Anyway, I'm going to get some lunch. More soon.

A Half-Arted Attempt

I've just logged on, smoking from a heated debate with Beth, who was plucking high-brows and picking fights on, of all subjects, art, which like personal hygiene and being nice, is clearly not her forte. I'm just kidding; Beth is pretty nice and smells good for most of the time, but has a leaning towards the odd absurd opinion, especially concerning art...

Tonight I noticed how the tulips on my window were looking a little worse for wear. Not a regular flower keeper I'd forgotten to water them. In fact, I didn't even realise you had to - I thought they'd take care of it themselves - and so the tulips were clearly on their way out, on their death flower bed, if you will. Anyway, I gave them water, shone my desk lamp on them and performed the CPR I learned from Baywatch but nothing would revive the purple pretties.

So I decided to take some photos and document their final hours, much like I suppose, The Passion of the Tulips. That's not to compare my flowers to Jesus, although the poinsettia and palm leaf have both enjoyed connotations of the Christ. Right, I better avoid any further charges of blasphemy and get back to my point.

Preparing for the shoot, I arranged the flowers against the glass of the window, which was decorated with raindrops illuminated by the street light. I positioned a lamp beneath the flowers, adjusted my camera accordingly and - content with my composition - began to take photographs.

"Why don't you do some real art?" Beth asked. To which I countered, "And what is real art?" "You know, with pencils and stuff," she replied. "Like the stuff you did in Paris, or the nude...or those skulls you painted." I asked her if she thought photography was art, to which she replied "yes", alluded to Ansel Adams and suggested that time in setting up a shoot was necessarily a requirement of good art. "You can't just take pictures of stuff. Nature is the art in your pictures." And then her most damning accusation. "You're plagiarising God!"

Landscape photography was naturally a point of contention then for Beth and something she's termed, "half-art". Turning her scorn now to Ansel Adams, she continued. "God's already done the art for you. You just have to snap and it looks good."

So, you could say, I snapped - and showed her the photos I had taken. These, Beth said, were "art-y. Not art but like art," which I'm not sure is better than the "half-art" of Ansel Adams, et al., but I'll let you decide. Please post your comments and let us know what you think of my photos, poor Ansel's and of what makes 'real' art.

Watch Out: A Real Super Man

"If misery finds company, this man has a full house." Those are the (approximate) words of NBC chat show host David Letterman, whose one-time regular guest Harvey Pekar is the focus of the splendid biopic American Splendor, which found its way from Cleveland, OH., to the Cannes Film Festival, to, in no ascending order of glamour, our campus cinema, whence I have just returned, moved, puzzled and very impressed.

Harvey Pekar is, I'm pretty sure, a blue collar writer for underground comic books now in his sixties whose life and work is drawn up on the big screen by documentarists Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini, who ramble some no-man's-land between fact and fiction in a film that leaves us neither here nor there. (In fact, I Googled Pekar's name when I got in tonight just to be sure that this man exists.)

Pekar's autobiographical comic itself, on which the film of the same name is based, makes no clear distinction between fact and fiction, and the filmmakers transfer this ambiguity to celluloid remarkably well, layering fictional recreation, newly shot documentary footage and animation, to produce a kaleidoscopic portrait of the artist as a troubled man. Harvey is played for the most part by the excellent Paul Giamatti with uncanny resemblance to Pekar, who to complicate things or help explain them, narrates the film and appears in present day documentary scenes commenting on unfolding events and even casting choices.

There is so much to say about this film - about the wit and compassion of its many layers, and the hall-of-mirrors effect they create; so much that this film has to say - about the disaffected and the disenfranchised in American society - that I couldn't possibly convey them all in the far inferior comic book of my blog. I would urge you to see it if you get the chance. It is the most refreshing film I have seen in a while - more so than Lost In Translation, dare I say, and in the words of Harvey Pekar, a real comic book superhero, doing daily battle against the villainous reality of the working class, of the bastards at NBC, of cancer - "it's the real thing."

Writer's Blog

This replaces my previous entry concerning the penultimate episode of Sex and the City and some of the most absurd comments I've made, comparing my life to those of the show's characters, whom I referred to, in the post, as 'four lesbian women'. Bit of a bizarre thought, I admit, but in keeping with the general decline of the blog. I'm really sorry that I've been slipping lately, resorting to fancy dress and lesbianism for spectacle, and parading my desperate, single lifestyle as entertainment.

If sex sells then we're certainly in a state of recession, and nobody wants to read about a failing economy; so from now I promise there'll be less of the Sex and the Dawson's Creek style angst of late and a return to the Golden Era of blog writing (see entry, Sylvia Plath): a more simple time, when a song lyric, a memory, or an anecdote from my day might arouse comment, without a need to dress up in spandex for laughs.

A Fancy Dress

There was not a single spandex moment in my weekend but it was still one of the best, in March at least, due to a little shindig we hosted here at the Beth and San Ranch, complete with peach cobbler, board game and a live music revue, headlined by Caroline and myself on guitar; singing along, camp fire style, were Mike, Beth, Ian and Lindsey. Of course, three glasses of wine and a Five for Fighting song was enough to get out the Superman cape but not quite enough to get me into the blue tights. (Four of five glasses maybe, and the theme from Superman: The Movie and you've got yourself a superhero.)

A costume party was out the question apparently, when I suggested we dress as characters from Sex and the City for its final episode last night. The female core of Saturday night's party returned in casual attire for the viewing, which was emotional to say the least. Goodbye Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda! And thanks for reading.

Lock up your mums

Three times and it's a regular thing - almost tradition, and tonight was indeed the third famed Curry Night, the biggest turn out, the longest running and the best yet. I'd like to give a special shout out to all in attendance this evening - Beth, Mike, Caroline, Jill, Lindsey and Ian - and of course the staff at the posh Weatherspoons in Lancaster.

Tonight was a lot of cross-Atlantic, conversation-laden fun and true testimony to the perspective giving power of the good company of good friends. New friends, mind you, but good ones all the same. And I look forward to our little Saturday night room and board game party and, with slight hesitation, the Fox TV like reality game, Find-San-A-Date Bar Crawl of Mike's over-zealous imagination, coming to a campus near you soon. Lock up your daughters. (And your mums, to be safe.)

Watch Out: Translating a Lost Generation

Every once in a while my connection to the Internet, and thus the world outside of this campus, is lost, and I am too in a way; and a little frightened at how dependent I have become on the technology. Not knowing what to do, I took a walk just now and thought to myself how sad it is that both my work and my leisure times rely so heavily on the web. I needed it tonight to research a presentation I am preparing, from which I would probably procrastinate and play guitar, having downloaded the chords from www.ultimate-guitar.com. So here I am – typing this in Word, not listening to Internet radio, or instant messaging ‘buddies’ but feeling positively 1995. No Internet access? Now there’s a blast from the past.

It is indeed a sign o’ the times that ’95, that version of Windows, O.J. Simpson and the Ebola virus seem eons away, although admittedly all still (and sadly) exist on older PCs, in obscurity and in the Congo. Cast your minds back a further four years if you can and you might remember a book called Generation X by Douglas Coupland, the subject of the aforementioned presentation. It concerns itself with three twentysomethings suspicious of the consumer society consuming society who, having quit their careers, hide away in the California desert and tell stories. These Xers, born roughly between 1965 – 1975, are characterized by an amorphous sense of irony and the material reality of being the first generation fiscally worse off than its predecessor. They are also, a Newsweek review of the book suggests, “a bunch of whiners”.

My analysis of the book led me back to Ernest Hemingway, writer of the ‘Lost Generation’ and an inevitable reference point for Coupland and his Xers, also blessed with spiritual alienation, self-exile, and cultural criticism. It is by sheer coincidence that my last act of web mastery was to illegally download a crisp copy of Oscar darling Lost In Translation, in which Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson play two lost souls rattling around a Tokyo hotel much like Hemingway’s puppets in Paris. The strangers in a bar, who might have sex at anytime, fall into conversation about their marriages, their unhappiness and the meaning of it all.

Murray and Johansson reminded me of the Lost and X Generations, whether in Paris or Palm Springs, or Coppola’s Japan, unified by their ultimate emptiness, and skating the ice border of being “a bunch of whiners.” In Lost In Translation however, our couple might not solve their problems, or those of their generations, but feel a little better all the same. Although I didn't think the film was great, perhaps a little too self-important, it was sweet in that sense. And Tokyo’s high-rise, high-speed, tech world, I guess, is not so far removed from ours…Oh, looks as if the Internet is back on. Phew! I can instant message my friend in Japan now. ‘Til next time.

All in a day's work

Friday's a good day for most. A day to thank God for it, finish work and according to an eighties band, be in love. If, in the words of Robert Smith, The Cure, "...Monday's blue / Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too", my Friday wasn't much better and if you've read my last entry, rendered in greyscale, you'll know I wasn't in high spirits.

Yesterday then I set about cheering myself up, as much to salvage my soul as my personality, and to give you something interesting to read. This involved some good ol' retail therapy. In my shopping basket was:

• Nothing says 'comfort food' like Farley's Rusks biscuits. It actually says 'baby food' on the box.
• In the absence of male friends I bought Swingers on DVD to fill that void, bonded with its stars and decided that there is a Heather Graham out there for me. I just have to keep looking and maybe socialise more at the Dresden Lounge in L.A.
• Have you ever bought clothes to boost your self esteem? I can say that nothing does the job better than a spandex Superman costume, complete with cape, outerpants, and a 30% discount from a closing down fancy dress shop!

Imagine this: a skinny 21 year old guy, watching a movie, eating baby food, dressed as superhero. To help you out there, as an apology for the last 'blah, blah' blog entry and in case you need cheering up, because this really has the cumulative effect of all three items in my shopping basket, here is a photo of me, the Man of Steel Compressed Aluminium, sporting my new day wear. Is it a bird? Is it a plane...? (Maybe it is a bird...) No, it's...Supersan!

One Sequined Glove Short of a Pair - or - Mandy Called

I set the alarm on my phone to go off this morning at 8:00am and to the sound of birdsong. What I got instead was two verses of, 'San, you're a lazy fool with three hours to do your homework'. You see, when you put off work from the previous night your day really starts as an extension of the day before. And yesterday was a particularly bad day and today wasn't looking too promising.

With a yawn, a quick shower and a change of undies, I thought to myself with mantra like repetition, 'just a couple more weeks', undecided as to whether such short a time until the end of term was a good thing. On the one hand it's just two weeks until this work is all over. On the other, it's just two weeks to do all this work. Still, over the horizon was a month off school and a Spring Break for one to Boston (see 'Spring Break for One'). Even nearer in sight was the book I ordered online that was surely to arrive today. For the latter I had to just get through the day. For the former, I had 'just a couple more weeks.'

So I did the three hours homework, went to work at my job and my Tim from The Office impression (looking to an invinsible camera with bewilderment); I engaged in formal conversation via e-mail with my boss, seated beside me, and met with my classmates to prepare for a presentation, all the time repeating my mantra and looking forward to curling up with a cup of cocoa and a sequined glove to read the unauthorized biography of Michael Jackson that was waiting for me.

The long day was finally over and I opened my mailbox like a Pez dispenser, awaiting my treat. On top there was a letter from the company with whom I was booking my flight to Boston. It came with an "Important Notice", printed on red paper that read, "This affects your flights." No kidding. It seems the "subject to availability" clause finally got me and "due to the immense popularity of this promotion" all seats were taken for the offer of the free flight (excluding tax) that I had won. A little disappointed but not defeated, I rummaged further through the mailbox until I reached the bottom. There was nothing else for me. The book had not come. I sighed, closed the mailbox with my one sequined gloved hand and moonwalked back to bed, hoping that the next day would start anew, with a better song - maybe something by Michael Jackson - and that the book would arrive.

Heavy Breathing

Prince Harry has gone back to Africa. I say 'gone back', not knowing if he's been before, but alluding to the fact, oft-quoted by staunch non-racist types, that we're all ultimately from Africa. I don't know much about plate tectonics but I like the simple science theory that undermines racial superiority and a couple of Bible stories in the process. (Favourite tectonic pop song: Carole King's, "I Feel the Earth Move".)

Anyway, I mention it because seeing Prince Harry and new friend, 4 year-old orphan Mutsu Potsane planting a peach tree in Lesotho (an enclave of South Africa) was indeed a heart warming start to my day, courtesy of an official Royal Family photographer. Also, one time pot smoker, Harry, is second in line to marry my ex-girlfriend. If, of course, her plan to wed Will falls through should he, as her online profile fears, continues "to resemble a horse." I didn't see her with Harry and Mutsu so it looks as if the Will thing is working out, and spending time with the Prince is keeping her from replying to my messages! :-) At least she has a good excuse. If Eliot from Scrubs does ever get in touch my blog might even go on hold. But I won't hold my breath for e-mails from past or future loves.

Holding your breath never works with things like that. It's like playing chicken with your life. I was having to, er, breathe pretty hard the other night when things got a little heated on campus. Let's just say, things happen when you least expect it. And I wouldn't wait holding your breath, if I were you. You might need it. ;-)

Scrubbing Up Well

It's a bit of a cliche opening statement but it really did start off a good day. I woke up to the sunshine, took the weekly hose-down, styled my hair in a new and exciting way and threw on my good shirt. Damn. I was, and get ready for Cliche no. 2, looking good and feeling good. Unfortunately, today this new found confidence was moonwalking the border of cocky and since Beth no longer responds to my crude sexual double-entendres I've taken to asking it, "am I right?", before hi-fiving my wardrobe.

You see, all three seasons of half-hour medical comedy Scrubs (Sky One, Sundays 7:30pm) have become available for me to download and I've been watching on average three episodes a day. I'm beginning to see my life as a series of quirky incidents akin to the sitcom format. I'm even beginning to imagine my job at the Information System Services on campus as the Sacred Heart Hospital of Scrubs. I'm hardly saving people's lives but I'm referring to/treating the printers I repair as 'my patients.' This evening however my obsessive/compulsive/disorderly viewing of Scrubs paid off...

Dining alone again, I went to the burger bar and placed my order with the lovely assistant behind the counter, before sitting in ear shot to pretend to read the paper. I overheard her talk with her superior. "I've got a riddle for you," the elder started. "I've got two coins that add up to 15 pence. And one of them's not a 5p piece. What are they?" "Ooh, that's a tough one..." the younger said. "Modern coins?" "You'd find them in the register." She looked over at me and I smiled. "Your burger's ready." The younger held the bun open and asked, "any salad?" "Yeah, I'll have some tomatoes, lettuce and pickle please." I leaned in, and lowering my voice, said, "and the two coins are a 10 and a 5...She only said one of them wasn't 5p." "Thank you. I would never have got that!" "Actually," I laughed. "I heard it on TV." With that, and feeling as cool as fcuk, I headed for the door.

Did I just pull? Unfortunately not. I pushed a 'Pull' door and, in that awkward moment, caught my reflection in the glass. My new exciting hair style looked nothing like the guy off Scrubs.