Bebo Be Gone

If, like me, you shy from junk mail, avoid 'keep me informed' tick boxes, and savour actual human contact above all else, then you may have noted with annoyance, Bebo, the new online service that promises to keep you connected by synchronising address books and essentially replacing a basic procedure – and indeed, the smallest effort – with an automated process.

Bebo sends an e-mail on your behalf, asking the recipient to register for the service in order to notify the sender of your address, which by definition sounds rather pointless. That is until you realise the snowball effect of its marketing. The good people at Bebo make a simple website with plenty of ads, offer a basic service that people have thus far coped without, and use its members' contacts, whom are given freely, to target with relevant advertising.

You'll have noticed something untoward about the e-mail itself. The subject line is always "Updating my address book", and the message continues in the first person, assuming the identity of the sender, but fails to convey any sense of personality. Consider the tone of this e-mail from Piers Thompson, a guy I've not since high school:

Hi

Can you please enter your contact details in my address book. Click on the link below:

http://www.bebo.com/friends/8873160a734712708b21

After we are connected, in the future, any changes you make in your contact details will be sent to me.

Thanks for your help.

Piers

That's alright Piers. But it seems hardly necessary to synchronise our contact details when we've not spoken for what is approaching four years. I wonder if, when certain we have the correct addresses, we'll be more likely to write. And the same goes for the ex-girlfriends, colleagues, someone I met once in Liverpool and even my sister, whom I see often anyway, who have all BeBo'd me recently. To all of you I say 'no.' I will not join your cult.

Worse still is the service provided by www.sms.ac, who continually bully you into joining their mobile phone community, resorting to guilt by the third attempt:

"This is the third request. Should Ed Batlle give up on having you as a friend in his mobile friends network?"

That was actually a shame. I lost a good friend there.

My 5 'til 9

I am lucky, I realise, to have a career that never quite rears off into the cold shoulder of predictability. The daily commute into the fast lane however is made more comfortable with some on board snacks, as I tend to sandwich my work day with hours of bread and butter and banality, enjoying the reliability of my morning, noon and nightly routine.

In the morning before heading to the office I listen to Radio 1, have a bowl of Choco Hoops and watch one half of Will & Grace (meaning the first 15 minutes – not just Debra Messing). At lunchtime I come back to the flat, make myself a cheese and pickle sandwich and watch Neighbours. It's all very mundane. And then something special happens.

Some time after 5pm I leave the world of work for a galaxy far, far removed from reality, an indoor shopping centre named after Charles Darwin, in which only the fittest survive the January sales. Now, in March, I'm certainly in good company and every weeknight trip for my microwave meal is as pleasant as it is necessary.

Marks & Spencers, I've noticed, is something of a hotbed for attractive, affluent, middle-aged women, and the security guard has noticed it too. He stands by the automatic doors, leering in his mock militaristic outfit of authority, more Village People than city cop, and occasionally radios his colleague – over and out – when the hotbed heat up.

I pass them both and sneer before making my way to the food hall, only accessible by way of the women's underwear section. In a store layout designed by someone who, one can only imagine, is having a laugh, the frozen foods section is just beyond the g-strings and d-cups. Occasionally the thoroughfare is blocked and I make a face, the best I can, of a man buying for his wife. It is always my fear that in that situation a clerk might offer her assistance, in which case my course of action would be to, a) say that I was "only looking," b) ask for something in my size, or c) buy the lingerie and find a wife.

Luckily tonight that didn't happen, and I'm comforted by the thought that it probably never will. And so I picked up my microwave meal, as I always do, and thought to myself that while my 9 'til 5 might never be the same there are some things in life I can always rely on. I headed for the automatic doors and the leering guards, now watching the lingerie section with vigilance, and smiled.

Me, myself and i

There have been grumblings from those bastions of integrity, the Op-Ed columnists of the broadsheets, that, as Andrew Sullivan of The Times writes, "society is dead." We have all, with the aid of those pretty, white things, "retreated into the iWorld." Sullivan is not referring to the attractive WASP community of The O.C. but, with his clever inference of the lower case ‘I’, the Apple iPod – friend of the music lover; enemy, as the article suggests, of the regular human being. Yes, the portable music player, capable of storing 15,000 songs, has usurped the mobile phone, cable television and indeed the pocket watch of yesteryear to become the feared slayer of society.

"What was once an occasional musical diversion became a compulsive obsession," writes Sullivan. "Now I have my iTunes in my iMac for my iPod in my iWorld. It's Narcissus heaven: we've finally put the 'i' into Me." What would happen, you might wander, if we tried to take the 'i' out of me. Well, partial blindness, you might say. But just yesterday I became an accidental guinea pig in one such social experiment, when my iPod, damaged under the heavy foot of drunkenness, slept quiet in its dock, while I, in upper case, went about my day - not a wire from my ears, a hard drive in my pocket or a song in my heart. This is my story. iStory, if you will.

9:02am Walk from my flat to the office without the usual spring in my step. Feels less like a music video than usual. I sense a draught in my inner ears and the discordant music of a town waking up. Am also reminded that traffic lights make noise. This makes me laugh.

9:05am Arrive at the office and immediately say hi to co-worker, Pat, without having to fumble around for the pause button on my iPod. With nothing to do with my hands, and not wanting to grope Pat, I fumble all the same, and comment on how great her new hair looks. I do not start up iTunes and instead turn on the radio. It's the news. An Italian intelligence agent has died under US fire while escorting a freed hostage.

11:15am Leave office for meeting. Overhear what I suspect is a conversation about anal sex. Am tempted at this point to walk the rest of the way with my fingers in my ears. The conversation however recalls the Backstreet Boys' song, 'I Want it That Way', which plays in my head. Ordinarily, I would replace it with something more sophisticated. *Nsync perhaps. Instead, I enjoy the catchy hook and eyebrow raising lyrics. I attempt to raise an eyebrow, but can't, and board the train.

2:15pm Arrive in Leeds. The outward journey was pretty horrific. ('Silent Coach' my arse.) And with no music my mind wanders to food. Time however only allows for the purchase of lunch but not its consumption and so, rushing off to my meeting, I push the snack into my jacket. Its plastic packaging rustles whenever I shake hands and introductions are made all the more uncomfortable with a hummus wrap peering out from my pocket.

3:15pm Stomach rumbles throughout meeting. Someone asks what South Yorkshire will do when EU funding runs out. I think of the David Gray lyric, "what we gonna do/when the money runs out," but can't name the song or recall any other lyrics. I begin to dread the train journey back, and the frustration of being unable to locate the track in my iPod music library. Grrr...

4:45pm Train changes at Manchester Picadilly. With the few minutes that I have I cave and visit the Apple Store. The song is 'Nightblindness' from the album, White Ladder. And the daydeafness, finally, is lifted. I turn on, tune in and cop out. If society is dead, I think to myself, then this is its funeral music. Rest in peace, I say, and turn up the volume. Loud.

My Belated Valentine

I sleep beside the banisters of my stairs, so getting out of the wrong side of bed would result in serious injury, if not death. I was therefore pleased just now to land unscathed, on my feet, and to clear blue skies well before the alarm, as it routinely does, scares the bejesus out of me. Fear, I've decided, is not a good way to start the day, so with the extra few minutes afforded me I replaced that buzzer sound with the sound of birdsong: not so loud, but no less scary.

My attempts to rid fear from my daily routine were soon proven futile however as my sleepy eyes wandered over to my desk calendar, which read, 'Monday, February 14'. Has the week since Valentine's been a loveless dream? No, it turns out. I've just been away on business (see The San Also Rises). After joyfully tearing seven sheets from the calendar my confusion nevertheless continued as I found amongst the morning mail, and exactly a week late, a scented pink envelope postmarked February 12 and a card, distinctly resembling a Valentine, signed, "your SY1 admirer" - SY1 being my post code area and, to confuse matters further, the name of my hairdressers.

The clue in the card leads me either to my foxy, but nevertheless married, hairdresser Rachel, or - let's face it - any one of the 28,000 women in the SY1 catchment area. The walk to work this morning will certainly be interesting. And I'm thinking my hair needs a trim.

The San Also Rises

Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises, known in this country as Fiesta, was written, or at least I’d like to believe, in Parisian cafés and bars with its author, a voice of a Lost Generation, penning his acute post-wartime observations in a Moleskin Notebook. Similarly, I write this, with handwriting recognition software and an HP PocketPC, in a greasy spoon café at Barrow Railway Station. I'm in the glamorous North West, or at least for the next 37 minutes until my train arrives, on business and spending company money (so sue me – actually, please don't) on breakfast.

It's one of those cafés where if there were music playing rather than regional talk radio it would stop at my entrance. Nevertheless greasy spoons and heads dropped and turned as I walked in, holding a red leather briefcase in one hand and quickly unfastening a white flower brooch from my lapel with the other. During my brief stay in Barrow I'd met one other person of colour, who incidentally had been bottled when out the night before. (And by bottled I don't mean scooped up lovingly and packaged for consumption.)

I felt eyes on my back as I walked to the counter and, holding a Microsoft Publisher produced menu, asked for a Big Breakfast. "American?" The lady asked. "Um...I spent a year in California." I replied, wondering what she meant. "Er no," she sighed. "Do you want Black Pudding with that or sausage?" "Oh right! American then." I laughed. "I assume the sausage is American." Then, realising that I sounded completely stupid, and as though I expected imported sausage, stopped talking, settled the bill and thought twice about asking for a Grande Café Mocha.

Why People Are Calling Me Gay

Burn It: 'My Bloody Valentine'

Although I'm not a religious man I will readily celebrate Christmas and Easter. Valentines, on the other hand, though not technically a religious holiday, typically yields fewer cards and candies and therefore demands less of my attention. Of course, should I be on a date tonight rather than writing this, between a board meeting and sleeping alone, I might be more enthused. Instead - and as part of the estranged Burn It series - I've compiled a playlist for the dateless. We are alone together.

My Bloody Valentine (Total Time: 1:20:21)

1. 'Are You Lonesome Tonight' - Elvis Presley
A qualifying question from the King. If your answer is 'yes' please proceed to song 2.
2. 'Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart Tonight' - Whiskeytown
Nothing says drunk and alone like the sound of slide guitar and fiddle. Here the Ryan Adams vehicle, Whiskeytown, articulate both states of being in a style both a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll.
3. 'Bye Bye Love' - The Everly Brothers
Only the Everly Brothers can sing the line, "I think I'm gonna di-ie", with one too many syllables and a disposition so sunny to belie the song's doomful lyrics.
4. 'I Don't Love Anyone' - Belle & Sebastian
"Not even Christmas"? Not even Christmas.
5. 'What A Wonderful Thing Love Is' - Al Green
What sounds like a rather odd choice for an anti-Valentines playlist is, on closer inspection, rather inspired. The Reverend Al Green, as he is now known, has that remarkable ability to evoke empathy in even the most callous of listeners. Here however his delivery is so curious in its phrasing that the song's supposed romantic sentiment can be read as ironic. Such a reading is only promoted by Green's troubled love life and the story of his former girlfriend, Mary Woodson, who broke into his Memphis home, October 1974, and poured boiling grits on the singer while he was bathing. She inflicted second-degree burns on his back, stomach and arms, before killing herself with his gun.
6. 'Today Has Been OK' - Emiliana Torrini
Emiliana Torrini is an exquisite concoction of Italian and Icelandic decent, with a voice not unlike Bjork's and a pathos that recalls Nick Drake's Pink Moon. Torrini's boyfriend was killed in the 'honeymoon period' of their relationship; she herself was attacked by a gang of muggers in London. So although her problems might surpass being alone on Valentines, I nevertheless find some affinity tonight with this track.
7. 'Shit, Damn, Motherf*****' - D'Angelo
A day not so okay is recounted in D'Angelo's obsenity riddled tale of infidelity, revelation and ultimate murder, when our hero finds his wife in bed with his best friend. Over a mid-tempo, soulful groove D'Angelo sings, "Why the both of yous bleeding so much?" 'Cause you shot them mate. That's why.
8. 'F*** It, I Don't Want You Back' - Eamon
As if to outdo Mr Angelo, Staten Island vocalist, Eamon, takes his profanity-laced pop to a new level and finds a profitable outlet for his long-suffered Tourette Syndrome. The result is the insanely popular 'F*** It, I Don't Want You Back', its offensive language and misogyny cleverly censored by a series of indecipherable asterisks and silent pauses.
9. 'Cry Me A River' - Justin Timberlake
Not to be confused with the melancholy Arthur Hamilton standard that was a hit for late Jazz singer/actress Julie London in 1955, here is a song utterly devoid of dignity and grace, a melodrama with atmospheric rain, a chiming Greek chorus and a speaker, velvet voiced and vindictive. It's also the most interesting track on the otherwise bland Justified album, but as a tell-tale piece on ex-girlfriend Britney Spears it does little to incite our sympathy. Its accompanying video, in which JT breaks into his ex's house, films himself fooling around with new lady friend and leaves the video playing, does little to help the situation.
10. 'The KKK Took My Baby Away' - The Ramones
A pretty good excuse for being alone on Valentines, I think. (Though actually a story of how Johnny Ramone stole and later married Joey Ramone's girlfriend.)
11. 'Cold Hard B****' - Jet
More mean spirited misogyny from Australia's finest cock-rockers, Jet.
12. 'Hallelujah' - Jeff Buckley
A perfect, though hardly romantic marriage of Leonard Cohen's words and Jeff Buckley's voice, this version of Hallelujah is a masterpiece of bitterness and spite, bubbling at the surface with intimacy and urgency, and saved only from self-destruction by the effortless grace of Buckley's guitar and vocals. "Love," according to Cohen, "is a cold and a broken 'hallelujah'".
13. 'Solitaire' - Jesse Malin
Between Jeff Buckley and Ray LaMontagne, Jesse Malin is in fine company and manages to hold his own in this ode to solitude from his 2002 debut, The Fine Art of Self-Destruction, a record of fight-or-flight mentality with its love-sucker heart worn proudly on its alt-country sleeve. Malin's voice is a raw as his emotions as he sings, "got some cigarettes/I don't need anyone."
14. 'Burn' - Ray LaMontagne
It was indeed late and I'd had a bit to drink when I discovered LaMontagne on a re-run of 'Later with Jools Holland'. By the morning, like some kind of a gay one night stand, his gruff voice and rough beard were fresh in my memory but his name had escaped me. I found him, of all places, in a Virgin Megastore, after asking an assistant for Ray Lasagna. My humming was more helpful and she promptly handed me a copy of his debut album, Trouble, which I can heartily recommend. An obvious choice for this playlist for the lyric, "It's so hard to ignore/All this blood on the floor/'Cause this heart on my sleeve/Won't stop bleeding." And a cracker of a voice.
15. 'Creep (Acoustic)' - Radiohead
A rather brilliant fan video, linked below, does little to contest Thom Yorke's reputation as a bit of a weirdo. Watch a mini Yorke sing his little heart out in a cartoon cross between Stressed Eric and The Office. Video
16. 'Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me' - The Smiths
"Just another false alarm." Not one of the more cheery - and I imagine, unreleased - Smiths songs.
17. 'Cheers Darlin'' - Damien Rice
One of the more exciting moments of the largely acoustic, O, which is, I think, at its best when Rice is given the freedom to experiment with scale, sound effect and indeed electricity. "Cheers darlin'," he mumbles over a lazy electric guitar, "here's to you and your...lover man."
18. 'The Rat' - The Walkmen
"Can't you see me?!" shouts front man, Walter Martin. "I'm pounding on your door," which incidentally, is the overall effect of this from New York rockers The Walkmen. It breaks briefly in the middle for the line, "when I used to go out I would know/everyone that I saw/Now I go out alone/If I go out at all," and then repeats its joyful anger until it hammers home.
19. 'Chelsea Hotel' - Leonard Cohen
The Chelsea Hotel, I've decided, is not a nice place to stay. It's spawned several songs of loneliness and insomnia, characterised by these old and new songs from 1974 and 2004 respectively. Here Cohen hands us a snapshot, a Polaroid picture of a moment in time, remembered in detail but shaken dry by denial. "I remember it well/in Chelsea Hotel," he sings. "But that's all/I don't think of you that often."
20. 'Hotel Chelsea Nights' - Ryan Adams
"And I'm tired of living in this hotel," a lovesick Senõr Adams sings, "TV and dirty magazines," which just about sums up my valentines. I'm San Sharma. Thanks for listening.

Time and Company

As a man, working in a predominantly urban environment it was with great surprise that I received my complimentary ticket to this year's WiRE Conference (WiRE standing for Women in Rural Enterprise). Particularly surprised - and I imagine, somewhat annoyed - was my boss, Fay Easton, who had to buy a £50 ticket in order to drive me there.

Once inside the Country Living Magazine sponsored marquee however my surprise turned quickly to delight when I realised that it had been quite some time since I'd shared a tent with 600 women. Eagerly, I found my seat at the very front row before motivational speaker, Abigail Cooke, greeted the crowd with a minimal, "ladies," and my delight, just as quickly, returned to embarrassment. Nevertheless, I was suitably moved by Ms Cooke's speech and left the first session believing that I was indeed "a strong, confident woman."

But the fun really began after lunch, during a 'Lean Marketing' workshop, when the tutor instructed the crowd of women (and me) to remove any unnecessary items from their handbags or purses as an excercise in 'lean living'. As I was without my handbag or purse that day I opened my wallet and pulled out a condom that was quickly approaching its expiration date.

The tutor then walked us through an excercise routine that finished with a "deep breath out" and our arms in somewhat of a twist. She asked the crowd who had finished with their left arm atop their right. I was one of three people to raise my hand. "Right," she said. "You are highly sexed people." And with that the audience laughed, the three with their hands raised went slightly red and I returned the condom to my wallet. I've still got time, I thought. And, looking around, company.

My First Birthday

It occurs to me, as I sit to write tonight's entry, that tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of this here blog. I thought then that I'd use this opportunity to look back at some of its highs and lows, but decided that, like a flashback filled episode of a sitcom, it's really a disappointment for the audience and an excuse for the writers to take the day off. But rest assured readers, I'm not resting.

In fact, as this momentous occasion approaches, I find myself anxious about a decline in quality, an anxiety brought about by the comments of a dear friend. "It's crap San," Pete said. "It’s just not that funny anymore. Where are the funny stories?" The funny stories, it seems, are fairly rampart in the months of July and August when – twice – my sexuality was mistaken (see Is there something gay about me? and De-Gay Me, both popular posts.) "You're best when you're anecdotal." Pete added, although I'd take that to mean that it's funny when bad stuff happens to me.

And so, in an effort to please my readers, and indeed escape the wrath of my friend Pete, I've been making note of those things in my day that are both funny for you and excruciatingly embarrassing for me. Take for example what happened yesterday at work.

My boss had asked me to count the number of invitees for a reception we had been organising. As I reached the last name in the list, Victoria Williams, I remembered that she had called earlier and left a message. "69..." I counted. "And that reminds me, Victoria called." And so the office fell silent. But at least with this little embarrassment it wasn't my sexuality in question.

The Ha Ha Wall

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Michael.
Michael who?
Right. You'll do for the jury.

The Blackest of Sheep

Everybody claims to be the black sheep of their family. Statistically speaking, such claims are most often made during family holidays. But for the blackest of sheep there is no such thing, and no more have I felt my blackness than last week when a chain of events confirmed my position on the outer branches of the family tree.

"We're planning a family holiday!" my sister Uma said, in a barely audible mixture of excitement and poor network reception.
"Oh yeah? Where to?" I said, in an audible yet curious mixture of fascination and fear, remembering the rows and sulks of family holidays past.
"The South of France."
"Cool," I said, assessing the relative pros and cons of location versus company in my mind. "I'll have to call you back later," I looked at my watch. "I've got a date."

During which, incidentally, my mum had phoned and left a message on my machine. "Hi San," it started. "We’re trying to book a family holiday and need to ask you something! Can you call us back?"

And so I did, having decided that being in the South of France might outweigh actually being with the family. But, it turns out, I had misunderstood my mum's message. "We were trying to book the holiday on the Internet," she explained. "But couldn't work out what the security code was that they were asking for. Don't worry though - we worked it out and booked the four tickets."
"Only four?" I asked.
"Yeah," my mum replied. "You don't mind staying behind to look after the dog, do you?"

Emo

Emo is neither a flightless bird nor a Sesame Street inhabitant. It is, as it happens, the vehicle, albeit a shoddy one, for this characteristically overdue post. It is also an alternative music sub-genre that favours raw, unfettered expressions of emotion over melody, craft or any form of subtlety, spawning a gut of guitar anthems for the misunderstood college guy whose love for the girl next dorm goes unrequited. Boo-hoo.

The problem with Emo bands such as Dashboard Confessional is that, unlike the universal disgruntlement of say The Smiths or The Cure, they're so lodged in adolescence that nobody past sophomore year is able to connect with their music.

I mention it because just now I was myself connecting with music, browsing the iTunes online music store and stumbling across Emo in the unlikeliest of places. I was looking for an Audiobook to help with my train journey to London tomorrow and found that by How to Make People Like You in 90 Second or Less is the suggestion that "you might also like Dashboard Confessional". A case of Apple knowing its customers, me thinks.

So, I'll save you the confessional and hope that you like me beyond our first 90 seconds. It's usually in my second or third minute that the appeal really kicks in, and the seldom used nickname, Sharma the Charmer, begins to take effect. Imagine then, if you will, three weeks in my company. For America, land of the free, home of the brave, that dream will soon be a reality, as I venture beyond the window shopping of iTunes to the booking counters of online travel agents. That’s right – I, like Eddie Murphy of the 1988 film of the same name, am coming to America. So lock up your daughters, or indeed your mothers, I’ll be there April 2nd to 23rd.

The Michael Jackson Porn Collection

"You need to write in your blog," she said. "That's what you need to do." And it was those words, from an estranged, and indeed, strange friend over the Atlantic that tonight compels me write. I had called her in the post-Celebrity Big Brother buzz when, after watching such C-list luminaries as Channel 4 racing tipster, John McCririck and former Mrs Rocky, Brigitte Nielson, I felt a sudden need to exercise what was left of my A-grade personality before the Tube sucked away the remainder. Unfortunately, first choice recipient - and one of few friends my own age - was otherwise engaged - and so it is with you, lucky runner-up, that I share my thoughts this evening.

You, dear reader, round off my otherwise 'square of friends', into a perfect circle. My social life, you see, tends to coincide with university holidays when student types - all hair and no money - are back in town for their jollies. December therefore was a particularly busy month. Now, somewhere a fat lady has sung, the window of goodwill between Christmas and New Years has swung shut, and students are back to the all work/no play drudgery of University life. In their absence I prowl the Internet message boards, looking for the human connection suddenly withdrawn from my life.

I never find it. But I did return to a message board that I'd come across in researching an earlier post that quietly exudes a peaceful sense of community amongst its 1000+ members. They're all committed to their cause, passionate about their subject and abide by the simple rules of their community: never say "Wacko Jacko." They are the members of the Michael Jackson Discussion Board and eagerly debate (though admittedly only one side of) the King of Pop's upcoming trial. They've gathered an archive of 500+ and surprisingly balanced articles on the subject and it is a minor detail from a major document that I'd like to share with you.

The Smoking Gun, God knows how they do it, have got their hands on some sealed documents from the case against Michael Jackson. They have, of course, unsealed them and put them online. It turns out that hell-bent District Attorney, Tom Sneddon, so busy with actual cases against actual criminals, had no time to write a new document and instead copied and pasted entire paragraphs from a 1993 case against Jackson that, although settled out of court, is worth noting, two Grand Juries failed to indict.

However, what's new ten years later is the discovery of - shock horror - pornography under Jackson's bed. A couple of items don't count, in my estimation, as porn, though they appear on the police inventory as such. The first, the dubious sounding, "Chop Suey Club" is described in Sneddon's document as containing "photos of nude young boys." While it may sound to the uninitiated like some Asian rough trade volume, the book is actually by famed fashion photographer Bruce Weber and available on Amazon. (Check it out.)

The second, "Poo-Chi," detectives wrote, contained "photographs of female groin area." Officers, they only look like the female groin area! The volume is the, um, inventive work of Mayumi Lake, who photographs underarms and knees to create the illusion that you are looking at a woman's nether region. Very funny, Mr Jackson. Though we didn't expect you to have a sense of humour.

Funnier still and perhaps more unexpected is the actual porn discovered in Jackson's bedroom and the thought with which I'd like to leave you agiggling tonight. Amongst such mainstays as Swank, Club, and Couples was a Director's Cut DVD of the Hustler produced documentary, 'Pimp's Up, Ho's Down.'

And if you're surprised by Jackson's taste, consider the black fedora, the single white glove and the sequined socks and it all begins to make sense. Cha'mone!

Please Replace the Handset and Try Again

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

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

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

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

Curb Your Enthusiasm

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

Technical Problems

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

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

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

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

The San Sharma Show

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

Home Alone

Thrilling Me Softly

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Not to Wear

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

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

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

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