Bloc Party - Song For Clay (Disappear Here)
No two ways about it, I've never been keen on reading a book that has the words "Now a major motion picture!" on the cover, even less so ones that use photographs from said film. Given the choice between the original cover artwork or an actor's face, it's a simple decision. In the past, I've gone out of my way to NOT read books that have movie adaptations, especially if I've actually experienced the latter first. I have trouble getting over the feeling of being tainted, misled, full of pre-conceived notions of who the characters are, especially how they look and move and speak and laugh and kiss and fuck and allthatjazz.

Besides, I already know how the story is going to end. With that said, there's surely an argument from the "it's a journey, not a destination" camp. Literature, when well-written, could be savoured with each sentence. Notice the use of the word could. I am generally not that sort of reader. All I'm saying is that there are usually two main reasons for making the comment that life is too short. Both are valid.

I am trying to be heroic in an age of modernity.

Today I picked up an old copy of Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis from a charity shop for a mere 50 pence. Although I have thoroughly enjoyed his other books, I've always stopped myself from reading this one because I've seen the film a few times over the years. It was a big hit in the late 80's starring Robert Downey Jr. along with two other acting mainstays of the time, Jami Gertz and Andrew McCarthy. Guess who are sitting pretty on the cover of this book?

(C'mon... 50p! I never said it was a rule.)

So I enjoy and I devour flesh and wine and luxury, but in my heart I am so lukewarm. Nothing ever really touches me.

Let's put this in perspective: some disaffected young man is writing about a song by a disaffected young man that is based on a book by yet another disaffected young man. Actually, I'm the oldest of the group, and I don't fit the young tag anymore, unless it is used in some other relative sense. Kele from Bloc Party was probably about 26 when he penned this song, yet BEE was only 21 when his book was published, way back in 1985. Pretty impressive, and rather concerning, given the heavy, nihilistic tone of the novel.

From the moment I first heard this song, I wanted to give Kele a high five on nailing what I think he wanted to convey. Not only are the lyrics heavily influenced by Less Than Zero (Clay is the main character and "Disappear here" is a prevailing notion throughout the story that is first presented as an unintentionally-disturbing L.A. billboard slogan), but the song itself is influenced by the theme song for the film, a cover of Hazy Shade of Winter by The Bangles, which was originally released by Simon and Garfunkle 20 years earlier. You just can't go wrong with a good guitar riff over a rocktastic 1-2-3-4 snare-heavy beat.

At the Trois Garcons, we meet at precisely 9 o'clock. I order the foie gras and I eat it with complete disdain.

When I started reading the book earlier today, it was lunchtime, and I was sitting alone in KFC. I thought about what it must be like to live a life of unabashed luxury, yet to still find fault in the absence of gratitude brought about by the lack of any actual struggle worth noting, just like these pitiful and unpitiable characters.

I ate my greasy, delicious fried chicken with complete, and knowing, disdain.

20080712 ^up

It really is that simple...
01010101 01101110 01100010 01100101 01101100 01101001 01100101 01110110 01100001 01100010 01101100 01100101 00101100 00100000 01101001 01110011 01101110 00100111 01110100 00100000 01101001 01110100 00111111 00100000 00100000 01001111 01101110 01100101 01110011 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01110011 00101110 00100000 00100000 01010100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100001 01110011 00100000 01101100 01101111 01110111 00101101 01101100 01100101 01110110 01100101 01101100 00100000 01100001 01110011 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01100111 01100101 01110100 01110011 00101110 00001101 00001010 00001101 00001010 01001001 01110100 00101110 00100000 00100000 01001001 01010100 00101110 00100000 00100000 01001001 01101110 01100110 01101111 01110010 01101101 01100001 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01110100 01100101 01100011 01101000 01101110 01101111 01101100 01101111 01100111 01111001 00101110 00001101 00001010 00001101 00001010 01001011 01101110 01101111 01110111 00100000 01110100 01101000 01111001 01110011 01100101 01101100 01100110 00101110

20080708 ^up

Yo La Tengo - By The Time It Gets Dark
Today is the longest day of the year. It's the first day of summer, but you wouldn't know that here in Scotland. I actually can't remember the last time it was as cold and rainy as it is now. However, it's after 10 PM, and the sky is not yet dark.

Baby, every cloud has a silver lining. Baby, every dog really has its day. And it matters to me to see you smiling. Why don’t we blow all your cares away?

I have spent the day with my in-laws, which isn't such a bad thing. It was the Armadale Gala Day. There was a parade.

Yesterday’s gone and will be forgotten, and today is where every new day starts. Got to be free like the leaves in Autumn. You may be sad but it never lasts.

Maybe it's a fitting end to this day to be sitting here watching Interview With The Vampire, being reminded of far too many aspects of the human condition.

Fiction is rife with fact.

And maybe, by the evening we’ll be laughing. Just wait and see all the changes there’ll be by the time it gets dark.

Sunrise, sunset. It's easy to see how our ancestors associated the light of day with goodness and the dark of night with evil. When the sun went down, that marked the time in which to sleep. To be awake in the dark is to be an animal, worse than that, a beast, who is surely up to no good.

Photosynthesis. Vitamin D. To be a slave, to be a plant or a bug that yearns for the energy of the sun. We do it.

We could go out walking out in the sunshine. Look at all the people out in the street. Hurrying away to their business functions, waiting for a taxi for aching feet.

Due to the fact that our eyes can perceive the 'visible' spectrum of light, it is extremely difficult to even begin to understand any additional levels of perspective. Humanity is synonymous with perfection, to a fault. We continue to perpetuate this.

Light up your face, baby. Let’s get going. Wanna see a change in those weary eyes. We’ll have some fun. Take a boat out rowing. Why ever should life so serious?

As William Corgan so eloquently said in song, youth is wasted on the young. The key word is "appreciation". I don't think that I can give a definition of what it means to really appreciate anything, as this is undoubtedly a selfish act, in itself.

And maybe, by the evening we’ll be laughing. Just wait and see all the changes there’ll be, by the time it gets dark.

There's a lot to be said for Romantic notions.

20080621 ^up

Grandaddy - Everything Beautiful Is Far Away
He just finished eating dinner and stepped outside the cave to smoke a cigarette he'd made from rolled up photo paper. They were pictures of things back on Earth.

I seek out patterns.

It's surely a human characteristic, picking up on both the subtle and not-so-suble "truths" that surround us.

He looked out on the grey-ish white expanse of uninhabited terrain he now called home. He'd seen plenty of mirages and imaginary visitors up until then, so he wasn't sure what to think when he saw swans, and they were wading on the shores of a pale white lake that he'd never seen there before. And it was quite beautiful, and it was far away, 'cause everything beautiful is far away.

A while back, I went to go visit my mates at their flat during a recording session for The Red Well, a band of which they're both members. As I walked in, I could see that Barry had been drawing a picture of a strange-looking face, which I didn't quite understand at first. He then pointed to the bag of striped pasta on a shelf in the sitting room. I burst out laughing. I laughed until I cried, which is the best kind of laugh.

Can you see the face? Of course you do! Although we don't have a perfect human head on offer, there are definitely features that are visible, notable. The reason for this is because the human form is based on a general ratio that is found throughout nature, so much so that it is referred to as the Golden Ratio, roughly 1.61803...

It's time for a quick mathematics lesson on the Fibonacci Sequence: 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55... As you can see, the sum of the two preceding numbers in the sequence are used to produce the next number. As the numbers continue to grow on towards infinity, the ratio between the numbers comes closer and closer to the Golden Ratio.

Look at your pointer finger. There are three sections, separated by joints. If you were to measure the length of the top bit, then multiply by the ratio, you'd get the length of the middle bit. Multiply the middle bit by the ratio, and you'll get the length of the bottom bit. It's true.

The human face is also positioned sympathetically towards this ratio. It's the reason why we see "faces" in random shapes and images. The distance between the eyes, nose, mouth. All of it. I see faces in clouds, in slabs of marble, in dirt. Further to this, I search through faces for faces. I would say that I stare at the face of almost every person I walk past on the street, looking for patterns, familiarity. I have done this since birth.

He knew he was as good as gone, but gone was somewhere he really didn't mind going to. Since the shuttle had crashed, many years had passed, and the pictures of his loved ones that he drew on the walls of the cave had finally faded. He put out his smoke and proceeded toward the lake, repeating to himself, "Everything beautiful is far away."

I seek out patterns. Patterns that make sense.

20080611 ^up

Cyndi Lauper - The Goonies 'R' Good Enough
Heeeey! Yoooou! Guuuuys!

Here we are, hanging onto strains of greed and blues. Break the chain, then we break down. Oh it's not real if you don't feel it. Unspoken expectations, ideals you used to play with; they've finally taken shape for us.

More often than not, I just don't know the right words, especially when something, anything, needs to be said.

There's a memorable scene towards the end of the film where Andi is attempting to play an organ made of bones, in order to help the gang escape from the Fratelli family. Each time she messes up the notes, the ground crumbles beneath them.

Mikey turns to her and says, wholeheartedly and without a hint of sarcasm, "I believe in you. Goonies always make mistakes. Just don't make any more." He is the voice of reason, the voice of optimism and hope. Even though he doesn't realise it at the time, he's the leader of the gang and everyone else knows it.

What's good enough for you is good enough for me. It's good enough. It's good enough for me. Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!

This song was the first single I ever bought, on 45 RPM vinyl, from a supermarket (Food Town, later to be known as Food Lion, yes, you heard me right, Food Lion), in Gastonia, North Carolina. A couple of weeks later, I bought the Prince single for "Purple Rain", with the b-side of "When Doves Cry". I remember playing both of these on my portable Mickey Mouse record player, where Mickey's arm was the stylus. I was 8 years old.

Old fashioned superstitions I find too hard to break.

Yes, I can be rather anal, and I am fully aware of the fact that the video for this song points out a discrepancy in the film. When the Goonies meet up with their families at the end, there is a comment from Data about how they had to deal with an octopus. As this scene was actually deleted from the film, it makes absolutely no sense. Whoever was in charge of continuity should be ashamed.

What's good enough for you is good enough for me. It's good enough. It's good enough for me.

I'm a Goonie, you're a Goonie. We know this, and we fully appreciate it. That's just how we roll.

As we already know, Goonies always make mistakes.

20080528 ^up

Beirut - A Sunday Smile
There's something to be said for minimalism.

Short. Punchy. To the point.

All I want is the best for our lives, my dear.

I have a favourite quote from Friedrich Nietzsche, one of the few people who have ever lived that I'd like to meet. Posthumously, of course, yet not in the zombie sense.

"My ambition is to say in ten sentences what everyone says in a book - what everyone does not say in a book."

And you know my wishes are sincere.

I love this song.

20080520 ^up

Built To Spill - Now And Then
Within the last year, I've noticed that an increasing number of Victorian tennement properties for sale in Glasgow have included close-up photos of cornicing in their schedules. I'm guessing that this is to highlight an additional period feature that hasn't been lost through the brutality of time and ever-changing fads. Out with the old, in with the new, right?

Maybe I tend to over-romanticise the past, forgetting that things do generally change for a good reason. For instance, the introduction of central heating removed the need for fireplaces in every room, no matter how beautiful or ornate they happened to be. Functionality usually overtakes sentimentality, and it doesn't apologise. Decisions are made with the best of intentions, and they are always made in the present.

I can just imagine some lady back in the 80's telling her husband, "Honey, just imagine how much more space this bedroom room would have without that useless fireplace in the middle of the wall! If we got rid of it, the bed would fit nicely there, along with a new chest of drawers."

There is always some good reason, at the time.

Now and then, sometimes when you're thinking about when you were always drinking and how friend, ships came in one evening. You loudly pretend connecting had some meaning, but now you don't, 'cause you can't recall why you were possessed to say something like, "Come along with me and find a new direction."

I am a creature of habit, like most. Back when I bought this place last year, I had every intention of turning it somewhat into the flat I had back in Edinburgh a few years ago, right down to the paint colour I'd use in the sitting room, Deep Adam Green. Same furniture, same white trim on the woodwork, even the same type of ivy in a pot on the bookshelf. On the surface, things appear to be very similar, although there are innumerable differences. Personal preferences. Decisions made, as they always are, in the present. If we do look to the past for inspiration, a sense of familiarity, or just because it's easier, that is more than allowed.

There's no telling how long ago the fireplace was removed from the sitting room in this flat. I thought about putting one back in, but if I'm not going to use the fire, why do I want a wall-killer that's nothing more than a ornament without a proper function?

And now you don't, 'cause you can't.

20080519 ^up

Frightened Rabbit - Head Rolls Off
Jesus is just a Spanish boy's name. How come one man got so much fame? And to any me, it's pointless to anybody that doesn't have faith.

I am a simple man. With rather basic wants and needs. Although music surely fits comfortably somewhere between the two, I can't help but recognise the profound effect that it often has on my life. When I hear a good song with even better lyrics, it seeps into my brain and subconsciously triggers the chemical reactions that control any number of electrical impulses. Call them responses, thoughts, feelings, what have you. I'm just a conduit. Information needs to be processed.

It wants to be processed.

When it's all gone, something carries on. And it's not morbid at all, it's just when nature's had enough of you. When my blood stops, someone else's will have not. When my head rolls off, someone else's will turn. And while I'm alive, I'll make tiny changes to Earth.

As mentioned in previous articles, I am quite partial to songs of the "happysad" variety, for surely obvious reasons. Happy is fine. Sad is fine. However, when you mix things up, when you can experience both poles in equal measure, it's not a zero-sum game. You actually jump up a level. Mathematically speaking, in this case, 1 plus -1 isn't nothing, it's 10.

No... it's more like adding 1 and -1 and realising that you're actually carrying out a mathematical operation. You see the bigger picture.

I guess I mean that an understanding of perspective is gained, and you're able to transcend to the point that you can see a "set" rather than merely items (apple, orange, donkey, etc.) in that set. To recognise this set is to fundamentally change the way in which you view said items.

Georg Cantor, the father of set theory, presented interesting ideas over a hundred years ago on the concept of infinity and on numbers in general, which are well worth a read. One of the notions that he extrapolated from this is the set of all sets, the logical representation of what some would define as "God".

So you can burn me because we'll all be the same; the same way. Dirt in someone's eye that's cried down the drain.

What is this container, this super-set? Is it an entity in its own right, or is it merely a collective of the constituents? We're venturing dangerously into Michel Foucault territory surrounding what is referred to as "gaze", albeit for good reason.

I believe in a house in the clouds, and God's got His dead friends 'round. He's painted all the walls in red to remind them they're all dead. And you know, and it's all gone, something carries on, and it's not morbid at all, it's just when nature's had enough of you. When my blood stops, someone else's will have not. When my head rolls off, someone else's will turn.

Maybe Dolly Parton's character in Steel Magnolias was on to something when she claimed that "laughter through tears is my favorite emotion". What perspective she must have!

You can mark my words, I'll make changes to Earth. While I'm alive, I'll make tiny changes to Earth.

This little ditty, made by some guys in Glasgow that I would like to consider friends (or contemporaries in the least), makes me think about a helluva lot of stuff, some of which you've read above. For that, I cannot thank them enough. Besides, it's probably the finest song that John Cougar Mellencamp never wrote.

Earth continues to be changed, for the best, and you damn well know it.

20080501 ^up

Menomena - The Pelican
I speak to my dad about twice a year, at most, but that doesn't mean that I don't think about him. We just don't talk on the phone very often. It's a guy thing. Years ago, I used to phone him quite regularly, and the conversation usually went along the following lines:

"So, Dad, how's it going?" To which he would reply, as he always did, "Same shit, another day." By the end of the phone call, I was generally depressed and despondent, going from excited speech into a monotonous drone. Such was the influence of my father.

Take it when I'm not looking! Take it from my hook while it's still kicking! Don't you feel it when I start reeling? I guess some things never change, and I still hold the reins on what you're feeling.

Over time, I simply learned to not even bother with a connection. My dad is a bit of an "out of sight, out of mind" kind of dude, which is something I've learned oh too well and can fully appreciate. It doesn't mean that neither of us don't give a shit. Life is just more relevant when you're face-to-face with someone. Eveything else is simply fantasy. Undetermined.

Of course I know that a person is living and breathing when I'm not there, but it's the whole Schrödinger's Cat type of scenario. This experiment requires an observer to be truly valid. Indeterminacy says that there can be more than one correct answer to a problem which physically can only have one answer.

I've just been sitting here watching that Mel Gibson film, Signs. Several years ago, Mel was in my neck of the woods filming The Patriot, in Historic Brattonsville. I have worked there before, as an actor pretending to be the son of a wealthy land-owner during the late 18th century. Yes, I have worn period garb. And I like it.

Anyway, Mel was driving around on his Harley-Davidson motorcycle, when he happened to come across Henry's Knob, a big hill across the road from where I grew up. He pulled up at my Dad's automotive garage and was interested about the hill. Who owned it? Could he go up on it? My dad recognised him as "Mad Max" and asked if he wanted to hang out at our house to get away from it all. We have a pool, you know.

Did my dad see Mel as William Wallace? Did he see a Scottish connection (me) as a topic of conversation? No and No. That's cool. My dad was always a big fan of Mad Max, so I can't hold that against him. I personally prefer the Beyond Thunderdome version of Mr. Max, but that was the biggest budget of the series and had the Tina Turner connection. We don't need another hero. It's true.

The Stewart crest shows a pelican piercing its own flesh in order to feed its children with blood.

Virescit vulnere virtus!

Courage grows strong at the wound!

We're far too literal these days. It's a shame, and this says quite a bit about our pathetic way of viewing the world around us. What's wrong with dishing out a huge helping of allegory? Let's get Biblical, goddammit.

Take it when I'm enjoying! Take it from my mouth while I'm still chewing! Don't you feel it when I start pulling back? I guess some birds never learn. One day these tides will turn and leave you nothing!

Prodigal. Minimal. I know my surname, and I know what that implies.

20080212 ^up

Sufjan Stevens - Star Of Wonder
There is generally some form of valid reasoning behind most things that we know and take for granted. January, for instance, is named after Janus, a Roman god with two faces conveniently positioned in opposite directions. Past and future. End and beginning. Heads and... heads.

As I closed 2007 with a festive ditty by Sufjan Stevens, it's only fitting to flip the same coin and use another one for the start of 2008, especially as this happened to be the song from the compilation that I wanted to write about all along. It sounds truly beautiful, even magical. Last week, as the snow was falling in Edinburgh, this was the perfect soundtrack, from the very first note.

I call you from the comet's cradle. I found you trembling by yourself. When the night falls, lightly on your right winged shoulder, slightly when the night gets colder.

Back when I was about eight years old, I sat down with an encyclopedia and wrote a report about black holes. This wasn't a school assignment. It was just something I felt compelled to do at the time. Even then, I knew enough about the universe to consider how important this concept was in the grand scheme of things. Truth be told, they even sound bad ass.

Oh conscience, where will you carry me?

When finished, I folded the sheet of wide-ruled notebook paper and put it in the middle of our massive family Bible, complete with golden-edged pages and interspersed full-colour images of the whole holy gang. This was the most important filing cabinet in our home. About a year and a half ago, I remembered the paper and asked my mom to send me a photocopy, for reference. She obliged.

We see the star of wonder. Wonderful night falls. We see you, we see you there.

The most interesting thing about a black hole is that it isn't a void. It isn't nothing. On the contrary, scientists are led to believe that these phenomena occur when a star collapses upon itself, creating a central point that's referred to as a singularity, where unimaginable mass is compacted into the smallest possible volume. With mass comes gravity, and with such intense gravitation, there reaches a stage where even light cannot escape. For all intents and purposes, it's invisible, at least beyond our rather primitive sense of sight.

I see the stars coming down there, coming down there to the yard. I see the stars coming down there, coming down there to my heart.

It goes without saying that resolutions are usually rather pointless, so I'll refrain from commenting about any here.

Besides, I've already made my point.

20080108 ^up

Sufjan Stevens - Get Behind Me, Santa!
Joy to the world, the Lord is come! Figuratively and literally. Don't worry ladies, he gets to be an egg at Easter. And a bunny rabbit, which pretty much symbolises sex in my book. And raised from the dead. No, not as a bunny rabbit. Speaking of which, what is the etymology of "bunny rabbit" when one word or the other would surely suffice? All I know is that a bunny is likely to be cuter, but that's based purely on personal opinion.

Yes, it's that special time of year once again when we like to celebrate the strange mix of Pagan, Christian and, above all, Capitalistic ideology. Am I excited? Yes. And very much no.

The Christmas Curmudgeon: "I know what you're doing to me, boy! You move so fast like a psychopathic color TV, with your Christmas bag and your jolly face and the reindeer stomping all over the place!"

Santa Claus and his busy-body elves: "Take it easy what you gotta be so absurd! You make it sound like Christmas is a 4-letter word. It's a fact of life whether you like it or not, so put your hands together and give it a shot!"

I've already received a present from myself, in the form of Sufjan Steven's box set of Christmas songs. For those of you who don't know, he has been recording covers of "familiar classics" as well as some of his own festive creations for the last several years, and now we are blessed with the full collection in one handy package.

Let me break it down for you: It's Sufjan. Doing Christmas songs. In the Sufjan style. Fantastic.

Something tells me that I will be listening to this long after the season has ended, as well as making it the de facto holiday music in my household for many, many years to come. (Sorry, Neil Diamond. Your collection is great as well, but I secretly take the piss out of you. It's best that you found out now. I've grown up, and I just don't feel comfortable with having too much kitsch in my life anymore. It's not you, it's me. We can still have fun from time to time, but that's all it'll be, just a bit of fun.)

The Christmas Curmudgeon: "I don't care about family and shopping malls, candy canes or the carolers decking the halls. I don't care what you say, Santa Claus. You're a bad brother breakin' into people's garages!"

Santa Claus and his busy-body elves: "You got it wrong 'cause I'm just another regular guy with superpowers and a penchant for the yule tide. Is it a crime to give a little once in a while? I travel 'round the world tryin' to make people smile!"

Granted, I am not really into celebrating Christmas these days, but it doesn't mean that I'm against it. Oh no. The holiday definitely has its place, and it usually does more good than harm for most people. Have you ever considered how shitty winter would be without a distraction?

Christmas time! Christmas time! Christmas time! We're having a good time!

Having a "good time" usually means getting drunk in a social setting, at least it definitely seems to be the case these days. I've heard so many people admit that they can't wait until January so that they don't feel compelled to drink themselves to death anymore. Merry Christmas, indeed. Sure, it's fun, but in the aforementioned Neil Diamond sense.

Christmas time! Christmas time! Christmas time! We're having a good time!

The photograph you see here is one of my favourites. It was taken in The Dome, in Edinburgh... as I was standing at the bar.

20071222 ^up

Modest Mouse - Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset
Although I didn't think it was humanly possible, I have been without a home interweb connection for almost two months. A life spent online is a life not truly lived, to be honest, but it's incredibly nice to have a steady stream of sweet, sweet high-grade data being pumped straight into the main vein of my new residence. It helps to occupy the time during these cold nights of late, although I have done a good job of using television as a short-term replacement.

I claim I'm not excited with my life any more, so I blame this town, this job, these friends. The truth is it's myself.

Distraction has been my preferred vice recently, where I have been opting for anything that keeps me from doing the things that I need to get on with, such as renovating my flat or moving forward with Operation: XLONZ, not to mention all of the other crazy projects that I come up with each day. Maybe I'm waiting for the new year. Maybe I'm a lazy bastard. Maybe I'm just biding my time.

By the way, what else does one "bide"? Does that verb work with anything else? I will need to bide about that and get back to you.

I'm trying to understand myself and pinpoint where I am. When I finally get it figured out, I've change the whole damn plan.

When Alexis and I were still living in Aberdeen, probably 9 years ago, we sat down one night and made a list of where we wanted to be in one year, as well as five years into the future. My items were either music or work-related, and I eventually accomplished all of them, as my plans weren't too far-fetched, at least in my personal sense of what was achievable. Kinda sad, really, even though I should probably feel proud or something. Nope, doesn't work.

What about now? Well, I have one major project that I fantasize about every single day, but it has yet to come to fruition, due to all of the biding that I've been up to. Whilst I bide, I think. And think. And think. And think. And think. And think. And think. And think. And think. And think.

I've changed my mind so much I can't even trust it. My mind changed me so much I can't even trust myself.

Think.Plan.Think.Plan.Think.

20071204 ^up

Khaya - Death 2 Numbers
Let's get something straight, right now. Khaya are the most important band to have ever come out of Edinburgh, which says a lot because they dis-banded a few years ago. Although it's impossible to remember how the subject came up, I actually had a discussion about this on Friday night in the pub, and two of my music scenester friends pretty much told me that I was talking absolute bollocks. No matter. This band had great songs, great albums, as well as a certain air of bitter/hopeful self-acknowledgement and self-destruction that made them relevant and believable. To me, relevance is key.

I wish I were FIRE!

The song Death 2 Numbers is the stand-out track on the last EP they released, mainly because it's both noisily manic and infectiously poppy, with merely a handful of lyrics that say so much with so little. Fucking bravo, Mr Dan Mutch. No one has done it better since Black Francis.

Just because there's no second verse doesn't mean it's not a song, Anna!

Now, let's talk about numbers, which are still very much alive.

The last week or so has seen me becoming obsessed with yet another new mathematical concept I came up with that will surely be forgotten about tomorrow, when I conclude that it doesn't really matter to anyone else, in the grand scheme of things. Do you care about explosive root precision ratios? I thought not. However, it's basically something that could be used as a basis for general information storage methods, whether it be computer file sizes or DNA, but I don't feel the need to find a practical use. I search for beauty in simplicity, through numerical form. That shit gets me hot. I can't help it.

Something odd happened to me this weekend. The views of a person, writing something very similar to my own thoughts on the nature of the universe, made me question how I really felt, deep down, in my heart. The latest issue of New Scientist (Vol 195, No 2621) has a cover story written by MIT physicist Max Tegmark about the reality of numbers. He basically argues that our philisophical notions, from a purely human standpoint, based on what we can observe and rationalise, obstruct our understanding of the universe around us. As the followers of Pythagorean ideas already knew 1500 years ago, everything is number (although we have no reason to fear the irrationals, such as the square root of 2, which drove those fuckers crazy).

It's likely that Tegmark's "mathematical universe hypothesis" didn't sit well with me because it was so fucking obvious and didn't deliver the goods. OF COURSE he's right, but he's not telling us anything that is of any relevance, other than some generalistic, over-arching notion. As you already know, relevance is key.

Just because I was wondering doesn't mean I didn't know in my heart.

Even if Khaya wanted to wish death upon numbers, I'm not holding it against them. They matter to me, and numbers matter to me, and if I'm lucky in this life, what matters to me is relevant to others and will have an impact on the future of humanity.

I just wish everyone had the same delusions of grandeur. Maybe I also wish that I were fire, to light a flame under the asses of others.

20070918 ^up

The Apples In Stereo - Sunndal Song
Today, I have decided to take the Sorry Bus. As you can see from the photo, its destination is "Sorry". The last time I came across this magic vehicle, about 9 months ago, it was driving down Queen Street in Glasgow, but I was too slow to capture it with the camera on my trusty mobile phone. I've thought about its importance continuously ever since. Today, however, the bus appeared just when I needed it.

I've been a bit of dick to a lot of people over the last month or so. My head has been stuck too far up my own arse to be any use to anyone. Thank the Good Lord (TM) that I started back to work today because it put me in a much better mood than I had been previously. This could be down to the introduction of structure in my daily life, or maybe it's due to the need to interact with other human beings rather than sit alone and curse myself for being such a pathetic bastard. So it goes. I'll take whatever works.

Anyway, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. As much as I hate saying that, being that these are generally the words of a person who says just enough to get by, just enough to smooth things over until the next time he needs to utter the hollow, useless whispers of nothings for yet another reason. Apologies shouldn't be necessary, as far as I'm concerned. How we live our lives and how we treat others should guarantee that, from the onset.

And so when you're down, I'll lift you up, I'll be the one who's always sure of where you are and all the things you need to know.

So, what song are they playing on the Sorry Bus, you may ask? Well, this one, of course. It acts as a reminder of the importance of the people you care about, as well as those who give a damn about you.

This song is so fucking happy that it makes me want to burst right here and now into a million tons of multi-coloured confetti to cover the entire planet (in an eco-friendly way, of course).

And when you're tired and think the moon forgot to shine on you, you'll see. Just wait for me to show you.

Just wait for me to show you! I promise that it won't take too long.

20070903 ^up

Pictures From America: Part II
Planes smell a lot like hospitals. I guess it's fitting because the combination covers bringing one into the world, taking one around the world and finally taking one out of the world. One is very busy, it seems. Whenever people are in either, we tend to have a lot of time in which to think. Let's just say that I've been in hospitals and on planes a lot over the last two months.

My sister recently gave birth to a beautiful baby boy named Grayson. You see, her middle name is Gray, and had the baby been a girl, she would have been Gracie. It's basically an old school Scandinavian naming convention, and I like it. There is now another human being on the planet, and at this moment his capabilities are endless. I'll do my best to help him with whatever he wants to do with his life, although I hope that he blossoms into a someone above and beyond what I could ever imagine.

The story of Adam and Eve has been playing heavily on my mind over the last week. Taking it from a completely metaphorical standpoint, we are all born into the Garden of Eden, and we are perfect. Beautiful. Ideal. And then we start to become truly human. And we cast ourselves from Eden. The Fruit from the Tree of Knowledge is just that. Once we understand the concept of dichotomy, to separate good and bad, right and wrong, the binary notion that is the root of all logic, we are lost. From that point onwards, there will always be a fork in the road. There will always be choices to be made. To err is human. And we do a damn good job.

Today is a Bank Holiday in England, which means that the London Stock Exchange is closed, and I can't get my fix for the day. Addiction takes on many forms, and it is closely linked to obsession. I know quite a bit about both. Right now I'm reading A Million Little Pieces by James Frey, which is a memoir about the author's experience in rehab for severe drug and alcohol addiction when he was only 23. Severe isn't even the right word. Although I should probably have taken more from his experiences, I'm sitting here with my third gin and lemonade of the day, and it's only 2:00 in the Post Meridian. It's funny what boredom will do to a person, especially when on holiday. My life is a square, and I do like to round the edges from time to time.

I considered phoning some of my friends who work down the street to see if they wanted to meet for lunch, but my current frame of mind is definitely anti-social. No, let me rephrase that. I would like to be around people, but I'm not interested in small talk. I would love to sit in a room with people and discuss important issues, things that matter in the world. I want to have an "outcome", so that we knew that none of us were wasting our time. I've always said that my ideal job would be to work for a think tank organisation, where people simply sat around and used their brains to come up with fantastic ideas that changed the planet. To me, that's what we are here to do, although the "doing" is probably more important than "thinking". I just get bored rather easily. It's the curse of this generation, and this will only get worse over time. However, it doesn't mean that we can't take advantage of our never-before-seen skills in multi-tasking.

A new era is coming, and I have an idea of how we can harness this vast power of our collective mindset.

In the future, our Ciriculum Vitae will not only contain information about our work experience but also all of the amazing ideas that we have generated and contributed towards. We will be judged by our peers on what we are capable of thinking/doing, and intelligence will reign supreme. Social networks will no longer be about sharing stupid photos and bullshit about how fucked up we were last Friday night. No matter what your socio-economic background, you will be able to compete with the world. There will be no differentiation in terms of class, ethnicity, gender or age.

It all depends on what you are willing to give. And what you are willing to think.

My advice is to get ready for the inevitable.

20070827 ^up

Pictures From America: Part I
Punk Planet is dead, and I am just one of the thousands of people who led to its demise. I remember buying the first issue, back in 1994, thrilled at the idea that the best writers from seminal punk magazine Maximum Rocknroll had decided to start their own publication that focused more on the bands and ideas that I found most interesting, rather than the usual bullshit that MRR would put out without thinking twice. Over the years, I picked up Punk Planet on a regular basis, either online or whenever I was in the US on holiday, reading it from cover to cover. I had some faith in this publication, as well as its readers, believing it to be the culmination of the homegrown, photocopied 'zine culture that reached its peak in the '90s, prior to the internet explosion. The pages were always newsprint, not glossy, which surely added to the implicit street cred and relevance.

So, what happened? Although I can't speak for everyone, I think this is a fine example of how my generation has simply grown up and become more interested in career progression, investment strategies, providing for children and all the things we never expected to care about... although the inevitability of it all was surely always there. We are no longer "down with the kids", and to be perfectly honest, we're cool with that. It happened to Hippies, and it's happened to Generation X'ers. As much as we hate to admit it, our idealistic notions wane through time and experience, and we become watered-down versions of our parents before us. Things that seemed so important when we were younger simply don't even register anymore. Even as I write this, I feel as though I'm older and wiser in regards to everything that I want and need to care about. As much as I hate to admit it, Punk Planet was part of my past before it even decided to stop publication.

There seems to be no real counter-culture today, and I seriously doubt that there ever was or ever will be again. At our heart, we are all consumers and practitioners of capitalism. Just flip through this last issue of PP and see it for yourself. If you don't have a copy handy, let me just say that it is full of advertisements, just like any other magazine. Buy this. Order this. Listen to this. Love this. It's always been there, but I felt happier giving my money to small businesses run by people like me rather than big corporations. These bands and these record labels never seemed to want to be famous, not in the general sense. To do so would be credibility suicide. I believe that this is no longer the case.

Let me tell you about what I saw/heard on US television in the last month. The first thing to blow my mind was an advertisement for the Australian-themed Outback Steakhouse that changed the surreal lyrics of "Wraith Pinned to a Mist and Other Games" by of Montreal and made it a song about eating meat and forgetting about everything else. I froze and thought I was in a bad dream.

Furthermore, Mates of State are shown as a live band on stage in a commercial for the largest telecommunications company in the world, AT&T. Of course the advert doesn't say who they are, but "people in the know" are familiar with the married duo and the ultra-catchy song "For the Actor" from their latest album. You should have seen my jaw drop in disbelief.

Wait, there's more. A segment from "The Bleeding Heart Show" by The New Pornographers is used as background music for an advert for the online University of Phoenix. Further to that, The Apples in Stereo have "Go", one of their older songs, used in a commericial for major American retailer Target.

I don't blame these bands for wanting to make some money. They've all paid their dues, above and beyond the hipster call of duty. What I think more about are the marketing men and women who love these bands and fought like hell to convince their superiors to use them in the commercials, knowing full well that there are numerous people out there, just like me, who will be literally blown away by having these songs played in between episodes of mind-numbing fluff and the latest CSI location.

Talk about adding gravitas to a sales pitch. I know it worked for me.

All I can say is that when I bought the last issue of Punk Planet, it was along with books about economics and a magazine called Fast Company with Al Gore on the cover. I've read more of the latter than I have of the former.

So... this is what I've become.

20070816 ^up

Ash - Halloween
Truth be told, I have a great life, and I feel so incredibly lucky to be able to say that. It might come across that I could be writing this to convince myself, but that isn't the case, at least this time. There are so many people out there that I want to thank for being in my life, some of which I may never take the opportunity to fully convey how I feel about them. I should, I know. Before it's too late.

To say that I'm blessed is an understatement, without a doubt. Just the last week or so has brought this to the forefront of my mind, for various reasons. I'm currently on holiday for the next two months, and it's fantastic to be able to take a step back and enjoy life for a while. On Tuesday, I'm heading home for five weeks to be there when my one and only sister gives birth to her first child. I'll be an uncle. Will I become broody? Probably. Kids are cool. If nothing else, they would be an interesting sociological/psychological experiment. A project. The best project I could ever undertake.

We all have so much to give, to friends, to family, to the next generation. As much as it's easier to look out for number one, living by the golden rule is far superior. Then again, it's not necessarily about reciprocation. It's not tit for tat. My mom always reminds me to go out in the world and smile, and I'm never quite sure if it's because she wants me to portray some semblance of personal happiness or because she knows that a smile is a powerful device in a generally sad, jaded world. Either way, it's good advice.

So when I got home I went to see Mum and Dad. They asked was I OK, was I happy enough, and I smiled and said that I was.

I'd like to think that I'll fall asleep with a big smile on my face tonight, possibly singing this song over and over in my head. I know it's not the right time of year, but for ages this little-known b-side from Ash has always given me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

When I reached the house there was a party on inside. My friend came to the door, took my bags from my hand and welcomed me in from the night. As I was walking through the happy house on Halloween night, my friends were all there, my heart was glad and my life felt actually alright.

Thanks, everybody. :)

20070708 ^up

The Postal Service - Brand New Colony
Hello! My name is Dane. You think you know me, but you don't. It happens.

I'll be the grapes fermented, bottled and served with the table set in my finest suit, like a perfect gentleman. I'll be the fire escape that's bolted to the ancient brick, where you will sit and contemplate your day.

I'd be lying if I said that I didn't have a soundtrack to my life. Some songs are relevent to the time in which certain events occurred. Others are incidental music to chapters yet to be written, although the outline and the inclination are there. Hell, this entire site is a good example of what I'm talking about.

I'll be the waterwings that save you if you start drowning in an open tab when your judgement's on the brink. I'll be the phonograph that plays your favorite albums back as you're lying there drifting off to sleep.

However, there are special songs that get put on the shelf, ready to be used as and when, and this is one of them. Everyone who knows me, from a musical standpoint, is fully aware of the praise I bestow upon the debut (and so far the only) album by The Postal Service. I would be willing to put it in the top 5 of the decade. Maybe the top 3. Yeah, it's that good.

I'll be the platform shoes and undo what heredity's done to you. You won't have to strain to look into my eyes. I'll be your winter coat buttoned and zipped straight to the throat, with the collar up so you won't catch a cold.

When I saw Ben Folds play in Glasgow earlier this year, he did a cover of Such Great Heights, and I thought I was going to have a coronary right then and there. It was a lethal combination of too many good things hitting me all at once. You can see a live Australian session version of it here.

But, there's something that you should know.

I want to take you far from the cynics in this town and kiss you on the mouth.

This is the song I associate with a certain someone, who I will refrain from naming and shaming here. It's easier that way.

We'll cut out bodies free from the tethers of this scene, start a brand new colony, where everything will change. We'll give ourselves new names. Identities erased.

I've got nothing to lose, but sometimes, others feel as though they do. It's not my job to do the convincing. It either is or it isn't. That's life.

Everything will change. Everything will change.

Or not, as the case may be... but wishful thinking never hurt anyone.

20070625 ^up

The Avett Bros. - November Blue
Sometimes, people can truly surprise you. Their actions may restore your faith in humanity. Or make you completely question the human condition in general.

If I weren't leaving, would I catch you dreaming? And if I weren't gonna be gone now, could I take you home? And if I told you I loved you, would it change what you see? And if I was staying, would you stay with me?

Years ago, I claimed in lyrics to a song that I'm so objective and so far removed, it's like a story, in a book, on a shelf. I stand by that notion to this day. Blasé? Moi?

Back in the 90's The Coca-Cola Company tried out a new soft drink called "OK", which was marketed towards the new "slacker generation", and it failed miserably. The only reason I know about it at all is because I was on a school trip to the corporate headquarters in Atlanta, and all of the OK merchandise was being sold a rock bottom prices in the gift shop. I bought a shirt, which I wore twice a week for about 3 years, partly as an ironic gesture, but also as an excuse for me to start up conversations with people about the failed product. I was probably the best sales team member they ever had, albeit a bit too late. Even now, I wish I would have also bought the beach towel.

I don't know why I have to, but this man must move on. I loved my time here, didn't know 'til I was gone.

Sometimes our memories are like photographs, but you're never quite sure when they'll actually come into focus. Sometimes photographs are our memories, acting as triggers to help consolidate information into bite-sized units of understanding.

It's true, a picture says a thousand words. Usually a lot more. The one thing this photo doesn't tell you is that I didn't wash the back of my right hand for several days. I simply couldn't.

When you least expect it, people appear in your life and, if you're really lucky, change it for the better.

November spells sweet memory.

Remember: I'm OK, you're OK.

The season blue remains.

And that's OK, too.

20070528 ^up

Iron & Wine - The Trapeze Swinger
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been over a month since my last confessional.

Please remember me, happily, by the rosebush laughing with bruises on my chin. The time when we counted every black car passing your house beneath the hill and up until someone caught us in the kitchen with maps, a mountain range, a piggy bank, a vision too removed to mention.

The photo here was taken whilst I was sitting on the toilet in The Butterfly & The Pig on Bath Street in Glasgow last Sunday. I was appreciative of the obfuscative reflection in which I was portrayed, so I felt compelled to take a photograph with my mobile phone. It's rather humourous that digital cameras need to give us a digitised version of the old-style "click" sound we were used to not so long ago. It's as if we require clarification that the deed has been done. Of course we do.

Please remember me, fondly. I heard from someone you're still pretty, and then they went on to say that the pearly gates had some eloquent graffiti like 'We'll meet again' and 'Fuck the man' and 'Tell my mother not to worry'.

Today is Mother's Day in America, and once again I forgot, due to the fact that the same holiday falls in March here in the UK. What a bitch. No, not my mom, but the situation itself. My mother, like most moms, likes to worry about me. It's part of the job. As much as I get tired of telling her not to give me a second thought, it's quite nice to have someone care about you, even when you don't want them to.

And angels with their gray handshakes were always done in such a hurry.

My mom believes in angels. 100%. She tells me all the time about how much she prays for me and for angels to surround and protect me. Rather than just accept this and move on in the conversation, I generally start in a tirade against Christianity, waving the banner of logic and reason, stating that if it makes her feel better, then that's all that matters. I could easily just keep my mouth shut, but I don't. The more I wriggle, the more she worries.

Please remember me, my misery, and how it lost me all I wanted. Those dogs that love the rain and chasing trains, the colored birds above there running in circles round the well, and where it spells on the wall behind St. Peter's so bright on cinder gray and spray paint 'Who the hell can see forever?'

I'm stuck in a rut. The future is wide open, and I can't see a damn thing. There are too many choices, too many directions. Is this the fate of humanity? Will we become too stifled in our knowledge of the things we are aware of and can't do anything about? Are we bereft of yearning? I am depressed by my own apathy, in a world where everything is possible.

Please remember me, finally, and all my uphill clawing. My dear, but if I make the pearly gates, do my best to make a drawing of God and Lucifer, a boy and girl, an angel kissin' on a sinner, a monkey and a man, a marching band. All around the frightened trapeze swingers.

What does an artist do when there are too many colours (and tastes) on his palate to provide an adequate representation of the world?

Answers on a postcard... for me to ignore, as always.

20070513 ^up

Sufjan Stevens - Chicago / The Transfiguration
I often find that being awake feels the same as dreaming, and the line is getting blurrier every day. (Side note: I think twice before I enhance an adjective. Does it sound better to say "more blurry"? These are the types of things I worry about, but I tend to go with the -er word, as it generally sounds more funny... or funnier.)

At the end of the day, our minds are simply processing information, so I guess there's no real difference. New stimulus is good, and doing your thang in the outside world is pretty damn cool as well, but the brain can make up some rather interesting storylines and encapsulated terrariums to roam around in. Right now, I'm 50/50 with regards to my preferred state of existence.

We had our mindset. All things know. All things know. You had to find it. All things go. All things go.

J. D. Salinger may be most famous for the seminal coming-of-age novel A Catcher In The Rye, but he also wrote something just as good, if not better, Franny and Zooey. It's split into two sections, two stories, but it's the first that I find relevant to this discussion. Read it sometime. You won't be disappointed.

You came to take us. All things go. All things go. To recreate us. All things grow. All things grow.

Basically, we are all constantly searching. For something to grasp on to. For something to explain us. And equally exist beyond us. The young woman in the story, just like me or you, is no different. Clever, educated, knowledgeable, well-read, inquisitive... and due to all of these positive qualities, rather susceptible.

Read a book. Read a book. Read a book. Read a book. Take it in. Take it in. Take it in. Take it in. Repeat the mantra. Repeat the mantra. Repeat the mantra. Repeat the mantra.

I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes.

Sufjan Stevens has a penchant for using the same familiar melody over and over, and this song is no exception. There is a hint of spirituality in the lyrics here and considerably moreso in The Transfiguration, the closing track from a previous album.

Lost in the cloud, a voice. Have no fear! We draw near! Lost in the cloud, a sign. Son of man! Turn your ear! Lost in the cloud, a voice. Lamb of God! We draw near! Lost in the cloud, a sign. Son of man! Son of God!

Truth be told, I really love both of these songs, even with the overtly religious lyrical content. Do you know why? Because of the song itself. It's addictive. Sufjan found this melody, knew he was on to a good thing and ran with it. I don't blame him.

If you interject charged lyrics onto an already charged piece of music, you end up with something that feels important, relevant, a familiar voice within the static and confusion.

You came to take us. All things go. All things go.

Maybe I just want to feel some comfort in the thought that God does exist.

Odd. Very.

20070403 ^up

Brendan Benson - What I'm Looking For
Yeah, I know. It's surprises me as well that I haven't ever used Brendan Benson as an artistic splicing partner. For those in the know, I used to be the biggest evangelist for this guy, back in the day when I considered him to be an undiscovered pop/rock genius. Several years later, Jack White certainly figured it out, so now Brendan is sorted with The Raconteurs and his solo work is featured in Ford adverts. Well done, sir. You've made it. And how does that feel? Are you fulfilled?

Well, I don't know what I'm looking for, but I know that I just wanna look some more.

Apparently not.

All of us tend to go through phases, periods in our lives when we latch on to something (or someone) and ride it out for an unforeseen period of time. In effect, we are drawn into a world we're particulary intrigued by, for whatever reason. It happens all the time. There are a number of names for this notion: hobbies, interests, habits, tastes, whims, obsessions, fetishes. Careers. Lifestyles.

And I won't be satisfied 'till there's nothing left that I haven't tried. For some people it's an easy choice, but for me there's a devil and an angel's voice.

None of us are perfect, therefore we never make the best decisions every single time. Not even half the time. "Good" and "Bad" can only be applied as an adjective to any given situation in retrospect, weighed against a plethora of other factors, as pointed out by that essential character in the story that doesn't make an appearance until far too late in the badly-directed performance. General Hindsight, with his militaristsic accuracy and damned level-headedness, has a knack of making things rather clear and obvious in the subsequent debriefing to the troops. Fucker.

And I act like a child, and I'm insecure, and I'm filled with doubt and I'm immature. Sometimes it creeps up on me.

I guess we'd all like to think that we "had it together" and knew exactly what we wanted out of our lives. It's as if there's a negative association with too much choice, too much indecision.

Why can't you just grow up? Why can't you just settle down? Wouldn't it be easier if you just picked something and went with it? Ride the wave! Throw caution to the wind! Reach for the stars! Ummm. OK. But who's to say that placing yourself in a situation with the greatest number of choices isn't the ideal scenario?

Too many people out there are under the impression that there's someone telling them what to do and how to exist in the world. Guess what? That person, the voice inside your head, is YOU... and you'd be surprised how often we forget that.

Living is exactly the same as lucid dreaming, when you recognise that you're actually asleep, when you decide to take control and become the script writer. Have you ever had a lucid dream?

I always check the light switches.

Sit down and watch the film Waking Life sometime, and you'll know what I mean.

It works.

20070312 ^up

The Arcade Fire - Intervention
Like any well-meaning indie rocker past his prime yet eager to see what's on offer these days, I'm sitting around tonight having a bottle of wine and listening to the new album by The Arcade Fire, Neon Bible.

First and foremost, I would like to take this opportunity to thank Rhîan (aka Wheezie) for giving me the second copy that she was sent in the post, due to a cock-up of an on-line purchase from a major retailer. I had already bought said album during my lunch break today, although I promptly returned it for a refund when I knew a freebie was on offer. Mercy buckets, my friend.

After the first listen, I have three words for you: Bruce Fuckin' Springsteen. Granted, I've read this a few times in various reviews, but I just thought that people were confused and couldn't think of a proper reference point. Well, they were right. This album could best be described by yours truly as 20% post-Funeral-pompousness-with-more-church-organ and 80% Born To Run. Although I'm not as big a fan of The Boss as my friends Barry or Billy, I can appreciate his heart, soul and uncanny ability to make you want to nod your head and pump your fist in approval of the earnestest man in rock.

(By the way, I should point out to people who don't already know that "Born in the USA" is actually an anti-American rant. Read the lyrics sometime.)

The only song I'm really drawn to at the moment is "Intervention", as it sounds the most like the direction I wanted the band to take after their last album. Does my opinion really count? Apparently not, although other fans of the band out there might be as dumbfounded as I am, wondering where the hell their beloved went.

We can't find you now, but they're gonna get their money back somehow. And when you finally disappear, we'll just say you were never here.

Their words, not mine, both apt and tragic in their self-directed truthfulness.

And while I'm at it, the version of "No Cars Go" on their debut EP is considerably better than the one on this album.

So there.

Nevertheless, will I keep listening to Neon Bible until I'm well and truly sick of it?

You betcha.

20070305 ^up

Field Music - I'm Tired
There are two ways in which to interpret the word "tired". You're either sleepy or fed up. I'm both. As time goes on, I find myself to be increasingly detached from the world around me, and I can't really put my finger on exactly why this is happening, increasingly, at such an alarming rate.

Well, I'm tired. I should sleep for a while to be happy again.

I consider sleep to be an Olympic sport. Granted, I like to stay up late most nights, in order to increase the level of "free time" I have in between going to work, but on the weekends... damn. I could sleep the day away. It's funny how I often do a cost analysis of whether I should get up or stay in bed. Living in the city centre, there's a good chance that if I leave the flat, I'll spend money. If I just keep sleeping? Well...

Give me peace, a little quiet. I'll be happy again.

I wouldn't consider myself to be "depressed", in the traditional sense. I'm just "overly nonchalant". I like that. I'd put in on a t-shirt.

My friend Paula, aka Peej, told me once about a conversation she had with one of her friends, where the guy said that his favourite position was "in". That's a million dollar t-shirt slogan if I've ever heard one, don't you think?

It's time that I give a shout out to Peej because she has been such a considerable influence on my musical tastes over the last few years. The vast majority of the bands/songs I use in my articles can be traced back to various compilation CD's that I've been sent, and she must be smug in the fact that she knows it. See what she thinks here.

Well, I'm sad. I should laugh at myself so I'm not sad for long.

Yeah, I am rather sad, but for all the wrong reasons. I consider "sad" to be "woe is me", but I can't identify with that notion at all right now. There are plenty of people in the world who have every right to be sad, for various reasons, and I don't want to associate myself with them. My sadness is based on selfishness.

I should stop all this talk, shut my mouth and get on.

Let me explain: As much as I'd like to place my faith in people, I don't know anyone in whom I'd place my faith. I'm drawn to interesting people like a moth is drawn to a magnificent bug zapper. For those of you who are unaware of such a device, watching one is a beloved pastime of the people who live where I grew up. Problem is, I don't know any zappers out there, anyone that I'd risk my life for. Yes, in this particular analogy, I'm referring to myself as a bug. Believe me, the shoe fits.

Nevertheless, I have to say that there are very few people in the world that I really connect with, and of those people, the numbers are dwindling over time. I blame myself for that.

Well, I'm fine. I'm alright. It's just me. You should expect it by now. Just forget what I said. I was just fooling around.

Yeah, what he said.

20070301 ^up

The Shins - Turn On Me
It's important that I write a little bit from a more positive perspective, as I wouldn't want to give the impression that I'm incredibly melancholy and depressed. God forbid! It's not like that at all, believe you me.

You can fake it for a while, bite your tongue and smile, like every mother does an ugly child. But the stars are leaking out, like spittle from a cloud, amassed resentment counting ounce and pound.

Truth be told, I have a rather optimistic view of the world, and I'd like to think that this was apparent, particularly when people speak to me face-to-face. There is a faith that goes beyond religion, and this I have more than embraced.

I have faith in people.

You're entertaining any doubt because you had to know that I was fond of you, fond of Y-O-U, though I knew you masked your disdain. I can see that change was just too hard for us, hard for us. You always had to hold the reigns, but where I'm headed, you just don't know the way.

Of course I'm writing this for Y-O-U. Hey! Remember me?

So affections fade away, and do adults just learn to play the most ridiculous, repulsive games?

Yes, yes they do. We can't help ourselves sometimes. Games are played in order to preserve our integrity, mask our insecurities. It's often easier that way. We keep our cards close to our chests, especially when we only have a pair of threes and no aces, no chance of a full house. We'd need to mix and match for that, lay our cards on the table and put together the best possible hand. Some people say that's against the rules.

You had to know that I was fond of you, fond of Y-O-U. So I took your lips at the time, and to change like that is just so hard to do. Hard to do. The worst part is over. Now, get back on that horse and ride.

This is not a call to arms, nor a white flag of surrender. It's a postscript, a well-honed understanding of how things were and will never be again, at least not in the same capacity.

And that's OK. We can still turn up the corners of our mouths and shrug with feigned indifference. That's the way we work.

20070226 ^up

Grandaddy - Lost On Your Merry Way
This song makes me feel slow. If you listen to it, I think you'll know what I mean. I don't mean "slow" as in "special", just in the sense that I have room to breathe, room to run with my thoughts and reach the conclusion that I never considered.

Trouble with a capital T. Tying down, they said, the tired ain't for me. Let this one fly.

About two years ago, I almost died listening to this song. Of course I mean that in both a metaphorical and a literal sense. If nothing else, I'm sure that I have severe liver damage. It happens. Sometimes with unhelpful help.

I wonder what they'll make of me, when I'm good and gone and song in God's country.

Guess what? I don't give a flying fuck what people think of me. I'm not saying that in a spoilt child sense, oh no. I mean that from the perspective of someone who has a greater understanding of his place in the world around him. By the way, I am prone to use the masculine in general commentary, refusing to use the him/her construct or the laughable "one". One is severely aware of the consequences of one's words and actions. I don't want to speak about myself in the Royal sense, even though I know how the Queen waves to her subjects.

Trouble with people like me. Tying down and then they vanish instantly. Let this one fly.

Sometimes I write as if I'm angry, but that's not the case. It's as if things suddenly become urgent, and I am possessed by the spirit of the here and now. The Ghost of Christmas Present. The voice of reason. Pepsi: the choice of a new generation.

It's really no problem you see, when the sky ignites and your days crash quietly.

At 5:05 PM GMT, on Saturday, 17 February 2007, something inside my brain physically changed. Snapped. Popped. Broke. Let's just say that I'm not the same person that I was before, for better or for worse. It's rather interesting to become a different being, all of a sudden, when you least expect it. The hospital says that there's nothing wrong with me, but I know better. Oh yes. I have been blessed with a reality shift, a change in perception. I have lost and gained focus at the same time. There's a hole in my head where brain cells used to be. It's been taken over by a swirl of electro-chemical reactions. For lack of a better word, let's just call it "transcendence".

All that I'm asking tonight is that I make it back home alive. No explosions, no crashes, no fights. I want to get back home. Back home tonight.

Home? I've always been at home, wherever and whoever I am. That's my blessing and my curse.

I can live with that.

20070226 ^up

Freda Payne - Band Of Gold
Before I start, let me just say that I hate the idea of Valentine's Day, mainly because I don't like anyone telling me what to do. Or how to feel. Or what to buy. I enjoy swearing, as it allows me to make a point. Fuck this holiday.

Now that you're gone, all that's left is a band of gold. All that's left of the dreams I hold is a band of gold and the memories of what love could be if you were still here with me.

Let's get something straight: I've only been truly in love once in my life, and it backfired into the worst thing I have ever known. I am sitting on the fence as to whether or not it turned me into a jaded bastard or if it was the best experience of all time. Probably both. I have never felt more alive, and in equal measure, I wanted to kill myself. Don't get me wrong, I tried hard at both. That's real. More real than the realest real in the reality of realness.

You took me from the shelter of my mother. I had never known or loved any other. We kissed after taking vows, but that night on our honeymoon, we stayed in separate rooms.

The night we got married, we did actually stay in separate rooms. We never consummated the relationship until the next day, as it was decided by a certain someone that to have sex was "expected". We eloped. We didn't know what we were doing, although that's what we wanted to do.

So Dane, what did you do on your wedding night? Well, we went to the cinema and watched "The Truman Show". It was good.

Since you've been gone, all that's left is a band of gold.

On our wedding anniversary in October of 2005, a few weeks after the end of us, I went from Blackridge into Bathgate, the town in which we were wed. (Secretly. For us and no one else.) In one of those new age/hippie shops, I found a cube of perfect pyrite, the likes of which can only be mined in one particular place in Spain.

Pyrite is Fool's Gold. I bought it, as a present from me to you. And from you to me.

Fools, indeed. So be it!

I still miss you... grudgingly.

20070214 ^up

Bloc Party - This Modern Love
When I was at work earlier today, I had to fill out one of those personal information forms for the HR department, as I hadn't previously done so. This wasn't much of a big deal until I reached the part where I had to enter the details of my "emergency contact" person. Well, truth be told, I don't have one.

To be lost in the forest. To be cut adrift. You've been trying to reach me. You bought me a book.

Although I laughed it off at first, this has been fucking with my head all day. Sure, I have loads of friends, some of which are very close to me, but in no way would I consider them to be in the same league as a work-related emergency contact. That's supposed to be a partner/spouse, relative or anyone who would happen to know your daily whereabouts and be a point of contact if the you-know-what hits the proverbial.

This I ain't got. Should I? If not, why not? Is this something I should be attempting to remedy, and with much haste? Am I really that bothered?

Don't get offended if I seem absent minded. Just keep telling me facts and keep making me smile.

Although I haven't spoken to her in months, I ended up writing down the details for my mother-in-law. She generally has no idea if I'm alive or dead from day to day, but she's the closest thing I have to a relative in a 5000-mile radius. Besides, it's a much easier option than to deal with the embarrassment of asking someone actually close to me if they'd want to be my emergency contact.

Who is yours? Do they know? How would you feel if they were actually contacted?

What are you holding out for? What's always in the way? Why so damn absent-minded? Why so scared of romance?

One of these days, I hope to be settled enough - no, let me re-phrase that - I hope to have my mind made up about who I want closest to me, who I want to come home to, who I would write down on my future personal details forms.

This modern love breaks me.

20070206 ^up

of Montreal - Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse
As far as I'm concerned, this is the best fucking song on the planet right now. I cannot stress this enough. Let's dance!

I'm in a crisis, I need help! Come on mood shift, shift back to good again! Come on be a friend!

Seriously, I would love for this to be Number 1 in the charts, getting played in discos all over the UK. Nay, all over the world. Let's dance!

Nina Twin is trying to help, and I really hope that she succeeds! Though I picked the thorny path myself, I'm afraid, afraid of where it leads!

One would surely be under the impression that a surrealistic, pop-tastic, artsy-fartsy, out-of-their-minds-for-what-seems-like-years-now band like of Montreal would never want to be in the spotlight of the general populace, but fuck it. This little ditty is da bomb. Or Das Boot. Either way... Let's dance!

Chemicals, don't strangle my pen! Chemicals don't make me sick again! I'm always so dubious of your intent, like I can't afford to replace what you've spent!

Contrary to popular belief, I love to dance. Generally, there seems to be a direct correlation between alcohol consumption and my ability to cut loose and kick off my Sunday shoes. Chemicals? Whatever. I don't need anything when listening to this megadose of audio ecstasy. This song is a chemical! This song is phonopornographic! Let's get naked! Let's dance!

C'mon chemicals! C'mon chemicals!

Do you want to dance as well? Download this electro-pop gem from our good friends at Polyvinyl Records right here.

Nina Twin is trying to help, and I really hope she gets me straight 'cause my own inner cosmology has become too dense to navigate!

Are you dancing? Why not? Do you feel the beat yet? That's it... that's it... here we go! Let's dance!

Chemicals, don't flatten my mind! Chemicals, don't mess me up this time! Know you bait me way more than you should! And it's just like you to hurt me when I'm feeling good!

Do you want to dance to more of Montreal goodness? Stream their new album here. Do it! For the kids!

C'mon chemicals! C'mon chemicals!

I can't even be bothered writing my usual self-indulgent crap just so I can use the feel-good song of the year as an obscure point of reference in an attempt to explain my current idiotic frame of mind.

There's no time! Let's fucking dance!

20070130 ^up

Death Cab For Cutie - The New Year
I can't imagine that there's a better song for me to use at this point in time, although I am annoyed with myself for being so obvious. I'll pick something more tenuous next time. Promise.

So this is the new year, and I don't feel any different. The clanking of crystal, explosions off in the distance.

Ok, it's another year, and things are going rather well for me, I must admit. To believe that we need to become different people between the end of December and the beginning of January is a load of absolute bullshit. Let's not even go there.

So this is the new year, and I have no resolutions for self-assigned penance, for problems with easy solutions.

Do I actually want to make any resolutions? Not at all. Do I need to? Well, maybe. It would be a good idea to get fit, stop drinking so much, blah blah blah, but is there any point? Speaking of which, I only learned a few years ago that "blah blah blah" is actually a French phrase that spread to us English-speakers. Who would've thunk it? However, I digress...

The truly beautiful idea put forward at the beginning of a new year is that we can start afresh, as if we've just stepped out of confession, without having to confess a damn thing... even though we sure do have a lot of confessing to do. I believe that the Catholics get off easy in regards to this, as we should actually be spilling our guts to those who know us best, ready to accept the shame and ridicule that we rightly deserve.

My biggest problem is that I feel like such a fake at times. Granted, I am who I am, and I'd like to think that those around me accept me as such, but I can't help feeling guilty about the things only I know about myself. We all probably share an element of this, and I guess that's OK. One of the main reasons I started writing these articles was to be more honest about who I am, as well as to share my viewpoints on various topics. The latter has been somewhat achieved, but I can't say the same for the former.

So everybody put your best suit or dress on. Let's make believe that we are wealthy for just this once.

Surely we all want to present ourselves to the world as compassionate, understanding, worthwhile human beings, capable of giving and receiving love and affection. Capable of being the best damn person we can be.

I beat myself up more than anyone ever could. Ever. And then I simply forget about it just as easily. It goes in cycles.

Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn, as thirty dialogues bleed into one.

We all talk a load of shite sometimes, and that's perfectly fine. I noticed recently that I laugh a lot when I speak to certain people, even when things aren't funny, just to make them feel more at ease with me. I'd hate to think that this was being picked up, although I don't do it intentionally. We all just want to be liked. To say that you don't is blasphemy in the eyes of what it means to be a socially-conscious person. If you don't want to be liked/loved, you might as well dig a six-foot hole and jump in. You don't deserve to be among the living.

I wish the world was flat like the old days, then I could travel just by folding a map. No more airplanes, or speedtrains, or freeways. There'd be no distance that can hold us back.

My plan for 2007 is to see more of the world than I already have, not so I can tell people that I've been to X or Y (a totally pointless endeavour) but because I want to challenge my concept of reality. I'm so damn Westernized that it's pathetic. Further to that, I want to connect in a better way with my close friends and family. I've been living on the fringes for too long now, and I only hope that I can salvage something with those who mean so much to me, even though I never tell them. I don't tell anyone, but that's going to change.

I can be more than the person inside my head.

20070104 ^up

Sun Kil Moon - Neverending Math Equation
This is my favourite time of year, not just because I get to wear nice winter clothes and stop sweating all the damn time due to my overactive metabolism... but because of the trees. All of the deciduous trees lose their leaves in the winter and let us see what they look like naked. Of course, I think it's sexy.

I’m the same as I was when I was 6 years old, and oh my God I feel so damn old. I don’t really feel anything.

When I was a kid, my dad got a camera and became Mr Photography. He wasn't anywhere near professional, and he didn't have much of an eye for framing the subject "with the artistic gaze" and all that jazz, but he did find the camera to be a useful device for capturing the present. For posterity. For the future.

He seemed to be obsessed with dead trees, the types that have no leaves in the middle of summer and stick out like a sore thumb. I remember him stopping the car on a few occasions when he came across these visible ghosts, jumping out and taking their portrait. There is a beauty in being different, and I could see it back then. I see it now.

Each day on the train to and from Edinburgh, I am blown away by the fine specimens of naked trees in the countryside, all rugged, worn and fractal. Self-similar. Organic. A perfect example of life in the dead of winter.

The universe works on a math equation that never even ever really even is any end. Infinity spirals out creation. We’re on the tip of it’s tongue.

A tree sans leaves resembles the human circulatory system or our nervous system. It's how living things grow, and it's not a coincidence. It's mathematics. It's a function. We are simply complex functions.

We surely have much to learn from DNA encoding, nature's basic method of encrypting an unbelievable amount of data in a relatively small package. Deep down, we're just numbers. All of us. Nothing more, nothing less.

I don't find this to be a school of thought that is in any way linked to despair. It's just logical. It just makes sense. I find comfort in that, and I'd like to believe that others would as well.

The plants and the animals, they are linked, and the plants and the animals eat each other.

All of this is what I think about every time I look at those naked trees, standing proud and majestic. I understand the truth of being alive and that all organisms share in this miracle.

Fucking awesome.

It's not necessarily a case of survival of the fittest but survival of the function that works.

By the way, I am fully aware that Sun Kil Moon are doing a cover of a Modest Mouse song, but their version is considerably better. The fact that it's a reinterpretation, a mutation, a branch, makes the song an even better choice for this article.

My current work is based on recursive functions, and a lot of things are becoming very clear. One day, I'll figure it out. All of it.

20061229 ^up

Cursive - Art Is Hard
God forbid if one were to believe that writing is pleasurable in any way, shape or form! It's a labourious process of concentrated, introspective thought coupled with unscrupulous editing. Art, as they say, is indeed hard.

Cut it out! Your self-inflicted pain is getting too routine. The crowds are catching on to the self-inflicted song.

I stopped writing articles a couple of months ago because I found myself consumed by what it meant to be the year anniversary of when Alexis died. Everything that I wrote seemed too personal, too pathetic and mainly too contrived to share with the world. Did I actually feel these things or did I just want to emote?

You've got to repeat it. You gotta sink to swim.

I was contacted by several people regarding Alexis, either to offer condolences one year on or to tell me that they had actually only found out that she had died. Either way, I couldn't bring myself to reply to anyone after the first, so I stopped checking my email and effectively didn't contact anyone. I ran away.

If at first you don't succeed, you gotta recreate your misery 'cause we all know art is hard. Young artists have gotta starve!

It sickens me to think that I use the memory of my dead wife as a muse, in order to generate a current statement of who I am. When she was still around, most of the songs I wrote were about how much we couldn't stand each other. One in particular, Real Men Are Made of Tin, pretty much slated her completely with lines such as "please remember to go fuck yourself every now and then". Funnily enough, it was one of her favourites.

Oh, a second verse! Well, color me fatigued. I'm hiding in the leaves in the CD jacket sleeves, tired of entertaining some double-dipped meaning, a soft-serve analogy. This drunken angry slur in thirty-one flavors.

When we first met, I wrote sappy love songs for Alexis, then as the years went on I penned songs filled with so much vitriol that people surely flinched at the very obvious lyrical content. About a year ago when all the shit went down, I found myself viewing the past through rose-tinted glasses, and everything was beautiful once again. One year on, I know better. I can see everything for what it was and what it is, and for that I don't feel in the least bit bad.

You gotta sink to swim, immerse yourself in rejection, regurgitate some sorry tale about a boy who sells his love affairs. You gotta fake the pain! You better make it sting!

I now have a more holistic view of the past, and I don't want to talk about that shit anymore. This article is both an apology and a closing parenthesis to an aside that has lost an audience as well as an orator.

You gotta sink to swim, impersonate greater persons, 'cause we all know art is hard when we don't know who we are.

Well, I know who I am, and art sure as hell isn't hard. I guess now I can attempt to put the fun back into writing. Maybe I should have bought one of those pencils...

20061202 ^up

The Shins - New Slang
Call me DJ :/ (or for those few out there who can't see an emoticon for what it is, DJ ColonSlash). Welcome to my party. This is my document. This is my expression. This is what I want to convey about who I am and what I want to be.

Gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth. Only, I don't know how they got out, dear.

The latest issue of New Scientist, volume 191 number 2569, has several articles surrounding "The Cult of Us", the new online culture. We're connected. We're blogging. We're spilling our guts to strangers. We don't give a shit. OK, so maybe the last bit is simply my take on the matter, but it's a good place to start. I'm tired of keeping up the pretense of adult/man/lover/worker/tax-payer. I'd really like to think that I was more than that, and to realize this, I need to let go and just be honest with myself and those around me. Things simply get easier that way. I'm all for that.

Turn me back into the pet that I was when we met. I was happier then with no mind-set.

If anyone were to ask me, I'd swear up and down that this wasn't a blog. I believe my previous words were "autobiographical mix tape", and I'll stand by that. First and foremost, I love sharing music with people, especially the bands and songs that I think can really make an impact on your psyche.

Take for instance the song I've chosen for this article. Yes, I write 'articles', not 'entries'. Humour me. This is a great song, and although it was released about 5 years ago, I only just discovered it. That's the beauty of good music. It's timeless. If The Beach Boys were formed at the turn of this century, I believe they would sound like this. It also fits well into my current ramblings about the new and future world. It's so apparent that I don't even need to explain myself. :) :( :/

And if you'd 'a took to me like a gull takes to the wind. Well, I'd 'a jumped from my tree and I'd a danced like the king of the eyesores, and the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.

This photo was taken of graffiti on the sidewalk down in the West End side of Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow. I stopped in my tracks because this is, by far, my favourite emoticon. It's supposed to signify 'unsure', but to me it means 'happysad', just like the songs that I love the most. I don't know how common this is, but I'd like to think that anyone who actually reads these articles goes out and finds the songs attached to them, by either legal or illegal means. Every time I write about a song, I play it on repeat, in order to appropriately link what I write to the music and the lyrics. No one tells me to do this. I just want to. Once again, humour me.

New slang when you notice the stripes, the dirt in your fries. Hope it's right when you die, old and bony.

I'd like to think that whatever bullshit I write gets stored as data somewhere on some server, ready to be viewed and ridiculed by friends, relatives and employers in the future. That's one of the ideas presented by New Scientist. We just don't know what effect this is going to have. What happens when you do a web search for "Dane Stewart"? Thanks to Google, you'll end up here, where I use my ubiquitous namespace real estate to talk a load of crap. Would you want to be my friend? Would you want to date me? Would you want to hire me? You should see my CV (resumé) these days. In the 'Interests' section, I write: "I have a strong interest in theoretical mathematics, with particular emphasis on prime numbers, fractal geometry and infinite series. I appreciate fine Belgian beer, people with an understated wit and fresh snow." I got a job back in June after just two days of putting my CV out there, and it pains me to think that it was based on experience alone, not because of these particular lines. Oh well.

This is me, right here. I write most of these articles when I'm drunk. When I'm at my most honest. I'm drunk now.

I'm looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find. Without a trust or flaming fields am I too dumb to refine? And if you'd 'a took to me like, well I'd a danced like the queen of the eyesores, and the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.

This song is on repeat. This song is on repeat. This song is on repeat.

20060918 ^up

Mates of State - Think Long
I got a tattoo. As much as I want to downplay the whole thing and maintain a suitable air of cool, I'm actually incredibly pleased with myself every time I look at it. As some of the previous postings have more than hinted at, I am rather obsessed with the philosophy of theoretical mathematics. The square root of negative one, the imaginary number, is a concept that is a pivotal aspect of some of the most beautiful ideas out there. (Beauty/Eye/Beholder. Bear that in mind.)

On our picture shelves, statues mocking me. Tell me how am I supposed to feel? How am I not put at ease?

We all need some kind of focus in our lives, otherwise General Apathy will win the war, and then we might as well not even get up in the morning. Don't get me wrong, I love spending quality time in my bed, being asleep, enjoying the gift known as dreaming. It's better than bad. It's good.

Talk yourself to sleep. Fall into it deep. I will wash off mine with rolling waves of worry. Hey hey, it doesn't have to feel so wrong.

This tattoo, this symbol, isn't a focus of my life, but it does remind me of several important things I don't want to forget. I was going to just tie a thread around my finger, in the old school fashion, but this stylistic subcutaneous ink method works better for me. Maybe it's not necessarily about a fear of forgetting but one of losing focus. Knowing that something is there, just refusing to acknowledge it, is surely worse than forgetting altogether.

Bless these tangled veins. None of which will grow the same. Now am I supposed to fake it?

Thinking comes before learning, before understanding. In my spare time, I think a lot, with the hope of making sense of the universe around me, trying to not get caught up in it. Also making sure it doesn't pass me by.

Everything in moderation. Go for the gold. Stop and smell the roses. Variety is the spice of life. Drink plenty of water. All you need is love. 3.1415926...

Think long. Think think long. Think think.

20060827 ^up

What Oban means to me: A Memoir
Dear Jessie,

I am here. I'm pretty sure I always will be. This last weekend was spent in Oban with my girlfiend. It was nice. Really nice.

Oban is a small town on the West Coast of Scotland. I'm convinced that all homes consider themselves to be guest houses. It makes me think about how kids have grown up in the area and can't wait to get out. There's nothing there, only the things that you know inside and out. One day, a visitor arrives and checks into a local B&B.

"Wow. This place is amazing. It's civilization, but just enough off the beaten track to make me feel like it's the Wild West. I can do anything here. I can become who I want to be here."

The kid leaves town, looking for something new, something different. He wants to find the place where things start to make sense. The place where he can be challenged and welcomed and seen and forgotten about. It's the place where he can be visible and invisible all at the same time.

The kid can't even begin to understand the thoughts of the man who just moved into town, after a handful of peaceful visits. The man who wants to start afresh, get to know his neighbors. Maybe take up painting.

"I could start a band. Maybe let a few of the choice locals listen to my vast record collection. Someone is going to understand. Hell, someone is going to introduce me to something new. I might just like it. Bagpipes? Sure. I can dig that. At least, now I can."

The kid can't even begin to see the similarities between him and the new kid in town. The kid who is only different from him in terms of years and body hair and experience. Not simply types of experiences but experiences of experiences. The instances where quantity is sometimes more beneficial than quality. There's no appreciation of quality unless there is sufficient amount of quantity.

You have to take the good with the bad. There are ups and there are downs. The theory of relativity.

Einstein had a lot of good ideas. I find it amazing how we accept his theories as truth. They exist. They happen. We're not just agreeing with his notions, his views. He just pointed something out to us that was always there.

Was it? Is it? He's a good storyteller. He was able to take the Lego building blocks of physics and mathematics and go to the next level. The obvious. To him. Therefore, to us. He believed it. Whole-fucking-heartedly. Sometimes I wish I wore a hat so that I could tip it. In acknowledgement. In reverence. In acceptance.

"I like what you've done with the place."

"Have you bought or are you renting?"

"Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly."

The kid didn't even consider Einstein coming into the equation.

"What? You mean E=mc2? I don't give a shit about that."

The visitor is now a local. He runs a B&B, serving breakfast to people on holiday from France. People who came here because it looked nice in a brochure. It looked like an experience.

"If I go there, I'll experience the real heart of Scotland. I'm homing in on where I can get the biggest bang for my buck."

The visitor/local now has his paintings being shown in the local art dealer's shop. He can earn just enough to get by, just enough to make trips into the city or back home to see the people that mean the world to him. The people that mean so much that he can't afford to spend the vast majority of his time with them. It's all about delayed gratification, isn't it?

"I want to savor it."

The kid is already bored by this whole story. He's not the main character, so what's the point? One day soon, sooner than he thinks, the veil of mystery will fall from his face and he'll understand that he's seen the future. He's seen himself. Older and wiser. At peace. Ready to move forward, with confidence, for the first time.

Much love,
Dane

20060710 ^up

Weezer - Tired of Sex
True. Oh so true. How long have I been wanting to write an entry based on this song?

I'm tired, so tired. I'm tired of having sex. I'm spread so thin, I don't know who I am.

I love sex. It's probably one of the best things that humans have going for them. Sure, all animals have sex, but as homosapiens, we have the mental ability to turn something basic into something amazing, beyond the primal. Something more than what it is.

Imagine you were a tongue with a limited number of taste buds or eyes with only so many cones and rods, a finger with one solitary touch receptor. Sad. Very sad. We have the luxury to experience an event with gusto. Physical, mental and emotional. It rocks our very core. It's actually the reason we are here. I've been invited to the club. Dane plus guest. Cheers.

Sex is the best possible vice that we could have. It's the only one that is not ultimately selfish and self-destructive. At the end of the day, something good could possibly come out of it.

Monday night I'm makin' Jen. Tuesday night I'm makin' Lynn. Wednesday night I'm makin' Catherine. Oh, why can't I be makin' love come true?

The problem we have is that we want this experience to be with the best possible person. The one who "gets it", the one who would, if luck would deem it so, be the best parent, the best teacher of the next generation. I often consider myself to be terrible at explaining things, terrible at conveying the ideals which I feel are important. I am just the man behind the curtain. Do what I say, not what I do. I know better. Mimicry is disallowed because I'll only lead you astray. I'm just a man. Men are flawed from the onset. However, what men are required to do is find someone who can run the show when we're gone. Someone who will act on our behalf. Act like us. Better than us. Vote by proxy.

I'm beat, beet red, ashamed of what I said. I'm sorry, here I go. I know I'm a sinner, but I can't say no.

No matter what I may say or do, I don't want to experience these feelings, these powerful emotions, with just anyone. Imagine a Cartesian plane, separated into four sections of the x-y graph. We have four possible combinations: ++, +-, -+ and --. I want to have ++. If you accept anything less than this, you don't deserve to be alive.

Thursday night I'm makin' Denise. Friday night I'm makin' Sharise. Saturday night I'm makin' Louise. Oh, why can't I be makin' love come true?

Please note that Rivers Cuomo never mentions what he's doing on Sunday night. Either he's remembering the Sabbath and keeping it holy or he's like Craig David and chillin'. Both are acceptable in my book.

Tonight, I'm down on my knees. Tonight I'm beggin' you please. Tonight, tonight, please! Oh, why can't I be makin' love come true?

There exists something beyond true and false: choice.

20060703 ^up

Built to Spill - Else
I just got back from a two-week vacation in good ol' South Carolina. Sure, I know that I was there, but now all I'm left with are memories which make me feel like I wasn't actually taking part, just watching and running on auto-pilot. I've been thinking a lot about memories over the last 48 hours, and I blame that on having read The Time Traveler's Wife from start to finish whilst in flight and sitting around in airports. It's good. It's sad. It's life.

Finally I don't mind worthless tries at finding something else. Best not talk too loud. You're not as smart as you require of them.

There seem to be three things I can associate with past, present and future, and these are memories, actions and dreams. The fact that I place 'dreams' as my future, rather than 'inevitabilities' would suggest that I am an optimist, and that assumption would be correct. In effect, I am a realistic optimist, if a label would be required. One good thing this book has done, other than make me cry every 10 pages, is to point out that we all have the ability to travel through time whenever we want. Would I like to relive something from my past? Grab a memory. Do I want to see my future? Hell, plan it and make it a dream. Steer yourself in the direction of dreams and your present day actions will take you there. Damn! I sound like a fucking Successories poster. Granted, there are other forms of causality out there other than your personal actions, but that's where adaptation comes in. Roll with the punches. Lemons and lemonade and all that.

Your body breaks. Your needs consume you forever, and with this lies the need to be here together.

As much as I don't want to bring up Alexis all of the time, I find it impossible to comment on any aspect of what's going on in my life without thinking about her and what happened. There is a massive amount of guilt associated with my moving on after her untimely death. I've effectively been handed a relatively clean slate to live the rest of my life as I see fit, and that's a hard thing to accept.

Funny thing with blood. You try to stand but neither leg's awake.

Etre ou pas etre, that is the question. I want to be because I am. One day, I'll only be someone else's memory, and I'm OK with that because there was a point in time when I got to experience what it is to be alive. The present is a gift, indeed. It's just that some of us forget to unwrap it, out of fear or, perhaps, apathy.

Just this side of love is where you'll find the confidence not to continue.

If we do live in a boolean universe - yes or no, on or off, black or white, right or wrong - then I'm fine with that because I have a logical mind. Of course I do, as nature is surely nothing more than an apparently chaotic logic. We just haven't figured it out. There's no surprise there, if we can't even figure ourselves out yet.

20060603 ^up

The New Pornographers - Falling Through Your Clothes
This is graffiti that I wrote on the wall of a Prague strip club I was hanging out in a couple of weeks ago. I don't do strip clubs. It goes without saying that my