beware nostalgia

I haven't written in the notebooks yet. But that's more due to not really going anywhere over the last few days and hence not needing them than a lack of actual writing. I've written a bit. Anyway, I'm going to lunch this afternoon, so will take it with me then. I'm not going to write in it just for the sake of writing in it though. Only if an idea hits.

I looked all over the web for a new skin/theme for the 'blog. No luck as yet. I'm happy to stick with this one for the time being. With my design experience, I could always bite the bullet and work on one myself. But that's just another distraction. I can pass posts on the blog off as writing exercises; coding a new design would be stretching it a bit. I need less distractions at the moment, not more.

As for the title of this post? Well, that's in reference to a cd I just bought. It was a band that only released one album, just as I was up at university. They were a cult group called Freaky Realistic. They had a few groovy tunes. So I tracked down a copy of Frealism, and it's ok. But not great. To be honest, it's funky fusion with electronica, a splatter of hip-hop and weird harmonies that has a bit of a dated edge to it. If I could have found the three or four songs I liked on LimeWire I would have done it that way. Oh well. It's worth it for the four tracks, especially This Is Freaky Realistic.

In nostalgic music terms its offence is mild compared to others. These are some songs. They range from so outrageously awful that were it not for sentimental reasons and fantastic, though blurred, memories, history would consign them to the mountainous pile of shite pop music to some genuinely fun tunes. Most of them are terrible. They are, however, all in my iTunes library. And remember, let he (or she) who is without sin cast the first stone. Without further ado:

Saturday Night - Whigfield (I even remember the dance moves)
Never Forget - Take That
We Built This City (On Rock n' Roll) - Starship
Axel F - Harold Faltemeyer
Ooh Ahh, Just a Little Bit - Gina G
All That She Wants - Ace of Bass
The Final Countdown - Europe
Come On Eileen - Dexy's Midnight Runner
St Elmo's Fire (Man in Motion) - John Parr
I'm Walking on Sunshine - Katrina & The Waves
Hit Me Baby One More Time - Britney Spears
I've Got The Power - Snap
Footloose - Kenny Loggins (who, by the way, seemed to write almost every movie theme of the eighties, from Top Gun, to Footloose and even Caddyshack)
Tubthumping - Chumbawumba
Sunchyme - Dario G

I feel cleansed by this confession. I don't listen to them that often, but they're there when I need a short reminisce. And out of 4469 songs in the library, that's not such a bad amount of dreadful rubbish, is it? Of course there may be a couple of others in there that suck. Maybe.

dissent in the ranks

A not-so-anonymous reader doesn't like the new look. And I'm not hugely taken by it myself. For one, some of my painstakingly crafted photo albums from Jerez look dreadful in the new look. Photos overlapping and jumping out of place. It's chaos I tell you. In blog terms. In real life terms there's a great deal more chaos kicking about elswhere and this blog is quite organised in comparison.

So. I'm going to have a look at some other templates. Not that I'm capitulating, but having discovered some problems myself, it's a good idea. To look I mean.

Return to (ab)Normal

I'm not a big believer in normal. Normalcy is not something I aspire to, or ever have aspired to. It just seems like another word for boring. And the people desperately seeking normal lives, or worse: people that believe that their lives constitute normal and anyone that deviates from their prescribed path(s) is ab-or-subnormal, kind of scare me.

Whatever. I picked my phone up today and my replacement SIM card is arriving tomorrow, so for those with my number, I'll be back on it in about a day or so.

I also bought some notebooks today. Beyond a shadow of a doubt the most expensive stationery I've ever purchased. I felt so guilty I gave one to my mom. Smythson on New Bond St are superb but not cheap. And I didn't look at prices. Because, well, the notebooks were small and how expensive can notebooks be?? Very is the answer. And the girl at the register was pretty, so when she told me the amount - instead of hollering in indignation and putting the notebooks very carefully back on their respective shelves, I gave her my credit card. I attempted nonchalance. I left the shop and did some sums in my head. Even when I was employed I couldn't really have afforded them.

I just took them out of their individual boxes. They smell nice. On close inspection, they are without doubt the finest of notebooks and were I already a successful writer I wouldn't dream of purchasing anything else. But I'm not yet. And these are not going to make the words I put in them any better. In fact, is it possible I may be frightened to deface them with idle thoughts? I hope not. Yeah, I spent too much money. No, I really can't afford it. But it's done now. I'm not bringing them back. I will use them. They're part of my toolkit now, they're cheaper than the iMac I'm writing this on, and less likely to break. The words I scrawl in them will some day pay for them and more like them. They will travel everywhere with me.

And if I lose one, I'll be thorough in the search before screaming drunkenly that I've been pick-pocketed.

So I've got my phone back and I'm spending money I can't afford.
It's all back to normal.

Worth a revisit

Been listening to Portishead for the first time in ages. Chick's got a pair of lungs on her, that's for sure. Well worth a revisit. Beforehand I was listening to some classic Aretha. So I think I'm in a women-with-incredible-voices kind of mood. Might have some Ella next. After that? Lisa Ekdahl maybe? Or if the need is raw, perhaps some Janis Joplin. That might be the way to go. There's something about having the great and genius at my fingertips, just to sing for me, that's heartwarming. A harmless trip of ego.

Dunno.

I was going to post a bunch of pics from the party I was at last weekend, but instead have posted them elsewhere. Here's a link if you want to check them out.

My nose twitches no longer. Off to pick my phone up tomorrow. Much writing to be done.

Really like this pic - winter light can be magical. This is my street looking west.

sheepish?

There's something about a crime self-report form that intimidates. That shouldn't be the case. As I scanned this archaic document, seeming to punish victims of crime, I thought I ought to call the club I was in Friday night. I'd avoided this for a lot of reasons. Well, 2. One, I was convinced it had been nicked, and the other was that I hate making phone calls to strangers. It petrifies me. The only thing that petrified me more was being charged with wasting police time. If they'd phoned the club and found out I'd not checked with them and that my phone was there all the time? Fine, as in having to pay them money, not everything being hunky dory. And possible criminal proceedings. So I bounced this around in my head and figured it was better to brave the club management just to ask a question rather than to risk pissing off the police.

So I phoned the club today.

Someone had turned my phone in.

Just because it was turned in doesn't mean it wasn't nicked in the first place.

Maybe I just needed to rant about something.

Lesson learned? Sheepishness leads only to more sheepishness.

And someone definitely nicked my fucking headphones.

Recovery position

No booze today. Big weekend. On arrival back to London I wound up drinking beer all day with friends. Which is great, but you know, after Friday and Saturday, it may not have been the best or most healthy way to spend Sunday.

I was drinking in Clapham, which is quite a groovy part of South London, but wasn't able to shake the sense of displacement. It's the south of the river thing. It feels weird. Ru agreed with me. Perhaps there's some sort of mystical energy barrier flowing with the Thames? I don't know. It's strange though, and I'm not the only one that thinks so. I did find two new pubs that I liked, and one pub that may be the most soul-less drinking establishment in history. It's called SW4. It's right by Clapham Common tube station, and is high on my list of places never to go back to. Never go there. Ever.

Went to see Walk the Line this evening. Thought it was exceptional, especially the performances. Not the hugest Cash fan myself, though his cover of Hurt is one of the greatest songs of the last 20 years, but the film still resonated. Not the hugest Joaquin Pheonix fan either ('cept for SpaceCamp), but he's awesome in the movie and sounds so close to Cash it's remarkable.

Want to see Syriana and Good Night, and Good Luck. Never thought I'd want to see two George Clooney movies in theatres at the same time.

Airports & hangovers

I'm in an airport. And I'm hungover. Hence the title of this post. I didn't think I was going to make it to the airport on time because of the hangover. I pulled a classic roll-over-and-switch-both-alarms-off this morning at 8. I woke up an hour and fifteen minutes later in a Hugh Grant style fuck-fuck-fuck moment. No hookers though. Shame. Off to a Sunday lunch upon landing, seeing loads of people for the first time in ages. Wicked. Bring it on. Pint o' Pride please mate. Ugh.

Sense of humour meltdown

This is replacing a drunken rant I wrote last night in a total rage.

My phone got stolen last night. It serves me right for being in a rubbish nightclub off Tottenham Court Road. Anyway, after having my phone stolen, my headphones are then stolen, meaning I can't console myself with music. I know I should count myself lucky that it was just the headphones, but it's a bit difficult at the moment. To be pickpocketed twice in one night is carelessness, to paraphrase Oscar Wilde. So after discovering the phone was gone I had a total sense of humour meltdown and shot vitriol and bile in every direction, even at the people trying to help out. So not only am I a victim of a crime, I'm also guilty of being a total arsehole. My punishment was spending 2 hours on nightbuses desperate for a pee. Karma works man, karma works. Believe it.

hodgepodge & dreich

So I don't know about this new look. It's kind of funky. I could tweak it I suppose, but that seems like a bit too much of an effort. Just felt like a change, really.

London is cloudy and cold. Usually it's one or the other, but no - we've got both. In fact, there's even been a few snow flurries. I can hear the wusses in the Met Office shrieking with horror, demanding no one even look at their car for fear of an accident. I only saw about three flakes. That's enough, in gambling terms, for a white Christmas, so it's certainly enough to cause meteorlogical hysteria in Britain.

I've been thinking about words today, as I've been writing a bit and the weather's shit. For instance, hodgepodge, hugely descriptive of my recent posts as they tend to be more scattered gibberish (another favourite word) than anything coherent. Hodgepodge is kind a chubby fuzzy word for mishmash or, in this case, talking a load of unconnected bollocks. The reason that I've been writing such hodgepodge is I'm using the blog as a kind of warm-up when I'm working on the book. That's also why posts have been more frequent.

Dreich is Scots, and means dull. Very good for describing the current weather. It's almost onomatopoaeic. Much better than just saying it's miserable.

new look

I changed the look. Dunno why. Hope it doesn't suck.

Just saw the blog of a congressman who wanted to keep in touch with his constituents and there were fewer comments there than here. I suppose if politicians insist on sucking, we as the voting public will keep on not really giving a shit.

Also, found some awesome photos by this guy in New York. Check it out.

That knight's butterlicious

Played chess for the first time in ages last night. Brilliant fun. Old fogey stuff with cigars and brandy. My opponent won one and I won one, and we decided to leave it at that under the guise of a gentlemanly result, though the real reason was that we were tired and drunk. Got home very late and read some awesome recipes, including a new one for the perfect chocolate mousse. I may well have to test this recipe, though I'm suspicious as it eliminates butter from the proceedings. Love butter. Which made cooking last night difficult as I had to make mashed potatoes with something called "butterlicious". It didn't taste like butter and it wasn't delicious, so I feel the name was misleading. Hate fake butter. The real thing is so unbelievably wonderful, how could anyone want to fake it? Fake stuff is worse for you than the real stuff. I'm sure of it. So are quite a few doctors. Something that is definitely bad is smoking, even if it's cigars. I'm not very good at smoking cigars, mostly because they bore the shit out of me. The first couple of puffs are great, but then it all goes downhill from there. They also give me hangovers. And cigar hangovers are mingin'.

So:

play chess

don't smoke cigars

eat real butter

Oh, and have an apple. I'm having one right now and not thinking how I could be eating Green & Black's Butterscotch.

Oh - tried Green & Black's ice cream for the first time last night. Boy is that some seriously good shit. Gonna be gettin' myself some of that action.

Exercising nearly killed me this morning. It's very cold in London at the moment. Today's escapism during the exercise was nothing to do with the book, oddly enough. It was to do with Boston. I started recreating my old apartment in my head, trying to remember how my parent's room was laid out, how many burners my mother's industrial cooker had (bloody thing had its own skillet - crazy stuff), how the furniture was laid out in the living room - all that sort of stuff. It ties into another book idea I have in some ways but was really just a stationary cross-country ski down memory lane. It was nice how vivid everything still seemed.

It took 3 1/2 songs to warm my hands during the work-out; usually only takes 2. I time my workouts through songs on my iPod. Better than looking at a timer going slower and slower the more exhausted you get. And sometimes I sing along, though usually I'm too out of breath.

So:

work out. it sucks but somewhere there's a sense of accomplishment.

daydream.

Night dreams have not been treating me well of late. Last night I woke up screaming and threw one of my pillows across the room. No idea why. Creeped me out a bit though.

150

This is my 150th post apparently. Not too excited as I bet most of them, were I cast cast a glance in the rearview mirror, wouldn't be all that timeless. Lots of ones with "..." in the title. Quite a few describing drunken silliness. Loads of rants or almost no ranting, depending on how you look at it.

Two people have tried to give me cars. And I had to say no. Running costs and all that. London c'est tres cher. Am I a moron? I'm mulling that one. I mean, it might be expensive in the long run, but a free car is a free car. And two free cars? One's a Clio & one's a Corsa. It's not like I'm turning down a couple of Porsches. Still, I have a hunch I'll be bellowing "D'oh!" a la Homer sooner rather than later. - I should also say that the Corsa's "N" reg, and its gear box recently exploded (or whatever gear boxes do to fail triumphantly - it may not be spontanteous combustion) and as such didn't inspire a great deal of confidence. Of course, beggars can't be choosers.

A band wagon has pulled by and I have lept on, ears first. I really like the Arctic Monkeys. I Bet You Look Good On the Dancefloor is a wicked song. As is Bigger Boys and Stolen Sweethearts. In fact, there are damn few that I don't like. Sadly, the entirety of the music buying public of this small island seem to have a similar reaction. They've sold their first album faster than the Road Runner with an ACME jet pack. Deservedly so.

February is here. Bit of a lazy month; only 28 days and all. I have a lot to do this month. Squeeze 31 days worth into the 28. Can it be done? I'll let you know on the first of March.

Oh - by the way, I'm hoping to have a completed first draft of my novel by the end of March. So 2 months from today.

In need of a notebook

I had an idea for a short story yesterday. A good one. It happened on the tube, either the District or the Victoria Line. Can't remember which. But that makes sense as I can't remember the bloody idea either. Senility at 29? Brilliant. Will buy a nice pocket notebook today. And carry pens. And write down ideas when they come. Because that's what writers do. If they didn't, they'd just be "rs". And nobody would know what the fuck that is.

And my nose twitches on.

Culture lunch and weirdness

It is a matter of incredible coolness that one of London's finest museums also boasts one of its finest restaurants. Cool but strange, I suppose. It's not something that pops into the head when thinking of going to a museum: "Why don't we grab a bite at the V & A?" It just doesn't sound right. Well, "let's grab a bite at Tate Britain" has just entered into the growing lunch/dinner suggestions in my arsenal. I was meeting Andy, his mum and his bro (who runs the shop there) for lunch and to say ciao as he's off to the land of sheep and kiwis. The food was amazing and the wine list, for a geek like me, extraordinary. The restaurant itself is enclosed in a massive mural which we think was painted by an artist named Whistler, but not James McNeill Whistler. It depicted structures from various cultures (I liked the pagoda) in arcadian settings with the odd unicorn and nymph kicking about. As you do. It works as a dining room though, chilling one out while eliminating the risk of a rogue dollop of hollandaise sauce splatting onto an old master. Ruining art through appetite would be a terrible thing, not quite as bad as ruining it through untied shoelaces, but pretty bad nonetheless.

In any case, the food was amazing, though I wimped out in menu selection, choosing guinea fowl on herb tagliatelli. Don't get me wrong - it tasted amazing. But I'd promised myself I'd eat fish more frequently and had two great choices of ichthyoid but instead went for the haut cuisine version of Chicken Tonight. You see, I didn't always like good food. In fact, both my parents used to despair at my lack of taste. My menu was so limited that by the age of 9, I could prepare everything thing that I would eat myself. Sound impressive? It shouldn't. Because hot dogs, super noodles, toaster oven pizzas and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are pretty easy to make. Well. Warm up, really. Except for the peanut butter and jelly. Those you don't warm up. You can, though. My first year in university led to the discovery of peanut butter & jam toasties, which were a true treat. So I didn't like great food. I wasted a childhood with a Cordon Bleu trained mother, who for 3 years was writing a cook book and testing the recipes at home, eating hot dogs and super noodles. And boiled mince. Forgot about that one. Or tried to at least. Yuk. Actually, I don't feel so bad about the guinea fowl anymore. Still should have had the paoched smoked haddock though.

The half-a-dozen or so readers of this site might remember my twitch. Its remission has been a blessing. I try not to think about it, lest in trying to detect it I start it again. In lamenting its existence, I blamed evolution, claiming that the pinky was a better place for a twitch than the eye. *This is the weirdness referred to in the title, by the way.* So what's been happening in the last few days? Well, no, my pinky isn't twitching, that would be funny. And creepy. No, it's my nose. My nose is twitching. Like Samantha on Bewitched. Well, maybe not that extreme and certainly not as cute a nose, but it feels like it's doing the Samantha thing. Is it sinuses? Is it stress again (this is a possibility)? Is it just plain peculiar? Definitely the latter. As an affliction it's ridiculous. I can't go tell a doctor that my nose is twitching. He or she would think I was a moron. They may be right. It sounds like something a redneck grandpa sitting on a porch in rural Mississippi would use to predict the weather: "Ayup... mah nose's twitchin'... must be rain-a'-comin.. th'old honker's nevah wrong". So I don't know whether to blow my nose more often, to clear sinuses which could be causing it, or not blow my nose, because it could be aggravating it. Life's full of stupid decisions.

My dad wants me to stop deluding myself and get a job and resign writing once again to a hobby or pipe dream. Issues abound. Have a smoothie.