It may be hard to believe, but yes… I am still here.
You may even hear faint my groans from beneath piles of
paper and tax invoices. Suffice to say… blog time is
a luxury I can rarely afford these days :(.
I will pay a long overdue visit to the people
who’ve been kind enough to drop by during my
long absence.
Sitting atop the tall, red soiled cliff I can feel her warm breath on the back of my neck. I squeeze her hand tighter, but continue looking out over the perfect ocean - preferring to remain silent. In one second I deny it all, refusing to accept that she must leave me… the next I ache for the days and weeks we’ll spend apart. She’s made a special effort for me today, and I know it’s her way of softening the blow. She has tried her best to give me a beautiful memory of our last day together. I know she has to go… but I’m not ready. I never am.
This girl, with eyes the colour of the sea, and hair that floats on the warm breeze like a silver cloud, leaves me tonight. It’s the longest time before I’ll see her again, and it’s all I can do to savour everything about her.
One more sunset. One more warm starry night. One last lingering kiss.
Goodbye Summer…
Yes, summer in Australia means sun, sand, surf, scorching days, and balmy nights - but with those comes an annual invasion by insects. Among the most welcome are dragonfiles and butterflies, but among the least welcome are the dreaded mosquito. The suspected culprit here is most likely Culex Molestus, common name Mole, or possibly it’s night time biting cousin Culex Quinqefasciatus. The irony that they are a prime source of food for the Dragonfly, is not lost on me…
Once upon a time there was a boy. He was a smart boy, not brilliant, but very smart nonetheless. He did very well at school… in fact he consistently topped the class… which inevitably earned him a nerdy reputation. While other kids were out kicking footies, or riding skateboards, or hanging out at the mall, he was at home finishing assignments. He didn’t have a lot of friends, and the ones he did have, were just like him.
Toward the end of high school, he got his first glimpse of cool. Despite speaking in a slightly high-pitched, odd voice, his academic brilliance was somehow noted by almost everyone. He still couldn’t get a girlfriend, but he became reasonably well known, and even well liked. People found that despite his intelligence, he had a good sense of humour and was interesting and fun. This novel combination led him to achieve minor celebrity status. Not bad… for a bona-fide nerd.
When he got into medicine at Uni, he finally felt like he had arrived. He surrounded himself with other clever people just like him, and immersed himself in the party circuit they created around themselves. He met girls… he talked to them… some of them even liked him. He drunk a lot, he partied hard - but he remained focused.
Surrounded by his new friends though, he began to change. It started out with small things… a minor wardrobe makeover… then hair… but soon became more noticeable. He began to speak more about himself, and what he thought, and how he saw things. He sculpted an air of dismissiveness and detachment, so that everything soon became a shade of grey. He studied what people he considered cool did, and copied them.
One day I knocked on his door. He opened it, waving a cigarette and wearing sandals and a kaftan, The Jesus and Mary Chain blaring from his new Marantz stereo. He didn’t speak… just beckoned me in. I passed a coffee table where a pile of NME magazines sat beside novels by Satre and Kafka - both bookmarked. Beads adorned the door to his room, which as far as I could tell, seemed to have been adopted by Bedouins. He poured himself a glass of Absinth, and plopped himself down in one of the large lounge chairs - then indicated for me to sit opposite him. Just as I moved, he yelled - and I turned to see a carefully placed Joy Division Berlin concert bootleg had been carefully left on the arm. “Careful with that” he shouted over the deafening music, “it cost $60 and took 2 months to get here”.
To be honest, I don’t really recall much else from my last visit to the Image Man. I’m sure we talked, or he talked, but since I couldn’t hear it, and most of it was just him randomly quoting existentialist literature, I quickly forgot it. He never offered me a drink, or anything to eat, or anything one might deem hospitality. I seemed little more than a conduit for his desperate efforts to impress.
I left him sitting in his big chair, gently bobbing to the grinding guitar feedback of Some candy talkin’ and staring at his shoes. He never got up to see me out.
I never went back.
It’s not unusual for me to get a bit nostalgic at this time of year, as my mind replays festive seasons, and in particular, New Years Eves of the past.
In bygone years, celebrating the last night of the year, and the start of a new year has meant a lot to me. Some of those occasions marked the start of an exciting year, or the end of a shitty one, but I’d say that on all but one occasion I looked to the year ahead with a fair bit of optimism. It was that sense of looking forward that typically coloured my New Year’s Eve celebrations.
I think my earliest recollection was of warm nights spent in the backyard pool, while mum and dad enjoyed a few quiet beers with friends and neighbours. I’m pretty sure that while my sis and I were kids my folks never did the grandiose NYE party thang, but I could be wrong. It wasn’t until I turned 16 that I had wen to my first “real” New Year’s Party.
Kroll had thrown a birthday party a few months earlier that rocked, and this instantly earned him the reputation as party host extraordinaire. His folks were pretty well off, and his house was perfectly set up for a teen party worthy of a John Hughs movie, complete with ping-pong and pool tables, a large in-ground pool, and two dimly lit sitting rooms with couches for making out. When NYE rolled around, Kroll’s house was THE place to be that year – and everyone who was anyone turned up. I recall I was having a pretty good time, and possibly even chatting up a girly at one stage – until the Bundy kicked in big time. Shortly after I was hurling chunks all over the Lazy Susan and my cool new jacket, wishing I could stop the back yard from rotating.
The next year I held my own NYE show, and pulled most of the “good” crowd from Kroll’s the year before. This was the first time I realised what being a host was all about – spending the evening pouring endless snacks into bowls, manning the BBQ, fetching drinks, and telling drunk people where the toilet was. Not to mention stone cold sober! I took the next year off, and headed for the South Coast with Subman and his brother – to the coolest surf club disco come party of the year. I’ll always have fond recollections of that night, and I’ve written about both it, and the girl already.
That’s not to say all my New Year’s eve’s were memorable, or particularly good. Some in fact, were deathly dull. Up there among those vying for the title were one spent wandering the streets of a seaside suburb, a group of 20 or so revellers being led by one really wasted girl who believed she knew of “a house where there’s a really great party”. Needless to say, three hours later as the clock struck midnight we were lost and sobering up, as she quietly fell asleep in the gutter. There was another one with what unexpectedly turned out to be a bunch of tea-totaling born again Happy Clappers. They say you don’t need alcohol to have fun. I say to those people, “you weren’t there”. There were also a couple of “just quiet” ones in there, neither particularly bad or good – just forgettable.
On the flipside, Millenium New Year’s eve in Rome was anything but forgettable. They say that on that night there were 17million people in the Papal city, and I reckon I saw every one of them. As the 60-person wide human tidal wave carried us along the Via dei Condotti, and firecrackers exploded just above our heads and under our feet every few seconds, all I could think about was a bomb going off - and the deadly stampede that would follow. Spooked and nervous, we got the bus outta there at 9pm and filed into the worst traffic jam I will probably ever see. Two and a half hours later we made it back to our hotel on the outskirts of Rome, and saw out 1999 with a small gathering in the safety of our room. Others never made it back until 5pm on New Year’s day, after a freezing night spent trying to sleep at the Roma stazione. They wished they came with us.
Another memorable occasion was the afternoon a huge, threatening, dark cloud rolled in across the city. Normally it would be pretty cool to feel the air charging up, watch the lightning flash and feel the deep, low rumble of a brewing thunderstorm over the ocean – unless you were on a sailboat with a 30ft aluminium mast. I eventually got ashore without getting struck by lightning, but only after dropping all the sails just as a 50knot gale struck. The storm continued for hours, but I celebrated my cheating death with several cold beverages at a medium sized party that evening. I spent the year after in a port town, and at the stroke of midnight all the ships in the harbour sounded their fog-horns.
Filed under “memorable but good” are a small number of NYE festivities. One spent on a remote island, where I got invited to a small gathering as I filled up the car with fuel at one of only a handful of petrol stations. The shindig turned out to be at a resort owned by an ex-Qantas pilot with a penchant for frocking up, and a Margarita fueled night of fun and revelry ensued. Another was spent in a remote country town, which somehow managed to draw thousands of people on New Year’s Eve that year. They closed off the main street and set up trestle tables outside the one and only pub, and parked a low-loader and live band at the end of it. I met people that had travelled there from all over the Australia that night… it was totally unexpected!
There was also one memorable night some years ago when I “officially” got together with the girl I’d later marry, so in essence, NYE is also an anniversary for me. Although this year was very quiet for numerous reasons, I still like to think there are memorable “last night of the year”s off in the future – and I look forward to those.
For now though, I look forward to 2009 and hope that all it brings is good – not just for me, but for those I care about.
Happy New Year everyone. =)
Over the months and years I have been here, I have participated in several team building excercises, and where possible, embraced espirit de corps. When presented with retirement cards for some spotty old man in Spatial Relations I have never exchanged a single syllable with, I have gladly added some non-committal parting words. When the chubby plain girl with no personality from Asset Management went on maternity leave, I threw a few gold coins in the zip lock bag along with everyone else. I have bought rounds at the pub when rounds were bought for me.
However, one recent event has made my position abundantly clear, and I can only thank the person responsible for bringing this to my attention. In light of this information, please be advised of a general cutback in generosity and goodwill affecting all staff, effective immediately.
The donuts you all scoffed on my recent birthday are the last you will ever see from me, and the cash I contributed for my right to sign dozens of cards will no longer be forthcoming. In fact, please do not even present cards or collections to me in future.
As a gesture of my independence, and to reduce the obviuos burden I place on the organisation, I have also commenced bringing my own tea bags and milk to the office. Although this hasn’t been raised as an issue, in light of recent developments I feel the need to be proactive. Further to this, I also withdraw from the office Xmas party lest someone complain about me “sponging” by virtue of consuming free liquor. It’s only fair and reasonable I should do so. Might I also that if I want to see a drunk biker chick slut flash repeatedly, I will go to a titty bar. At least I am unlikely to bump into any ex-employees there. Still, if that’s how she pays indirectly for her “free” xmas drinks, then I guess everyone wins.
Finally, except for the handful of individuals I have come to know as friends, and would gladly spend out-of-office time with, fuck the lot of you.
Driving home I was a passenger, like someone else has the wheel. I watched the sun come up on the longest day and the longest night, and I knew sleep could not come quick enough. At some point, in the middle of some long, straight stretch of tarmac I asked myself what day it was. Friday? Saturday? The white lines raced by reflected in the rear-view mirror, and the rising sun burned the low grey cloud a dull orange. Something had changed. They say it happens the first time those eyes look at you. They have no colour, and everything they see is unknown… yet you recognise them.
You see yourself in them.
I’m not sure when I first knew Parallel Lines existed, but I’m pretty sure the first time I heard the hit single Heart of Glass was on the TV Show Countdown. Straight away it was like nothing I’d ever heard before, with its fusion of unashamed disco, funk and new wave. I didn’t even know what new wave meant… but man… I liked it!
It was some years later that I came across the record at one of the many monster record fairs I frequented at the time. Vinyl was rapidly becoming uncool, and the Compact Disc was ushering in the future of popular music. I loved it… because I was able to pick up all the retro stuff for next to nothing!
Of course I swung the tonearm over to track 10 on side 2 for the record’s first playing, and immediately I noticed all these sounds I’d never heard before. For a start, the electronic bongo sound that gets swamped by the first cymbal crash - that pervades throughout the whole song ( a similar sound can be heard on Atomic, set to a faster tempo ). I also thought the keyboard on the choruses sounded like a carnival ride, especially the solo just before Debby Harry sings “yeaaah ridin’ high on love’s true blue shine”. I was surprised how complex, yet effortless, Heart of Glass sounded.
At just 2:17 Hanging on the Telephone was the most amazing piece of chick rock I had ever heard. It’s just so perfectly crafted, with it’s 60’s style do-wap fills ( “Oh I can’t control myself” ) and wailing guitar solos. I hear anger and frustration in the vocals, before the song just suddenly winds down and leaves you… hanging.
I always loved the ( less than subtle ) innuendo in Picture This, but the combo of keyboard and guitar rounds it out so well. I love the pauses in it - especially the one at the end of the first verse that has the neat little guitar fill in it. I will give you my finest hour. Ooooohhh yeah!
I think Sunday Girl is possibly the most pop sounding song on Parallel Lines, but that’s in no way an insult. In some ways it’s a hint of what’s to follow on albums like Auto American, where many of the songs are sung in a higher register. Like most people I love the French verse, especially the bit with the drum fills where she sings “depeches toi, depeches toi attends!”. The way the guitar builds toward the end is just brilliant, and it remains one of my favourite Blondie songs.
Just go away and I’m gonna Love ya too ( the shortest song on the record at just over 2 minutes ) I’ve always thought were filler tracks, and certainly don’t do a great deal for me - but I will still happily sit through them.
Fade away and Radiate though, is a terrific song, and its dark melancholic style is unlike anything else on the album. For some reason I always thought it was about Marilyn Monroe. Pretty Baby follows, and while it’s not up to the big hitters in terms of punch, it nicely lifts the mood. I always thought the line “some say I’d had my chance” said “some say I’d had my chips”!
One way or Another tends to divide people, but personally, I like it. The sneer in Debby Harry’s vocals is a hangover from Plastic Letters and other earlier work - and sadly, that song is the last we ever hear of it. It’s always sounds sorta fun, and a little bit sexy to me.
Will anything Happen is not a bad in-between track, but I think it’s a bit soft after the grinding guitars of 11:59. It was always great flipping the record over and hearing this as the first song after the in-track on side 2, especially since it features the line “sidewalk social scientist”. I always fancied that as a career.
I’d already heard all the later Blondie stuff by the time I managed to buy a copy of Parallel Lines, but I still rate it as the best of their work. It’s a great landmark of that transition from Disco / Punk to the more electronic synthesizer oriented sounds of the early 1980’s. When you consider what popular music sounded like in 1978, and the bands Blondie stood alongside, it’s all the more amazing. It still sounds brilliant to me.
Black plastic passion is a nostalgic flick through Generalboy’s crates of vinyl recordings. It includes some classic popular albums from 1976 - 1985, some rarities, and some absolute shockers. I hope this bit of self indulgence inspires readers to give some of this earlier stuff another listen, or even just laugh at how utterly dreadful some of it was.
I would have liked to have spent the last TWT for some time under more leisurely circumstances, alas, the arrow of time flies toward its target with constant velocity, and no deviation.
This isn’t the end of the phoned-in institution I call Time Wastin’ Tuesday, just a break from it that I cannot say will be short or long.
I will be back wastin’ time again, so think of me every Tuesday with my head down and my arse up. I’ll remember those happy, carefree days spent coercing bloggers to squander valuable time with fondness and a twinge of nostalgia.
So that was ( the not quite last ever ) Time Wastin’ Tuesday. How was yours?
It seems as if I am in a wicked downward spiral of time poverty lately, and blogging unfortunately has been pushed to the bottom of the work pile ( in case you haven’t noticed… Singaporian lurker ). There’s a whole lot going on in TinyTown, and despite the economy’s seemingly overwhelming desire to disappear up it’s own poop-chute, I am flat out with work.
It’s about to get a whole lot more silly after the end of October, and I’m afraid I have no choice but to seriously scale back my feeble contribution to the blog-o-drome. To this end, tremendously unpopular columns like “Generalboy remembers” will get the heave-ho. I am also sad to report that I am going to have to suspend Time Wastin’ Tuesday.
On the upside, I would rather write one random post that is somewhat readable at my leisure, and also have a quick look at the few blogs I still read, over the course of the week. I also hope the missing stuff may be replaced by a small, regular review feature that I can write just about anywhere, with limited time. Aside from that though, I will probably be reverting to just one post a week for the forseeable future.
I do owe everyone a catch up, and I will visit the handful of readers that are still kind enough to drop by over the weekend sometime. Except for you, lurker from Amsterdam… I don’t even know if you have a blog or are just shy. But that’s OK.