Thursday, April 26, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
He’s wearing vice-like headphones that could crush his skull. What does he do?
Scenario 1: Musician. He looks the part. Patched jacket, scattered hair, vague hint of eye make-up. It’s all very well put together. I imagine he's listening to some dub-garage band from the Middle East that I couldn’t find on iTunes or the latest Chillout Sessions compilation. I bet he sees the music in layers. Pulling songs apart on a screen in the front of his mind, like in the Minority Report. Separating the drums from the bass; then the kick from snare; analysing the inconsistency in the snare sound; then moving to a bird's eye view of the skin being hit; freezing frame, ignoring all other sounds. Just looping the sound of the snare being hit. The skin is an old one he deduces. Why would they use an old skin for recording? His mind runs wild: couldn't afford a new one? No, that’s not it. The drummer had an affinity with this skin, his 'recording skin'? Probably not that, either. The sound engineer was an idiot? Possibly. Or, and by far the most pleasing thought, was that, given the entire band including the singer were recorded live to tape in a bunker in 1983, they'd never imagined anyone would hear this take. Our Musician-man pictures them setting up for band practice, the bass player insisting they mic everything up and record a few demos, only to discover the demos were good enough to be a low-fi release.
Scenario 2: He was a guy that used “Fuck My Life” in conversation. Ends sentences with “that is all”. Drinks cleanskin Merlot. Sneaks a flask into gigs. Pays out on local bands. Never dances. Never makes music. Complains about not having money, but despises the idea of working in retail, hospitality, or worse, a desk job. Believes he’s a ‘free-spirit’, but lives at home. The worst type of person you can be seated next to a house party.
He picks a booger from his nose and eats it. Pulls off his headphones and I can hear ‘Yellow’ by Coldplay. Answers his phone and smiles for 30 seconds. And I realise I’m the idiot. I’m the one headed to work in an office from 9am-7pm, wearing overalls, clutching Creativity by its nub. Eating a cos lettuce salad for lunch. Photos I’ve taken on my iPhone printed out and blu-tacked to my office wall. Still at my desk at 5:30pm, writing this blog, and listening to Snow Patrol through vice-like headphones that could crush my skull.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
“Dildos with Ryan Gosling’s face on them.”
“On the end? I mean, I don’t have a vagina… but do chicks really want someone’s face inside them?”
“Why don’t they make Ryan Gosling tampons instead? Less intrusive. Or maybe even Ryan Gosling pillows? For the lonely.”
“Tampons!? You don’t want to bleed on him. Besides, there wouldn’t be enough room for the detail of his face. And I reckon pillows is a shit idea. No one would be that obsessed with him.”
“Really? Dude, we’ve been going out three years and you’ve never been more rowdy in the sack than after you saw that Tumblr with him on it.”
“Huh? Which one…? No….”
“The one where he’s looking at things, or riding dogs or something.”
“You mean, Ryan Gosling With Cats?”
“Yeh. Maybe when the dildo range takes off you could start one titled Ryan Gosling With Pussy.”
“You’re not funny. And you’ve got a booger hanging from your nose. Here, let me get it.”
She got it.
“You know another thing… I’m getting sick of people saying Hey, Girl. That’s his sort of catch phrase, isn’t it?”
“You’re a genius, Coleman. Hey, Girl could be the name for the dildo range.”
“The weird looking bald dude who plays for Carlton could have his own range too. Chicks think he’s hot, right?”
“You know less about women than you do football.”
“But because he’s bald, it would… you know, be better on a dildo and that…”
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
“You're going to die, Pop. Most likely tomorrow. I’ve already taken the liberty of cleaning out your wine rack.”
I could feel death coming on quickly. Sitting upright, my shoulder pinned to vinyl, blood stewing.
I waited for the clarity. The one they say comes just before you die. I waited for the clarity so I could dictate that final haiku, to add to the collection of haikus I'd never written and didn’t regret not writing.
While I casually waited to die, I asked for my window to be pushed open, to sample the sweet smell of the outdoors one last time. But the smells were no more pungent than they had ever been before.
I was waiting, with my youngest, Geoffrey.
“I can, Geoffrey. I can feel it. But, who knows, it could be days…”
He had left his own chair and was leaning across me now; his armpit smothering the crusted mess where my oxygen mask used to be.
“Pop, where's the coin?” He asked, foraging through my pockets.
“What coin, Geoffrey?”
“Your lucky coin, Pop. From the war.”
“Have I ever told you the story of that coin?”
“Yes, yes. Her basket. A baby, other romantic crap. Heard the story. Now, do you remember where you put that coin?!”
I did remember. It was in my coin pocket, as it had been since the day Carienne had entrusted it to me. The beautiful Carienne, with her…
“Pop, snap out of it - the coin?”
“Help me a second, Son, I'll check in my pocket.”
As if I were a car he were helping start, Geoffrey pushed on my middle back. Forward now, I peeled an arm from the vinyl and began the charade of a search, like I had done decades earlier when performing magic tricks involving his infant ears. As I had done back then, I kept the coin in my hand the whole time.
“Can you feel it?”
With that, I put my hand behind my back and shoved the coin inside me.
“Yes, Son, I can feel it. I can feel it coming on quite quickly, now.”