Death will be the biggest suprise we will ever have. Or it would be if we were able to feel it when it claims us but I have an ever growing suspicion that we won't. I haven't completely lost faith in the Ever After or Other Side and its more than likely a 'What If?' moment on my behalf, a little shred of doubt nestling into my lobe, but I have to wonder; what if we are being conned? What if there is nothing beyond the coffin lid but grit and maggots?
Fine after we die of course as nothing will matter to nothing but it leaves Life itself whilst we live it a lot harsher.
After such an exciting prelude to Life when we are thrust at birth into a glaring sun, it would be the mightiest of flat tyres to have us suffocate at the End in a pool of black as if being stamped out by a giant exclamation mark. Life has a pretty morbid sense of humour even if nobody is at the celestial steering wheel. The forces that govern black humour seem to fuel themselves, they need no hungover God to fan dark capers.
But I digress. Could it be that we go about our lives under a godless sky only to return as dust on an infinite (empty) bookshelf? Its a miserable thought, and where as millions of atheists have no trouble living under that grey shadow, for someone like myself who has always had a strong faith in 'flowers in the clouds' it is enough to send shivers through my soul. In selfish, ungrateful moods when I despair at the world which my mortal heart is anchored to, images in my minds eye of golden pastures and silver rivers nestled in some eternal valley, are what keeps me ploughing on. The splinters I gather today, the scars and weights that lay heavy, will (I believe) be plucked out and soothed when I teeter on my last foot steps.
And then the doubts arrive like annoying sun showers during a picnic; drenching the mind butterflies, making them difficult to fly in the buttery air. A bruise in the honey pot. This could be all there is to Life, in the here and now or the here after; this might be the only flash of light we get from an eternity of darkness. Terrible thoughts butting into the sunshine until there is nothing for it but to accept that we may get nothing after the rigor mortis is done. And the question begs, why should we? Afterall life isn't a tour of duty that each of us choose to sign up for with promise of rich rewards awaiting us when done.
On days such as these when I find myself hurtling inside an invisible ball toward a pond of mud, it is quite easy to imagine life without its blossoms and ribbons; silent from the trumpets fanfare. I see everything as if in code, things happening for a sensible reason. No magic or mystery, just trees growing because they are trees and razors sharp because they are razors. Im simply following the white lines in the middle of the road with the brakes cut and steering locked. Rolling along, breathing, clicking my heels, more breathing, no excitement at cardboard scenery, breathing becoming shallow, pulling on gin draughts, eager for End, breathing stalls. Dead time.
Without that flower I sometimes catch glimpse of in the crack in the sky, the world goes bland and shatters any sense of adventure into smithereens on the sober marble floor. The fires burn for nothing and inspiration disappears leaving a mass of withered weeds where once was an ocean. A little dramatic maybe but the reader will understand what im saying; without a nod of hope to sun battered horizons and a gate upon death into glorious meadows then I feel my body sag under almost unbearable weight and my skin feels as brittle as egg shells.
It will matter little in death of course but right now, trying to imagine having cold soil as the only shelter from my cadaver, it is a barren scene. Thankfully my notions of eternity behind iron masks do not settle for long inside my head, certainly not long enough to put me into permenant despair. And strange, little things that occur in life which cannot possibly be of this world happen often enough to dispel the scene of ghostly desert plains.
Strange events are what I cling to when I begin to lose vision of my spirit because odd things have no plan or structure, and by breaking the 'normal' rules of life they prove (without doubt in my mind) that something exists in other worlds. Anything weird points to creeps and gods at work. I like to think of it as a leak in the universal cistern, where occasionaly things from some OTHER world spill into ours.
Of course I have no right to demand golden chalices of wine and paradise by the bucketload when I turn DECEASED and neither do I deserve them. Im just another vessel of organs and bone trying to make sense of this pit stop. Only I can't help but think there is more to life than atoms. The force which created mountains and rivers, then decided to chuck in a few ghosts and chupacabras into the mix for good measure, and rest assured the being that thinks like that has left us more than mere coffins as the final Full Stop.
Friday 23 April 2010
Thursday 15 April 2010
The Mind Casket
Now before anybody accuses me of being as dry as a callus on an enviromentalists sinewy finger, let me state quite clearly that I do in fact enjoy some television and I have programmes which I would follow religiously had I the inclination to chase up their listings in tv guides. There are some fine productions to be discovered if one can summon the patience to sift through the endless tide of garbage.
It is the TV addicts, the ones who kneel at the chins of soap stars and reality show judges, which I cannot abide. They make me sick to my stomach, which due to a lifetime of unholy binges on nefarious goodies takes some doing as my constitution rivals that of the most hardened Oxes and pathologists.
Some people will spend entire days and nights rooted to the glare of a screen being bombarded by cookery shows and endless advirtisements. There are even poor wretches who insist on leaving their idiot box ON in the background as if switching the infernal thing OFF would be like cutting off the oxygen supply in the room.
The rot in their brain must be as damaging as the havoc alcohol causes on livers of habitual drinkers. In fact, scrap the 'must be', it IS as damaging I have no doubt whatsoever on this. In short it is a living room lobotomy affecting everything from manners to the arts. Our grand culture is very nearly in tatters as Shakespeare and Wordsworth are shunned for The X Factor, and communication been reduced to snorts and grunts like baboons at a karaoke bar.
I realise im sounding alarmist (and probably hysterical to a few) but it matters little what I am; if video killed the radio star as the song went, then television killed the spirit. It has turned many of its stupefied audience lazy to the core and robbed them of the pleasures that children of not so long ago got from books or building things outdoors.
How many children (or adults come to that) actually pick up a book these days? How many rip the plug out of the entertainment system and disappear into the pages of a great novel? Very few I would wager and it is a real tragedy because books, especially those first ones we read as children, are so important in stimulating imagination and forming individual ideas. With television we simply create zombies, shuffling from one scene to the next without any real solid thought. Everything is spoonfed to the watcher until they are ready for bed.
And the less said about the cancerous celebrity culture which television promotes the better. Suffice to say that cheap looking glamour models and jack-of-no-trade-famous-for-nothing mutton heads have no substance or value, and one would be better looking into the bowels of hell to find a hero. That awful 'culture' is crass, tasteless, something so vile and empty that even pinheaded teenage tartlets ought to ignore its stench. (But of course they don't, perhaps even can't.)
A lot of parents are raising their children in the company of monsters. Helping them dance to a sordid tune made of jingles and paparazzi dust. Of course its not soley down to television and it would folly to try argue that it was but it does own a substantial piece of the destructive root which is finding its hold more secure each day.
It is not all apocalypse of course. There are jewels to be found at the end of a remote control; well written dramas/series and some truly fascinating documentaries. As I have already admitted, I love a bit of television. Im not an ogre buzzing off lofty ideals best suited to the Victorian age. Perish the thought! Give me my dose of dramas like Bones, Prison Break and The Sopranos and im as happy as a pen in ink. Or throw Spongebob Squarepants and National Geographic on and im just as thrilled.
Television is not a demon to me, its only when people throw themselves so totally at its mercy that it bares the sick side to its 'personality'. As with everything else in life, overuse inevitably leads to toxic results. And those results could be disastrous to society. Problems are already beginning to rear their troublesome heads with obesity levels in children risen in these past few years to way beyond what is considered healthy. It will take longer for the brain damage to make an appearance but I have no doubts whatsoever that it will. And I don't mean regular damage, but troubles to the mind both emotional and in creative ways.
It is unwise to allow the shimmering screen entertain any ages for long periods of time (and with the advent of games consoles and the internet even more so.) Moderation must be applied or society WILL become less lead by the spirit of Man and more tempted by shallow themes or vices. Inspiration will disappear from our grasp and our children will be content in merely sitting back and allowing others to think and sculpt, to write and paint. But there will BE no others and futures will be doomed.
Scoff if you must;. the idiots and soulless monsters in forthcoming years are in your care for now. And there are still those with a need to build. Repent those smirks only when the aerials have bound our wings and mindless entertainment has made us so fat that spirits fail to fly.
It is the TV addicts, the ones who kneel at the chins of soap stars and reality show judges, which I cannot abide. They make me sick to my stomach, which due to a lifetime of unholy binges on nefarious goodies takes some doing as my constitution rivals that of the most hardened Oxes and pathologists.
Some people will spend entire days and nights rooted to the glare of a screen being bombarded by cookery shows and endless advirtisements. There are even poor wretches who insist on leaving their idiot box ON in the background as if switching the infernal thing OFF would be like cutting off the oxygen supply in the room.
The rot in their brain must be as damaging as the havoc alcohol causes on livers of habitual drinkers. In fact, scrap the 'must be', it IS as damaging I have no doubt whatsoever on this. In short it is a living room lobotomy affecting everything from manners to the arts. Our grand culture is very nearly in tatters as Shakespeare and Wordsworth are shunned for The X Factor, and communication been reduced to snorts and grunts like baboons at a karaoke bar.
I realise im sounding alarmist (and probably hysterical to a few) but it matters little what I am; if video killed the radio star as the song went, then television killed the spirit. It has turned many of its stupefied audience lazy to the core and robbed them of the pleasures that children of not so long ago got from books or building things outdoors.
How many children (or adults come to that) actually pick up a book these days? How many rip the plug out of the entertainment system and disappear into the pages of a great novel? Very few I would wager and it is a real tragedy because books, especially those first ones we read as children, are so important in stimulating imagination and forming individual ideas. With television we simply create zombies, shuffling from one scene to the next without any real solid thought. Everything is spoonfed to the watcher until they are ready for bed.
And the less said about the cancerous celebrity culture which television promotes the better. Suffice to say that cheap looking glamour models and jack-of-no-trade-famous-for-nothing mutton heads have no substance or value, and one would be better looking into the bowels of hell to find a hero. That awful 'culture' is crass, tasteless, something so vile and empty that even pinheaded teenage tartlets ought to ignore its stench. (But of course they don't, perhaps even can't.)
A lot of parents are raising their children in the company of monsters. Helping them dance to a sordid tune made of jingles and paparazzi dust. Of course its not soley down to television and it would folly to try argue that it was but it does own a substantial piece of the destructive root which is finding its hold more secure each day.
It is not all apocalypse of course. There are jewels to be found at the end of a remote control; well written dramas/series and some truly fascinating documentaries. As I have already admitted, I love a bit of television. Im not an ogre buzzing off lofty ideals best suited to the Victorian age. Perish the thought! Give me my dose of dramas like Bones, Prison Break and The Sopranos and im as happy as a pen in ink. Or throw Spongebob Squarepants and National Geographic on and im just as thrilled.
Television is not a demon to me, its only when people throw themselves so totally at its mercy that it bares the sick side to its 'personality'. As with everything else in life, overuse inevitably leads to toxic results. And those results could be disastrous to society. Problems are already beginning to rear their troublesome heads with obesity levels in children risen in these past few years to way beyond what is considered healthy. It will take longer for the brain damage to make an appearance but I have no doubts whatsoever that it will. And I don't mean regular damage, but troubles to the mind both emotional and in creative ways.
It is unwise to allow the shimmering screen entertain any ages for long periods of time (and with the advent of games consoles and the internet even more so.) Moderation must be applied or society WILL become less lead by the spirit of Man and more tempted by shallow themes or vices. Inspiration will disappear from our grasp and our children will be content in merely sitting back and allowing others to think and sculpt, to write and paint. But there will BE no others and futures will be doomed.
Scoff if you must;. the idiots and soulless monsters in forthcoming years are in your care for now. And there are still those with a need to build. Repent those smirks only when the aerials have bound our wings and mindless entertainment has made us so fat that spirits fail to fly.
Saturday 10 April 2010
Gibbons & Lentils
The Greenies are a fraud. There, ive said it. No doubt some of their spineless kind would liked to be called 'eco warriors' or some such tripe but as the word 'warrior' often points to people with courage and honour they will get no such title from me. Green Nutcases is what they are and what they'll always be to me. Completely lacking in moral fibre and possessing a streak so hypocritical they could probably use it to power a small country.
'Save The Trees!' They shout. 'Save The Planet!' They yell, begging humanity to change its ways. We all know somebody like this. Those jellied types who try to offer gentle advice when in truth their lecturing goes by without so much a murmur. Sensible people stand, glazed over by the ant assed ramblings of the near mad and feeble.
Do these cretins not realise that this 'fragile' planet doesn't need us protecting it? It could quite easily carry on without us, and its damned arrogant of the Green Nutcases to think it couldn't. But then arrogance (and ignorance) is a common feature among the lentil brigade. They talk a big fight but are no more than cowards skulking behind a false veneer. Who do they think they are fooling? Certainly not me.
I can look beyond their facade; whenever they attempt to take the morally higher path I can actually see their tongues blister under the weight of lies. Sewer rats have better polished morals, and no doubt conduct their lives with more sincerity than these fools. And they speak in a such grand voice as if they are somehow superior but its a sham, and proof that they are bigger toads than toads could ever be. Their houses crammed with earth busting products.
Another thing which is a Green Nutcase favourite is trying to stop everyone else having a good time. (Probably because they themselves are wallowing in such misery.) They are happy to ban hunting and dog racing, anything these weirdos consider 'inhumane' is fair game (pun intended). Yet wise people never do this. I myself hate football and television (television does much more harm than hunting but greenies are not expected to understand this) but I do not wish to see them outlawed. Why? Because I DO care about others, I am NOT a hypocrite. I am sensible.
The best way to deal with them is to ignore them completely. Cowards and mad people tend to go away if they see nobody taking notice of their strange ravings. And know this my friends; the moon bathers can preach all the gutless sermons they want, if this ships sinking they're going with it. Where is the superiority in that?
'Save The Trees!' They shout. 'Save The Planet!' They yell, begging humanity to change its ways. We all know somebody like this. Those jellied types who try to offer gentle advice when in truth their lecturing goes by without so much a murmur. Sensible people stand, glazed over by the ant assed ramblings of the near mad and feeble.
Do these cretins not realise that this 'fragile' planet doesn't need us protecting it? It could quite easily carry on without us, and its damned arrogant of the Green Nutcases to think it couldn't. But then arrogance (and ignorance) is a common feature among the lentil brigade. They talk a big fight but are no more than cowards skulking behind a false veneer. Who do they think they are fooling? Certainly not me.
I can look beyond their facade; whenever they attempt to take the morally higher path I can actually see their tongues blister under the weight of lies. Sewer rats have better polished morals, and no doubt conduct their lives with more sincerity than these fools. And they speak in a such grand voice as if they are somehow superior but its a sham, and proof that they are bigger toads than toads could ever be. Their houses crammed with earth busting products.
Another thing which is a Green Nutcase favourite is trying to stop everyone else having a good time. (Probably because they themselves are wallowing in such misery.) They are happy to ban hunting and dog racing, anything these weirdos consider 'inhumane' is fair game (pun intended). Yet wise people never do this. I myself hate football and television (television does much more harm than hunting but greenies are not expected to understand this) but I do not wish to see them outlawed. Why? Because I DO care about others, I am NOT a hypocrite. I am sensible.
The best way to deal with them is to ignore them completely. Cowards and mad people tend to go away if they see nobody taking notice of their strange ravings. And know this my friends; the moon bathers can preach all the gutless sermons they want, if this ships sinking they're going with it. Where is the superiority in that?
Thursday 8 April 2010
Music From The Mirror
Music for me is as much part of life as the blood surging through my veins. Living would be a damn sight poorer show if I didn't have my favourite artists/bands playing in the background, but I fail to understand the attraction of tribute bands.
Make no mistake, I do not have absolute animosity toward them like I have for my other pet bugs, but I do find myself tutting and rolling my eyes whenever I see them in music magazines. I understand the whole 'immitation is the sincerest form of flattery' angle but I prefer the originals. And while I admit that some may be excellent musicians who mimic their chosen artist perfectly (sometimes even better), I only raise my devil horns for the real thing. Call me a snob if you like, I don't care. I couldn't see myself rushing to buy tickets to see what is essentially a rip off of my all time favourite bands.
When I want to catch the likes of Iron Maiden, Slayer or Motley Crue, I don't wish to see their uglier doppelgangers strut the stage, hamming it up to classic songs. Or worse, behaving as if they actually WERE my musical heroes. And this seems to happen a lot. There was a Guns n' Roses tribute act doing the rounds a few years ago, and happily I didn't witness it but a friend did, the singer of the act walked around the tiny club they were playing in as if he was Axl Rose!?
Now it is said that the smaller the band/artist then the bigger the ego because unknown names need to make a noise for themselves. (People like Keith Richards don't need to do this.) If this is true then the pouting and antics that this Axl wannabe must have been truly awful to see. Indeed the same must be said of all the aspiring AC/DC's and Metallica's, im willing to bet that they ALL believe themselves to be huge names in their own heads; legends in their teapots.
Nope, I have no time for actors (for this is what they surely are) playing copied music because nothing is of their own design, from body moves to music style. And to my mind there is nothing impressive about playing by numbers. By all means perform your greatest gig in front of your bedroom mirror but don't expect me to go out and watch it, much less PAY to see it.
I want to be Running To The Hills WITH Iron Maiden, not running for the hills to escape their younger, dumber brother.
Make no mistake, I do not have absolute animosity toward them like I have for my other pet bugs, but I do find myself tutting and rolling my eyes whenever I see them in music magazines. I understand the whole 'immitation is the sincerest form of flattery' angle but I prefer the originals. And while I admit that some may be excellent musicians who mimic their chosen artist perfectly (sometimes even better), I only raise my devil horns for the real thing. Call me a snob if you like, I don't care. I couldn't see myself rushing to buy tickets to see what is essentially a rip off of my all time favourite bands.
When I want to catch the likes of Iron Maiden, Slayer or Motley Crue, I don't wish to see their uglier doppelgangers strut the stage, hamming it up to classic songs. Or worse, behaving as if they actually WERE my musical heroes. And this seems to happen a lot. There was a Guns n' Roses tribute act doing the rounds a few years ago, and happily I didn't witness it but a friend did, the singer of the act walked around the tiny club they were playing in as if he was Axl Rose!?
Now it is said that the smaller the band/artist then the bigger the ego because unknown names need to make a noise for themselves. (People like Keith Richards don't need to do this.) If this is true then the pouting and antics that this Axl wannabe must have been truly awful to see. Indeed the same must be said of all the aspiring AC/DC's and Metallica's, im willing to bet that they ALL believe themselves to be huge names in their own heads; legends in their teapots.
Nope, I have no time for actors (for this is what they surely are) playing copied music because nothing is of their own design, from body moves to music style. And to my mind there is nothing impressive about playing by numbers. By all means perform your greatest gig in front of your bedroom mirror but don't expect me to go out and watch it, much less PAY to see it.
I want to be Running To The Hills WITH Iron Maiden, not running for the hills to escape their younger, dumber brother.
Wednesday 7 April 2010
Rebels Of The Nil By Mouth
The current media and 'social commentators' would have you believe that Britain is dissolving amidst a flurry of teenage rampages, crime and illicit drugs. That we are heading down the path of no return. I tend to agree in most part but if we are going to implode in a ball of blood and vice, I hope the young bandits are capable of sending us on our way with a bit more style.
Im talking about this craze of legal highs thats whipping the country. Readers here will think me irresponsible but I have to ask, why on earth are youngsters today messing around with legal drugs? Websites are filled with things called Snow Blow, Retro Pills, Underground Doves, Smoking Herbs and the latest stimulant pariah, mephedrone, also known as Meow Meow, M-Cat and Bubble. Who honestly wants to take these ridiculous sounding 'drugs'? The names are as weak as the ingredients in the substances.
'Hey man, wanna come out and shoot some Meow Meow?' 'Nah dude, I got me some retro pills to chill out to!' Sounds more like the Milky Bar Kid than Billy the Kid to me. Nevermind the danger, I would die of shame if caught dabbling with this garbage. I don't understand it, and maybe with ever advancing footsteps into middle age Im not supposed to 'get it', but I can't see the big thrill.
If somebody wants to take drugs (and heres where I become irresponsible again) then for the love of rock n' roll and all that is 'Outlaw' please take the time to seek out REAL drugs. Preferably ones sold by a skinny, acne-ridden dealer on a dodgy housing estate who is willing to take your DVD collection as a chemical part exchange. There is nothing like playing in the big boys arena to make one feel alive. (Even if the 'alive' bit isn't for long.)
In the area I grew up, drugs started to arrive on the scene in the early 1990's and I found myself readily indulging in their X Rated delights. Cannabis wasn't high on my list of favourites (excuse the pun) but I embraced the comforts of valium and morphine with every heartstring tugging on my lovebone. Apart from the obvious charming sedative effects of those drugs, it was daring and utterly dangerous. The ritual of unsheathing a new syringe from its plastic wrapper, dissolving the morphine on a spoon, then drawing some blood before pushing the plunger into a plump vein was very attractive. It was sheer hedonistic bliss, always flirting with a deadly consequence.
All that is slowly disappearing because the kids are getting tame in their chosen poisons. Sure these 'legal highs' have their dangers but however number of bodybags they rack up, having the word LEGAL associated with a drug kind of dumbs it down a little. Its like someone dying of drinking too much water.
All drugs, illegal or not, contain the ingredients for calamity of course, and mess with either for long enough and you will find yourself on the wrong end of sanity or life. But at least the heroin crowd had the stomach to hold both barrels to their face before pulling the trigger, instead of tip toeing around the baby drugs found on dodgy websites.
If you are going to mess with addiction then do so wearing snakeskin boots because nothing is so embarrassing as an appetite for death if you are going to step off your self erected gallows in carpet slippers.
Im talking about this craze of legal highs thats whipping the country. Readers here will think me irresponsible but I have to ask, why on earth are youngsters today messing around with legal drugs? Websites are filled with things called Snow Blow, Retro Pills, Underground Doves, Smoking Herbs and the latest stimulant pariah, mephedrone, also known as Meow Meow, M-Cat and Bubble. Who honestly wants to take these ridiculous sounding 'drugs'? The names are as weak as the ingredients in the substances.
'Hey man, wanna come out and shoot some Meow Meow?' 'Nah dude, I got me some retro pills to chill out to!' Sounds more like the Milky Bar Kid than Billy the Kid to me. Nevermind the danger, I would die of shame if caught dabbling with this garbage. I don't understand it, and maybe with ever advancing footsteps into middle age Im not supposed to 'get it', but I can't see the big thrill.
If somebody wants to take drugs (and heres where I become irresponsible again) then for the love of rock n' roll and all that is 'Outlaw' please take the time to seek out REAL drugs. Preferably ones sold by a skinny, acne-ridden dealer on a dodgy housing estate who is willing to take your DVD collection as a chemical part exchange. There is nothing like playing in the big boys arena to make one feel alive. (Even if the 'alive' bit isn't for long.)
In the area I grew up, drugs started to arrive on the scene in the early 1990's and I found myself readily indulging in their X Rated delights. Cannabis wasn't high on my list of favourites (excuse the pun) but I embraced the comforts of valium and morphine with every heartstring tugging on my lovebone. Apart from the obvious charming sedative effects of those drugs, it was daring and utterly dangerous. The ritual of unsheathing a new syringe from its plastic wrapper, dissolving the morphine on a spoon, then drawing some blood before pushing the plunger into a plump vein was very attractive. It was sheer hedonistic bliss, always flirting with a deadly consequence.
All that is slowly disappearing because the kids are getting tame in their chosen poisons. Sure these 'legal highs' have their dangers but however number of bodybags they rack up, having the word LEGAL associated with a drug kind of dumbs it down a little. Its like someone dying of drinking too much water.
All drugs, illegal or not, contain the ingredients for calamity of course, and mess with either for long enough and you will find yourself on the wrong end of sanity or life. But at least the heroin crowd had the stomach to hold both barrels to their face before pulling the trigger, instead of tip toeing around the baby drugs found on dodgy websites.
If you are going to mess with addiction then do so wearing snakeskin boots because nothing is so embarrassing as an appetite for death if you are going to step off your self erected gallows in carpet slippers.
Tuesday 6 April 2010
Fox Oxygen: Acid Bombs Over Nail Bombs
I was stopped in the street a few months ago by a middle aged lady who told me, 'its nice to see someone bring colour onto the streets.' I was wearing black and white steaked trousers, a yellow shirt and Union Jack fashioned cap, so I did look like an arists palette and this womans pleasantry confirmed to me what I have always thought; colourful wardrobes not only make the wearer feel better looking to him/herself (if one has the confidence to dress this way) but it also brightens up the miserable shopping centres and gives the dowdy people something to aspire to.
There is nothing wrong with dressing down of course, afterall it is mood which so often dictates what one wears and those fickle spikes of mind candy are not always camped on the summit of happiness. Sometimes black and grey are best and as a lover of dark colours myself I see no harm in dressing down.
But colourful attires have a life of their own. They not only pick people out of dismal troughs when their eyes fall on rainbow pastels, they also have the power to lift one into more pleasing thoughts, ideas which go beyond the rain clouds. And like lures on a fishing line they attract attention rather than bury the wearer in pits of gloom or anonymity.
Spring and summer months almost seem to demand that people dress like keyrings in seaside souvenir shops but they ought make more effort during wnter months too. You could argue even more so in winter because bright yellows and oranges in those dark months are a perfect tonic which defy the heavy grey in the skies. It is all very well feeling out of sorts as the rain becomes us but to allow misery to completely swallow your gutsy spark is unthinkable. At least to me.
Granted I have always had an insatiable need for attention, a thirst for center stage and spotlights but there is more to it than simply a desire to be looked at. The not so humble peacock knows what I mean; add a little imagination to your wardrobe and rinse it through a kaleidascope of colour and voila! A potential torrent of admiring glances from the opposite sex awaits the successful poser because colour favours the brave.
Look at carnivals, mardi gras and liquor cocktails for example. A haven for bright spots and merry moods, things which seldom allow colours to run in mixture with tears. The cocktail that consists of only water and iced teas will rarely (see: Never) grab the headlines or gain multidudes of fans for there is no redness in their textures, no gold on the sheer, glassy cheeks. It is difficult trusting the grey man. The quiet ones claiming to know nothing; Fox Oxygen never to be tasted or believed.
No doubt about it, colourful pastures are where its all at. Sweet wrappers, fruit bowls, fairylights, disco lights, you name it, the good times always roll with the dizzy neons and brights of the crayon world. And so this extends to tafarns and shopping precincts; the yellows are laughing and swinging the beer whilst the greys and browns sulk in the corner with half a shandy worrying about public transport.
The moral of this bulletin? To stretch the lane leading to the boneyard, choose colour. The back of a rainbow is lot easier a burden than backs of turtles.
There is nothing wrong with dressing down of course, afterall it is mood which so often dictates what one wears and those fickle spikes of mind candy are not always camped on the summit of happiness. Sometimes black and grey are best and as a lover of dark colours myself I see no harm in dressing down.
But colourful attires have a life of their own. They not only pick people out of dismal troughs when their eyes fall on rainbow pastels, they also have the power to lift one into more pleasing thoughts, ideas which go beyond the rain clouds. And like lures on a fishing line they attract attention rather than bury the wearer in pits of gloom or anonymity.
Spring and summer months almost seem to demand that people dress like keyrings in seaside souvenir shops but they ought make more effort during wnter months too. You could argue even more so in winter because bright yellows and oranges in those dark months are a perfect tonic which defy the heavy grey in the skies. It is all very well feeling out of sorts as the rain becomes us but to allow misery to completely swallow your gutsy spark is unthinkable. At least to me.
Granted I have always had an insatiable need for attention, a thirst for center stage and spotlights but there is more to it than simply a desire to be looked at. The not so humble peacock knows what I mean; add a little imagination to your wardrobe and rinse it through a kaleidascope of colour and voila! A potential torrent of admiring glances from the opposite sex awaits the successful poser because colour favours the brave.
Look at carnivals, mardi gras and liquor cocktails for example. A haven for bright spots and merry moods, things which seldom allow colours to run in mixture with tears. The cocktail that consists of only water and iced teas will rarely (see: Never) grab the headlines or gain multidudes of fans for there is no redness in their textures, no gold on the sheer, glassy cheeks. It is difficult trusting the grey man. The quiet ones claiming to know nothing; Fox Oxygen never to be tasted or believed.
No doubt about it, colourful pastures are where its all at. Sweet wrappers, fruit bowls, fairylights, disco lights, you name it, the good times always roll with the dizzy neons and brights of the crayon world. And so this extends to tafarns and shopping precincts; the yellows are laughing and swinging the beer whilst the greys and browns sulk in the corner with half a shandy worrying about public transport.
The moral of this bulletin? To stretch the lane leading to the boneyard, choose colour. The back of a rainbow is lot easier a burden than backs of turtles.
Thursday 1 April 2010
Razor Lipstick From The Honey Boyz
Its no secret that Grunge metal/music did for Glam metal what cheeseburgers and fried banana sandwiches did for Elvis; with one swipe from its nicotine stained Fender those grunge kids lopped off the back-combed heads of the lipstick shakers and sent them sprawling for cover behind the hairspray counters. Dirt 1 - Pretty boys 0.
But the boyz it would seem are making a come back. After a a decidedly rickety period during the late nineties and early 2000's, glam metal is striding the boards again and this time its the moody lads with the sad eyes who have taken a dirtnap, or dirtbath. Perhaps its a reflection of the times? We are going through a shallow period at the moment what with threats of terror and money getting spread less thickly across the globe, so maybe more songs about good time rock and roll and cheerleaders are just what the worlds collective doctor ordered. Anthems about suicide or self mourning are much less needed.
The mainstay rock that I grew up to in the 80's (Motley Crue, Poison, Faster Pussycat, Cinderella, L.A. Guns etc) are mostly still around and still hammering out tunes to this day. The Crue particularly so having not so long ago recorded one of their best albums in years (Saints Of Los Angeles). And long may they reign because these guys have certainly paid their dues on the live monster circuit and its refreshing to hear the fun back in music after the fretboards have dished out so much gloom.
Everything moves in cycles of course and the swings and roundabouts will often shake up the music trends but I believe that in these greyest of times the day glow neon of honest-to-God rock is a perfect antidote to the war and organised religion bullshit which currently plagues this planet. It is the crest we can all stand on/surf on while the rubbish goes on below. One of the stalwarts of hair metal/rock, Bon Jovi, once said that love was Bad Medicine and they might well correct but ROCK is a very fine medicine be it glam, hair, spandex or sleaze metal. Who cares the label when it SOUNDS so damn gooood!
Of course any self respecting metalhead (lets call us that for it is the title we all share whether we be into satan or spandex) will tread carefully around the more glammier tunes for fear of tarnishing both reputation and bullet belt. But to me this is silly, in fact goes completely against the metal grain in my (studded) book because there should be no RULES or restrictions in the headbanging scene. It ought to be all raised devil horns from Guns n' Roses to Cannibal Corpse, or Warrant to Mastodon. I definately ignore the 'rules', there's too much of those in the outside world. Poison has as much a place in my CD tray as Lamb Of God, and no shame have I in kicking out 'Talk Dirty To Me' straight after Metallica's 'Creeping Death'. Why the F- should I be ashamed? Metal to me is a serpent of many colours and in these days of garbage and swine there is even more need for ballads over moshing. As I sit here tapping words onto my screen I am accompanied by the Scorpions hit 'Wind Of Change'. Indeed they have changed again; my vote is for the guys in lippy to get us through the wars.
But the boyz it would seem are making a come back. After a a decidedly rickety period during the late nineties and early 2000's, glam metal is striding the boards again and this time its the moody lads with the sad eyes who have taken a dirtnap, or dirtbath. Perhaps its a reflection of the times? We are going through a shallow period at the moment what with threats of terror and money getting spread less thickly across the globe, so maybe more songs about good time rock and roll and cheerleaders are just what the worlds collective doctor ordered. Anthems about suicide or self mourning are much less needed.
The mainstay rock that I grew up to in the 80's (Motley Crue, Poison, Faster Pussycat, Cinderella, L.A. Guns etc) are mostly still around and still hammering out tunes to this day. The Crue particularly so having not so long ago recorded one of their best albums in years (Saints Of Los Angeles). And long may they reign because these guys have certainly paid their dues on the live monster circuit and its refreshing to hear the fun back in music after the fretboards have dished out so much gloom.
Everything moves in cycles of course and the swings and roundabouts will often shake up the music trends but I believe that in these greyest of times the day glow neon of honest-to-God rock is a perfect antidote to the war and organised religion bullshit which currently plagues this planet. It is the crest we can all stand on/surf on while the rubbish goes on below. One of the stalwarts of hair metal/rock, Bon Jovi, once said that love was Bad Medicine and they might well correct but ROCK is a very fine medicine be it glam, hair, spandex or sleaze metal. Who cares the label when it SOUNDS so damn gooood!
Of course any self respecting metalhead (lets call us that for it is the title we all share whether we be into satan or spandex) will tread carefully around the more glammier tunes for fear of tarnishing both reputation and bullet belt. But to me this is silly, in fact goes completely against the metal grain in my (studded) book because there should be no RULES or restrictions in the headbanging scene. It ought to be all raised devil horns from Guns n' Roses to Cannibal Corpse, or Warrant to Mastodon. I definately ignore the 'rules', there's too much of those in the outside world. Poison has as much a place in my CD tray as Lamb Of God, and no shame have I in kicking out 'Talk Dirty To Me' straight after Metallica's 'Creeping Death'. Why the F- should I be ashamed? Metal to me is a serpent of many colours and in these days of garbage and swine there is even more need for ballads over moshing. As I sit here tapping words onto my screen I am accompanied by the Scorpions hit 'Wind Of Change'. Indeed they have changed again; my vote is for the guys in lippy to get us through the wars.
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