Tiny Little Fractures

Yes I know its an old movie (relatively) but then I’m not that cool. And yes its been nominated for Academy Awards and all that trollop but here are my rather simple observations on watching what was indubitably an awesome film.

1.  Do not under any circumstances give your kid a gun, especially a high powered rifle. I don’t care how many jackals you have wandering around your backyard, kids wil be kids and wilk take a pot at some American tourist or some such. This will not end well, in fact you’ll be lucky if you don’t end up with a Apache chopper up your arse instead of a Moroccan bullet in the back.

2.  Wear a bullet proof vest when traveling in Morocco.

3.  Mexican people know how to party but don’t seem to drink as much tequila as one would expect, in fact I seem to drink more when I’m partying.

4.  Border guards, immigration officials are cunts. Actually I already knew this having experienced in full living colour at the French embassy in LA, resulting in my boycotting France for the next ten years.

5.  Again this like the gun point may seem like an obvious point but don’t under any circumstances get into a car with a drunk driver, unless said drunk driver is Bounty, P,  R or Chinky Pinky. But especially not with a drunk Mexican when one has to cross the American border, come on…that’s just asking for trouble.

6.  Morocco only seems to have one ambulance.

7.  Fat, white Brits who can’t seem to give up their colonial hangovers should get a punch in the snoot.

8.  The desert’s damn hot and red is not a becoming colour to wear in it.

9.  Your best friend hooking up with someone you fancy is never a good thing.

10. Japanese girls need to learn about trimmers and apparently don’t wear panties very often

11. Aforementioned Japanese girls and guys seem to have some rather odd mating rituals involving multi-coloured drugs, cheap whiskey in ridiculously small amounts and water fountains.

12. Japanese clubs seem to have as bad music as Sri Lankan clubs, though better light effects. I reckon this combined with some elements of numbers 10 and 11 might make a visit worthwile.

13. Being deaf would suck…and this to me is the most profound thing I learnt from Babel.

If you do want a more profound treatment about the movie check the original link, or skiddadle your mouse here. Me, I loved the movie, composition, colours, acting…all bloody marvelous. And of course it did feature a Japanese girl in a plaid skirt without knickers, bloody marvelous, I’ll say again.

This post is sort of inspired by Sach’s dark musical trip and RD’s confession about liking high-pitched boy bands. I’ve gone on ad nauseum about how certain songs take me to happy, happy places where the beach and long legs in black, frilly mini-skirts rollick hand in hand (so to speak). But there are also songs that take me as they did Sach to a very dark place in my life, a time when I truly lost faith in humanity, trust, love and all that jazz. Thankfully a good dose of Old Reserve, R and a bout of womanizing helped me get over the immediate pain, but I think I’ve only truly come to terms with what happened last year, give or take.

I’m sure you’re scratching your head right now wandering what the hell the guilty secret that was I implied by the title, as opposed to the psychobabble I’m going on about. Well it’s a secret that when I reveal to my indie music friends, both British and Sri Lankan, they look at me as if I professed an undying desire to bugger Tony Blair while Cherie spanked me with a leather paddle. Before my favourite band was Snow Patrol and long after it was Boyz II Men, my all time favourite band was Matchbox 20. I still love all three of their albums from Yourself or Someone Like You to More Than You Think You Are. Unfortunately the latter album coincided with the dark period of my life, particularly an obsession with one track, Rest Stop. Listen to the song, trust me, the coincidences in life are truly weird sometimes and have to be experienced to be believed. And that song became an anthem of darkness for me.

Anyways last night in a fit of sadomachosicm, I put Rest Stop on and what do you figure happened? Absolutely nothing…no darkness…no pain…just an appreciation of what is still to me a lovely tune. Go figure, it took a listening to a song to truly appreciate that I actually have achieved closure. Not in a simplistic way of getting over a relationship but actually healing, changing and well…changing.

P.S. I did of course feel miserable in the morning, but I reckon that was probably due to waking up at 6am to hop on the 405 for an hour and then wandering around UCLA for another hour trying to find a room where I was supposed to get enlightened about NEPA. Needless to say today has not been one of my better days, though the considerable amount of totty on display at UCLA was nice, if a bit depressing.

There’s Green wash, and there’s Green Wash. CSR is an important step forward in promoting sustainability, social justice and environmental protection along with economic gain in the so called “Triple Bottom Line” in order to make economic growth more sustainable. While I support anything that would help change the way business is done today and promote sustainably, a lot of the CSR programs implemented these days are unfortunately complete bullshit, not all, but most.

Of course of those that are bullshit, some stand out conspicuously. My favourite? The one I discovered reading this article on BBC on the environmental evils of supermarkets. Apparently weapons manufacturer BAE Systems in 2006 announced they are going to make “environmentally friendly” weapons. Amongst the measures are reduced lead bullets, reduced smoke grenades (you read that right, reduced smoke, I’m assuming to reduce the chance of getting cancer from inhaling a grenade), rockets with reduced toxins and composting waste explosives.

Gee thanks BAE, because I’m sure if I was a soldier getting my guts rearranged by a soft nosed bullet I’d at least be able to thank my lucky stars that I wouldn’t have to worry about the many symptoms of lead poisoning which include nausea, abdominal pain or god forbid irritability (though I assume being shot would make me plenty irritable already). So from the bottom of my torn aorta, thank you BAE!

 stolen from here

You know what’s really annoying about being a generation Y’er (only realized I was one recently thanks to Hira)? It’s the rest of the family telling you what to do, what they think you should do. For fucks sakes I’m having enough trouble summoning up the courage to do what needs to be done from my viewpoint, as opposed to decamping to a hut on a hill in a tropical island with a wholesale account with the nearest arrack producer. Having to be lectured on and off by the baby boomers and WWI’s is really pushing me to breaking point.

Having to deal with the ‘serious’ talks and phone calls from distant shores with opinions as to how you should live your life is getting increasingly difficult to handle. Especially because the advice comes from people who love you and in their minds want what’s best for you. Not exactly candidates for the phrasing that I use when people piss me off, i.e. ‘go fuck yourself.’ Instead all I can do is grit my teeth, worsening my already bad grinding problem, nod my head, bite back the smarmy comments and mumble “ok, ok” to pretty much everything.

I think I need a drink, a very stiff one.

As a belated birthday present to my blog I decided to arrange the links that were all so jumbled up before. I’ve also added a new page, documenting my taste in music. Await another page documenting the reading list and possible a fascinating FAQ (read that out loud as words, very amusing, well to the simple minded). This is of course pending further lengthening of my unemployed status.

Driving, this is in no particular order, though the last is most definitely one that really gets my goat, chicken and any barnyard animal you could name. In no particular order,

1. Driving long distances. Of course I live in the wrong place to dislike driving long distances, getting a hair cut means driving around 5 miles, hanging out with a friend usually entails 45 minutes on the freeway. Not something I look forward to considering I love the convenience of Colombo or London, the former with everything in a 5 mile radius and the latter with its public transport system.

1. Traffic. It’s a weird thing about SoCal that most places no matter how close within about a 40 mile radius will take 45 minutes to an hour to get to, no matter if its 10 or 40 miles away. It’s a law, like Newton’s or Murphy’s; in fact a lot like the latter. There have been those other wonderful times when it’s taken me around 4 hours to drive a distance that usually took me 45 minutes, road rage suddenly became understandable.

1. Long, boring freeways involved in driving those said distances. Boring makes me fall asleep, not a good idea when driving. Usually involves glass embedded in one’s face and trying to explain to a bemused cop as to how you didn’t realize there was no exit ramp where you decided to take leave of the freeway. Usually at an hour at which I prefer to either be sleeping or drunk. 

1. People who brake for everything. Seriously, did you not learn any physics in school? Take your fucking foot off the gas; there is absolutely no need to mash on your brakes everytime you want to slow down. I bitch about this because when one eager beaver lights up those little red lights at the back of their trusty steed, every other dip shit decides to brake as well. End result, traffic slows down, I get frustrated.

1. Last but not least, people who don’t realize the meaning of the ‘fast lane.’ It is not a place to be doing the speed limit, it is a lane meant for people who want to mosey around a bit faster and allow them to pass slower traffic. And it’s almost always a Chinese person at the wheel of a slow car in the fast lane, or a wrinkly old sudda. The experience of tearing along care freely on the fast lane and almost riding up the back of some idiot pootling along smelling the sunflowers without exception makes me want one of the fine instruments depicted below.

Rant over….

Hed Kandi album cover, come on…seriously, the only way this picture could get any better was if the girl was real

Or rather house in the house. My musical taste has varied through my many years from appalling (New Kids on the Block at the tender age of 10), to less appalling (Boyz II Men around 13/14) to what I like now, which happens to be largely indi, alternative music. Of course the (5) regular readers of this blog I’m sure are aware of my obsession for Snow Patrol but I do have a range of other favourites, ranging from the Killers to the Shins, Trouble with Sweeney, etc. Of course two of my perennial favourites are the Smiths and the Pixies, classics but bloody excellent. Before I get attached by the culture vultures (or culture monkeys) let me add that I do listen to pretty much every music genre including Amaradeva and Iraj (two different genres again).

Recently though a song has come close to dethroning Chocolate as my all time favourite and house as a genre to dethroning alternative. The song is Empty Streets by Late Night Alumni, check it out here. Similar to the connotations I get from Chocolate (addressed in previous posts), Empty Streets reminds me of a full moon on a beach in Hikkaduwa this time around and just pure, heartaching relaxation. Late Night Alumni is what is known as deep house, I’ll be fucked if I know what that really means but I like very much, especially to chill and not just deep house, but most house, progressive, trance, etc.

My introduction to house music (well the second coming so to speak, I came across it in college but was more interested in the pathe wade associated with it, see below) came with a trip to NoCal for a drinking session with R during which he introduced me to Uncle. He of the tight T-shirts put on Buddha Bar, to which my response was “nice…wash that?” This was obviously after a few rum and cokes and despite getting excessively wasted at what I believe was a house party (though I vaguely recall people in fancy dress, including a devil and a cowboy, not entirely sure what that was about) I did have the sense to get Mamme (he has various Unclified nicknames) to rip me a CD of his stuff. Actually R might have done that but I’ll take credit…and the rest as they say is history. Ares and Amazon helped build my House collection, though I did sadly lose some of the CDs along with my car.

At the end of the day alternative’s nice but requires far, far too much thinking while listening, so I can’ really handle it under stress. Put some Kaskade, Ian Pooley and good old Mark Farina and one can drift off. And this is without the chemical inducements so often associated with House music. Funnily enough now that I’m really into House, I haven’t done any drugs in a long time (yes Evil, not even weed). The pill popping days (very brief mind you) are far behind me and even though I was into house then I think it was just the rhythmic beats that I needed to accompany said popping. Now House is for relaxing, working (i.e. writing innumerable cover letters and reading fascinating documents on soilless potting mixes) and most of all for the gym and driving. Though for the two latter Deep House doesn’t really cut it, you need more Trance of the likes of Paul Oakenfold and Armin Van Buuren. Put a couple of hour mixes on your Ipod and you can run for miles. Tis a beautiful thing, especially for someone as lazy as I am.

Current favourites include, Savvas Fellas, the artists mentioned above, Rufus White and anything Hed Kandi. One also can’t forget the deities of dance and progressive house, Leftfield and other more chilled out electro groups like the Beloved. The dream, a bar somewhat like Tantra, less open, more beach views, glass, funky fishtanks, skimpily dressed bartenders of the female variety ((hey if Justin Timberlake can do it, so can I) and a few of the male as well (cos I don’t discriminate!), progressive, deep house music and the ultimate chill out joint. Hmm…another project to be added for the future.

Ah two days without nicotine, substituted with exercise…the only problem being that working out has to be taken in one to one and half hour chunks, as opposed to five minute intervals to break the monotony of job searching. Almost got up at least five times to get the car keys and swing by the corner store, actually did get in the car once but forced myself to just go to the post office to mail R’s jackets to Australia. Again I’m not sure how that’s cost effective as opposed to him buying two Down Under, but who am I to judge craziness, what with my sanity hanging by the proverbial thread.

Had some rather odd thoughts go through my head today, mostly due to the lack of nicotine. One was bout vices, believe it or not I’ve also decided to go off chocolate. Apart from half a tub of B & J’s over the weekend to accompany a movie marathon of Munich and Domino I haven’t had anything chocolate (OK, the fat free marble cake piece from Trader Joes doesn’t count, I’ve had toes that tasted more of chocolate…apologies for any retching feelings generated by that statement, its just alliteration not under any circumstances to be taken literally). No booze either since there’s really no one entertaining to drink with, the fam can’t handle their booze for shit, and get really loud and annoying…sorta what I would imagine I’m like drunk from the outside…ah well…genetics…inescapable yeah?

I don’t even have a ‘friend with benefits’ around (not that that’s an exceptionally common occurrence, but I have had my run of luck in the past) and I’m starting to regret giving up on the action Jackson that was on offer over the holiday season for the greater good in SL. Especially since the greater good in question probably has no idea that I gave up some nubile, lovely (OK one was a bit of a six drinker) females who offered no strings attached romps in the hay so to speak….sigh…..T mentioned I should mention it to her, but how exactly does one do that, “oh yeah I could have had her but I said no. Her I could have contracted some spectacular diseases with but I demurred”…yeah…no….I guess rebuilding a reputation (well building one rather) and gaining said greater good’s trust is not going to be that easy.

Neither for that matter is giving up smoking, or chocolate, or talking random shit….especially since the latter is a direct consequence of the two former. Getting employed is pretty tough as well…not that I’ve tried exceptionally hard….must fix that….tomorrow, always tomorrow. I’m the fucking king of procrastination, just need to find a country to get crowned in. Well I have my list for tonight, gonna get cracking…enough randomness tonight for the benefit of humankind.

So I smoked my last cigarette tonight (fingers crossed). Sat outside on a surprisingly warm California night, lay down on the bench in the moonlight, and lit up. Empty Streets by Late Night Alumni playing on the ipod (I did consider First of the Gang to Die by Morrissey but thought that might be just a tad too morbid) just to add a bit of ambience. Funny the last time I listened to that song in the moonlight it was a beach in Hikks and I was bittersweetly happy. Now its time to give up killing myself slowly and get down to business.

Order of the day and week:

- Well sleep tonight.

- Hit the gym early doors, in my third week of supps, creatine and weights. Have to try and get back to 15% body fat (might even see my long lost abs reappear, fingers crossed again) soon.

- Prepare for meeting the business partner for the third time this week, come up with a coherent strategy for selling potting mix to the masses and transition to erosion control in the near future. Need to get that financial independence if I want to pursue being a wildlife photographer in SL

- Meet said business partner

- Write up a few cover letters for environmental consultant/scientist/planner positions, follow up on the ones I’ve already applied for

- Look for more jobs to apply for

- Call temp agency and inquire what in the name of moses have they been doing with my resume, I need some income!

- Dissolve old corporation, cut losses from previous venture

- Call M, get D’s number and find out if she needs her loan done, I need income!

- Mail R’s jackets to Aussie, since apparently that’s more cost effective than buying new ones there

- Email everybody I’ve not emailed back for the last few months

- Call Wamu and ask what in the name of moses happened to my credit card

- Mail T with my tattoo design requests

- Check the San Fran Academy of Arts website and figure out how much an Associates in Photography will put me back

- Download Ajan Brahm’s talks and Guided Meditation podcasts, try and heal my spiritual side and retain the tenuous grip on sanity

- Put this all down in PlanPlus with some coherent, valid deadlines

- Anything else that I may have forgotten

From the edge of sanity, over and out.

Ane happuwa!

Ane aimath happuwa!? 

There I was at the Curry Bowl digging into the lunch buffet with N when A and some other chap charge in to inform me that someone had backed into my double parked car. Following them out with an indul hand, I found some fat, brown, hobag aunty looking at my bumper disconcertedly as if wondering how it got there. Following her gaze I noted one or two minute scratches and kindly, with the patience of Job enquired what in tarnation she did.

I just didn’t see your car 

It was with great self control that I didn’t ask the obvious question as to how in the name of fuck could she not note the fact that there was a great, big, black RAV4 right behind her considering that reversing involves looking in the goddamn rearview mirror. She looked so retarded and pathetic when she asked me if I could move my car so she could back up I didn’t have the heart to point out she had around 3 feet to get her minivan out if she actually bothered turning the steering wheel a bit.

I just smiled sweetly at her, fished my keys out with my left hand, the right still being covered with curry and reversed the car into a spot that had opened up, actually ended up reversing into the space at a ridiculous angle and had to put up with some ribald comments from A about my dodgy parking abilities (fuck you I was trying not to get curry over my car). The fucktarded aunty who had a fairly large bump in her fender shamefacedly sloped off. 

On entering the Curry Bowl I was informed with great joviality that she had actually backed into my car not once, but twice. That sort of amazed me, surely if one is backing up and hears a thud, what one does is stop, get out and check to see if there’s a toddler under your wheel.

NOT drive forward a bit and try and back up again to deliver the coup de grâce.