It started with cakes. It finished with chips and cheese. My life is all about food and sandwiched between meals. There I go again; ‘sandwiched’. And in between; trains, tickets, vodka, beer, banter, smokes, laughs, heat, sweat, farts, drums, guitars, clapping, cheering, friends, fresh air and more vodka. Before all of that Sandy and me got a wee bit lost. We found the venue eventually. Even though we’d been both been there before.
It was busy. People, everywhere. They have the gigs downstairs in Stereo, and it’s great. Good and dark and uncomfortable and they have a bar there. Two words though: Air Conditioning. Two more: Lack of. That’s all I’m saying. OK, last two: Body Odour. Sort it out.
I didn’t like the support band. Mothlite were boring and bland and likened to both “Blur on goth pills” and “a giant vagina”. They had a piano but it didn’t help.
Isis were magic. They sound much better live then they do on their albums. They played new songs and old songs, were suitbaly epic and they didn’t disappoint. Are they a good looking band? I don’t know. I can never see anything at gigs. After spending most of my life thinking I was tall, it’s pretty obvious to me now that I’m not. Or other people are freaks. I’m starting to think it’s the latter.
Remember that book, in the Sex and the City Film, Love Letters of Great Men? Well it doesn’t exist. Which is pretty rubbish. I think it would be a good read. The thing about love letters written by great men is that they’re not cheesy. Not like the prescribed romance that we get forced down our throats today. They’re great: just like the men themselves. So the book doesn’t exist, but the letters do, and Google will help you track them down. I found some here.
February 27, 1913.
To ‘Stella’ Beatrice Campbell
I want my rapscallionly fellow vagabond.
I want my dark lady. I want my angel -
I want my tempter.
I want my Freia with her apples.
I want the lighter of my seven lamps of beauty, honour,
laughter, music, love, life and immortality … I want
“Normally, traditional sexual activity involves a sort of warm bath where physical activity and a world of mental affections blur into each other, and give rise of course to a huge number of problems. (…) He sees pornography, which is emotionally neutral — pornography is sex with the emotions deleted — pornography is a useful technique for exploring what exactly is going on when two people copulate, when a penis enters a vagina, when a hand embraces a breast, when fingers explore clefts (which are obviously geometric structures which powerfully cue innate responses laid down in the central nervous system a hundred thousand years ago). Pornography is a way of dismantling all the excrescences that have grown around this sexual activity at its most basic, and finding the actual sort of operating elements.” -J.G. Ballard, interviewed by Jonathan Weiss in 2006, commentary track on The Atrocity Exhibition (via Ballardian)
ONLY THING ABOUT THIS TUMBLR BUSINESS; IT CAN GET A BIT, TOUCHY/FEELY. ALL RAINBOWS AND FRECKLES AND COUPLES IN SOFT FOCUS. WITH CATS. AND YOU! YES, YOU. IF I SEE ONE MORE PICTURE OF A RAZORBLADE A SWIFT UNFOLLOW WILL... FOLLOW.
The MTA 7 Line is a physical, urban transect through New York City’s most diverse collection of human ecosystems, and a site of continuous public engagement. Affectionately called the International Express, the 7 line runs from Manhattan’s dense core, under the East River, and through a dispersed mixture of residences and parklands, terminating in downtown Flushing, Queens, the nation’s most ethnically diverse county.
New York/7 train/Safari/Creatures/Ecosystem/Very Cool Idea.
On Friday night after chips and beer but not black pudding because it was a bit rubbish then a back rub which was magic I headed into Glasgow with Sandy for a gig. We met up with Gary and Tony and talked about football and how cold it was. I stuck to vodka and lemonade, at least until after.
First band on, What The Blood Revealed, sounded like a band who should have fringes and spiky belts but as it turned out they actually had beards and were pretty meaty.
I don’t know who was on next. I don’t care to know. I can’t remember the name and I’m not going to waste my time trying to find out when I already lost 30 minutes of my life watching some idiot walk about on stage wearing eyeliner and his Mum’s dressing gown and not drinking beer and looping droning horrible guitar sounds which built up to nothing but more droning horrible guitar sounds and the cool kids down the front stroked their chins in confused and desperate quasi-appreciation until I was inspired to go upstairs and get another drink.
Then, Vessels. I’ve seen Vessels before. Twice. But I can’t remember because of the Jagermeister. If I had remembered, I probably would have been shouting about them to anyone that would listen. Even those who weren’t listening. Actually, especially them. They’re just… amazing. Awe inspiring or just plain inspiring. They’re unquestionably talented. They play each other’s instruments. They have two drum kits. And throughout the entire gig they looked like they were having a fucking good time. I don’t know what the band thought of the gig, but it felt like something special was going on. If they can nurture that kind of atmosphere every night then it shouldn’t be long until they’re playing headline gigs in venues much bigger than the downstairs of what used to be an old man’s pub (until it got students and fairy lights) in Glasgow.
After the gig we got takeaway and walked Tony back round to his flat where Kenny was kind enough to give us some of the secret whisky that his Mum bought him. We watched daft things on youtube, had some good chat, then went home; which was even better than sherbet.
I didn’t expect anything from this film. I mean, I didn’t read a review of it, no-one recommended it to me and I’m not entirely sure how it came to be in my possession. Then it started winning awards and as these things do it got my attention again. I ended up watching it one afternoon and I completely fell in love with it.
Richard Jenkins is amazing/ plays a widowed economics professor who comes home to find a young, unmarried couple living in his Manhattan apartment. Both illegal immigrants, they had rented it from a swindler who claimed it was his.
Without divulging the entire plot, it has been described as a study of identity, immigration and cross-cultural communication in a post 9/11 New York City, but really it’s a film about people. Connections, friendships, love and loss. That’s why it’s so good.
“Surely life, if it be not long, is tedious, since we are forced to call in the assistance of so many trifles to rid us of our time, of that time which never can return.”—SamuelJohnson: Letter to Baretti (June 10, 1761)