I'm still alive:

I haven't blogged for a couple of days.

Don't worry, I'm still alive.

I just submitted my Berzerker review to Fasterlouder.

I'm going to see another Australian Metal band tonight so that I can review them too.

(Thanks for reminding me, I just remembered that I decided that I was going to do a quick research on the band before I went to the gig.)

The past few days have been interesting for me.

But I have to leave now to get to the show. Tomorrow I'll give you all the Dime Tour of my week.

Over and out.

J

Hey All

Hey,

It's nearly 11 AM on Tuesday, and I haven't been to bed yet.

Despite my declaration that I was going to stay awake until at least 2100 on Sunday, I decided it would be healthier to get some sleep, and as such woke up at about half eight in the evening.

Big mistake. Nowhere to go, nothing to do and for some reasonthe only thing on TV that came close to watchable was a rerun of American Pie, which for reasons unknown struck me as acutely painful viewing. And not for the gross-out aspect, either. It was just leaning on some nerve inside me like nails on a blackboard.

Whoo! Mixed metaphor.

So I took a walk down the Leytonstone High Road instead, and then sat up all night reading, going to bed sometime after 8 AM.

I slept all of Monday.

Of course, by the time I woke up I was running late for the Bezerker show that I had decided to review for Fasterlouder, so I quickly showered and jumped on the Tube to Highbury (lucky I checked my ticket before I left, I thought the show was going to be at The Underworld in Camden).

The Bezerker show will be discussed in more detail when I write the review over the next two days.

But while I'm here, a few things that won't make it to the review: my friend Richie was at the Berzerker show, there to review it for Terrorizer. The cloak room girl expressed surprise to see me at a metal gig, because she thought I was just a Goth/Industrial dude. I took a bang to the right eye socket when a knucklehead stage-dived onto the bloke in front of me, but no permanent damage was done. And I observed that there were lots of pretty girls in the crowd for a metal show, at which point Richie mentioned that it was an all-ages show, so I should probably check ID.

After the show Richie and I took the tube to Soho and set up camp in the Crobar, the traditional post-gig watering hole of musicians and music journalists. Being a Monday Night, we actually got a table. Somewhere along the way I got talking to a relocated Glaswegian and his girlfriend, who were both sitting near Richie and I.

Here's the funny thing: The Glaswegian was into Depeche Mode, Morrissey and other indie rock kind of things (despite this, he never came across as an Indie Rock Wiener). While his girlfriend could wax lyrical about how Joey Jordinson filling in for Lars Ulrich when Metallica Download two years ago highlighted how much of an overrated drummer Lars is.

IE The girl was into metal, the guy was not. An incongruous situation, though theres seems to be a lot of that going around.

Some mad swedish girls were in the Crobar as well. I usually like Swedish girls, because they are usually tall, fair and slender. And more often than not complete ice-maidens.

These girls were short, dark and extremely ebullient. Not really my type.

There was also a couple of stage tech folk who had just come from a Morrissey show, where they had been rigging and stuff. One of them was in the process of recruiting people for touring crews in June. Pretty big tours. The short version is that even though I doubt much will come of it, I gave him my contact details and told him to give me a call if they needed someone with touring experience and a UK Passport who was willing to work hard.

If I do get onto a tour it will be great, but I'm not holding my breath.

After the Crobar closed Richie and I managed to find a restaurant in Chinatown that was still serving food at that horrifically late hour. I had a Sweet and Sour Pork (no rice) that was actually pretty damn good. Though I was out of practise with my chopsticks.

After that Richie caught his bus, and I wandered back to Oxford Street.

I didn't feel like catching the N8, so I decided to wander to Hyde Park and wait until the tubes were running. As it was, the tubes were running before I was done wandering, but I had a good wander and a good think.

I saw lots of nice old buildings in Mayfair again, and had a nice wander through Hyde Park as the sun came up over London. I can't really remember what I was thinking about, but I did feel strangely reminiscent of the exploratory late night walks I would take through St Lucia. The same feeling of slightly lonely mixed in with enjoying the stillness and space.

The city was starting to wake up, so I took the tube back to Leytonstone.

One thing I just remembered (a non-sequitir, but I don't feel like editing around it): I did spot some new Job Openings in the windows at Borders, so I am going to drop in my resume again. And write a lyrical coversheet about why I would be good for the position.

That's on the to-do list for the next few days.

In the meantime, I have to go home and write that review.

Over and out.

J

I shouldn't be blogging...

because I've been up all night, and then some.

I already called my Mother for Mother's day, and mentioned that a girl, whose brain I was picking for information on employment opportunities, was too coked to provide any useful information. D'OH!

Cards on the table: here in London, I am pretty much surrounded by drug use of all sorts. It's the nature of London. People smoke spliffs in the street, smoke crack in alleyways and snort lines off any flat surface they can find. My reaction? I keep clear of it, just like I kept clear of smack while everyone else in Brisbane was spiking any available vein from 1994 to 1999.

My reasoning is simple (if totally plagiarised from Leonard Cohen): when you spend as much time as I do trying to get your head straight, you don't want to hit it with a sledgehammer to see how well you've done.

And when you occasionally feel gun-in-the-mouth suicidal by nature of your internal chemistry, the last thing you need to experience is the phenomenon known as Ecstasy Tuesday.

Nope, like I always say: the music is the drug for me, and people often assume I'm on drugs anyway, so why spend my money on a redundancy.

Back to the story:

Went to Strength Through Joy. As predicted, danced like a lunatic.

Danced more than my friend Sean. Chemically unassisted, Sean usually dances for six hours at a time, so this would be the equivalent to Wile E Coyote sprinting around the desert while the Roadrunner kicks back in a corner, being moody.

I had fun dancing. Like I say, dancing is the most aerobic exercise I get, and it actually does put me in a good frame of mind to have some kind of productive week.

The downside to Strength Through Joy was that spring is slowly asserting itself, and as such the club was humid, hot and stuffy. And the huge fan they have used to keep air moving in the past wasn't there. And the music was way more EBM than old-school industrial.

My friend Dani was down from Milton Keynes, and she told me that she might be Merching from Killing Joke (!!!) on their coming tour.

I also ran into The Madwoman from a month back. You might remember I described her as a Destructive Force of Nature, among other things. It was her birthday.

She would play an interesting role later on:

After the club, people peeled off in their various directions. A couple of the STJ elite were going back to someone or other's flat for an after party. Invite only, don't bring anyone you don't know, under orders.

I was cool with that, since it would be rude of me to crash someone's post party.

Here's where it got weird. The coked up madwoman was definitely invited. And she insisted on bringing me along, despite my protests to the contrary.

When the four of us got to the flat, it became abundantly clear why the host didn't want any randoms at his flat: he had just moved into a swanky flat off New Highbury Park, with timber floors and a huge plasma screen.

He greeted my three companions, but when he saw me, he looked my up and down and asked the Madwoman if I was cool, or should he throw me out now?

I told him that if he could throw me out if he wanted.

'Early days yet. Early days.' He replied.

And I was in.

That's the thing about Madwomen. They have a way of getting you into places you otherwise wouldn't, for better or worse.

The price, of course, is that if you get into a place on the arm of a coked up bipolar whirlwind, you then have to spend the next hour or two listening to her nonstop chatter about how animals are better than people, how she was suicidal in South Africa, her ex-boyfriend, she's a free spirit, oh, you don't do cocaine, do you? I love animals, I'm sorry, I'm boring you, I always do this don't I... and so on.

Eventually she got up to make a phone call or hunt for more drugs or something, leaving me to kick back on the couch for a little by myself. Remember that as soon as I had walked into the room the was a quiet rumble of 'Who the fuck is he?' from those that didn't know me and 'How did he get in here?' from some of those that did.

Anyways, I managed to win over a couple of the others in the strangest ways. First of all, two girls were comparing strange flexibility things, so I showed them the trick I've been able to do since childhood, when you twist your arms behind you and back again without letting go of a kerchief your holding. Every schoolboy at ACGS could do it, but it seemed to mesmerize the girls.

Then I got talking to a half chinese girl that I had met outside the club earlier, and we wound up using my notepad (I never go anywhere without a notepad) to play that strange childhood game where you make squares out of ten by ten rows or dots. Along the way she told me about the different tones used in Cantonese, and her adventures in Italy, fending off Italian Men by saying 'I am so drunk!' in Italian (which offends Italian men, aparently).

I told her the story of someone I knew who discouraged scooter riding Italians by turning her Grandmother's engagement right around so it looked like a plain gold band. I would mention who it was, but I think I have embarassed her enough in my life : )

The half-chinese girl beat me at the boxes game. By ten boxes.

Chris D and I swapped notes on George Orwell, I told him to see V for Vendetta.

And the Host actually shook my hand and told me that he was glad that he hadn't thrown me out on first sight. Before getting all huffy when I asked what he did (which the others put down to middle class guilt).

Anyways, at this point the others were getting a taxi. I wasn't getting a taxi with them, but it seemed like a good juncture to leave. I wound up walking with the Half-chinese girl back to Highbury station. Interesting girl.

No idea if I'll ever see her again, but an interesting girl.

I jumped on the Victoria Line, getting off at Oxford Circus.

Something inspired me, as often does on a Sunday morning when there is no-one on the streets, to go find parts of London that I haven't seen before. At least not since dim distant random explorations, the kind you do before you fall into a groove of familiar paths and haunts.

This particular wander took me through the more picturesque part of the West End. Ie Mayfair and the like. Tiny little art galleries, appointment only antique shops, hole in the wall cafes. And Starbucks. Everywhere Starbucks.

Eventually I stumbled on the changing of the Queen's Guard. I've been in London this long and I haven't seen the changing of the Queen's Guard.

After that: more wandering. Eventually I decided to come home and make the abovementioned phonecall.

Now? I think I'll take the tube to Camden and look around. Might go see a movie. Or something.

As usual for a Sunday for me, the idea is that I stay awake as long as possible, then pass out early in the evening.

I have no idea how coherent this post is.

Over and out.

J

Just a quick one:

Just quickly, to all my friends in Blogland:

Going to Strength Through Joy.

Going to dance like a lunatic.

Don't know when I'll be home.

Mum: if you're reading this: Happy Mother's Day.

Dad: if Mum hasn't read this, tell Mum.

Over and out.

J

Two Hundred! Whoo Hoo!

Hey Everyone,

Yep, two hundred posts. And I don't ever post every day.

Not much to report:

Me and my swedish flatmate are cool, for now. He told me he doesn't like it when my stuff is all over the living room, I pointed out that his food was in the way of my food in the fridge. And I let him remember on his own that since he refuses to talk to our other flatmate, and I'm the one that usually raises any troubles with our landlady, I effectively serve as a sort of conduit, without which life might be harder for all.

Sorted. Now all I have to do is remember not to leave newspapers and magazines all over the living room.

Speaking of my role as a conduit, my landlady came over yesterday to show the leaky boiler to a plumber. The plumber took one look and announced that it was one of the oldest that he had seen, it could only be replaced and that my landlady would have to pay up to £1400 for it (he did offer to install a cheaper one, then backdate the certificate... dodgy).

In any case, she's going to spend the next few weeks getting other opinions and checking out her options. We in the flat are hoping she doesn't raise the rent.

While she was there she also collected her mail, chatting a little while she went through the stuff to find anything important. Like a water bill (dammit!).

Most interesting thing I did with the rest of the day was start writing a kind of horror short story. I'm not sure where I want to take it, since it just started with a phrase in my head. Not necessarily a good way to write fiction, but if I get it written, I might be able to remix it into something better. As it is, it's currently rolling into some kind of Lovecraftian direction.

Between writing last night I did barbells and watched some kind of open learning thing on BBC2 about design and manufacture. Very interesting.

I was also flipping between that and the Commonwealth Games. It is probably my own personal perspective, but I seem to be seeing two specific things emerging:

First of all, it seems to be all about Britain reasserting itself as a colonial power, especially against Australia.

Secondly, it seems to be an excellent excuse to broadcast lots of footage of athletic young women in very tight clothing bouncing around. Of course, last night there was also the Female Skeet Shooting, which was all dead-eyed women with shotguns. A weird study of human nature under pressure. And an interesting exploration of how many ways someone can say 'Pull!'.

Anyways, tonight I was possibly going to go to see Venom, but I thought better of it. I think a quiet night in will be good for me. Besides, tomorrow night is Strength Through Joy, so I should rest up for that.

Mental Note: message Daniel and Sarah and remind them to come along.

Jason's Random State of Mind:

I did feel my mood dipping toay, but Strength Through Joy always acts as a psychic recharge for me, so I'll be okay.

And a post-script to my adventures trying to find Adverse Camber last Friday Night: I checked the Events board on C8.com, and it turns out that there was a notice posted stating that the event was cancelled because the local council wouldn't grant a licence to the venue. Dang! A sign up at the venue would have been nice.

Anyways, over and out.

J

Scoochy Boochy

Hey Everyone,

Today I had my National Insurance Number interview.

And I managed to get there and be only five minutes late. D'OH!

Fortunately the office had been struck down by the flu or food poisoning or mass pregnancy or something, because they were running even later than I do usually (and as you all know, I run pretty fucking late. If Running Late was an Olympic Sport I would be a medal holder).

Anyways, when I got there they told me that there would be a two hour wait(!!!) so I took a short trip down the street to get a coke and water, and returned to kick back until my number was called.

I have no idea how long it took, but I did manage to read a whole forty pages of Alice in Wonderland while fending off a a preternaturally strong asian toddler who tried to get hold of my coke bottle.

The actual interview itself was a walkthrough. Just gave them my two passports, sign a few papers, answer some easy questions and the rest of it was all chat from the friendly interviewer.

Speaking of chat, did I mention that the cashier at the bank yesterday started asking me all sorts of questions about Australia etc while I was paying my rent? I've been paying my rent into that branch for a year now, and that is the first time one of the bank tellers have tried to chat me up. It must be the haircut. I should have asked her out for a pint.

Nevermind, I'll try that next month.

At the end of the interview I was told that the Number might take between three and six weeks to come through, and after that to start calling one number and quoting another to find out when it is going to come through.

After that I rode a bus back up Hoe Street, Walthamstow, noted that there was a STAFF WANTED sign in a hip looking cafe window and got off at the markets. Wandering down the markets I saw that the previous grimy Walthamstow Markets were still grimy, but the seem to be a few more upmarket clothes shops and hairdressers moving in.

Interesting.

Since I didn't want to take the 257 back to Leytonstone, I decided to find the Wathamstow Queen's Road station, which would deposit me more or less on my doorstep.

The trade off? The train only goes every half hour, and the Queens Road Station is hard to find.

No matter. I staved of hunger pangs by eating some hot cross buns I bought from Sainsbury's. So much for the diet. Heh.

I was going to look in the Disposals shop to see what their prices were for Glow Sticks, but it was shut. I might check it tomorrow when I go by Walthamstow to drop my CV into the cafe.

Other stuff:

My flatmate Nenad got all passive aggressive because my stuff is all over the living room table etc. Which is fair enough, I guess. I just don't like passive aggressive people full stop.

Also: I'm going to pass the SixFtHick email address to the What's Cooking people tonight.

Anyways, out of time.

Over and out.

J

Hey everyone:

Hey All,

Apart from buying a shipload of fruit on Friday, I haven't really bought much food over the past few days. I still have some apples, and some of those weird pear/apple hybrids, but didn't have any bread. So I was reduced to licking vegemite off a knife.

Anyways, I bought some bread today. Earthshattering.

Also today:

Signed a piece of paper at the Jobcentre. Told the bloke about the jobs I had applied for this week, was hit by tsunami of apathy.

No matter. Tomorrow I go to get at National Insurance Number.

I know that I keep mentioning it, but it is a pretty important thing.

Yesterday I received a P45 Form from Diamond Resourcing. I don't know whether that is them saying: "You're Off the Books, Fucker!", or whether it is them saying "Oh Shit, we should have sent him one months ago", or what the story is.

But it is nice to have it in my hand, because according to the information printed on there, I paid over three hundred pounds in tax in the second half of last year, and if I fill out a tax return I might actually be able to get some of that back.

Of course, I'll have to check under my bed and everywhere else to make sure that there are no other payslips lying around, but it is a start.

*SIGH* I feel like a high function Autistic sometimes. Intelligent, but utterly ill-equiped to deal with the real world.

[Tangent]

After a whole winter devoid of my usual seasonally driven dermotological torments, the skin on the back of my right hand is dry, just this side of cracked and bleeding. The skin on my left side is actually okay. Figure that one out. Norweigian Hand Goo Time!

[/Tangent]

Back at the ranch: After my Jobcentre Appt I headed to Stratford to pay my rent, then I hit the Stratford Library, on a whim, to renew the books that I had out.

The Iain M Banks book, Feersum Endjinn, is pretty densely written, plus it lapses into this post-modern, phonetic language whenever the story switches around to one particular character becoming the protagonist. The reason for this is explained in the story, but it does make it a right motherfucker to read.

While the Robin Hobb book I've still got out I can read pretty quickly, but there's just a lot of it (as Robin Hobb, she writes fat novels and only writes in Trilogies).

After sorting the books, I checked my mail on one of the PCs and the looked about the library for interesting books. I got out two books about writing, two about music and a Trade Paperback where someone had re-imagined Superman as growing up in the Soviet Union rather than in America. Should be good fun.

A quick sweep back through the Stratford mall, bought some grapes and then back to Leytonstone.

Tonight I have to buy some essential stuff. But for the time being, I have fruit and bread.

Over and out.

J

Remember Remember the Fifth of November...

Hey Everyone.

I just got back from watching V for Vendetta at Leicester Square.

They've got Nordic Fire flags hanging from the trees there. When the last Harry Potter movie came out they had the Hogwarts House Colours hanging.

Anyways, I didn't think that V for Vendetta was mindblowing, but it did make me think a bit. I spent most of the time trying to listen for flaws in Natalie Portman's accent. And admiring her outfits. Minor crush on Natalie right now. I have no idea why.

Other news:

Finished Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell. Now I need to think of another tube read (by necessity it needs to be a book small enough to fit in my jacket pocket).

****

Time for me to get out of here.

Over and out.

J

Yoodle!

Hey All,

Another crazy Friday Night/Saturday Night combination.

In quick succession:

Went to Elephant and Castle.

Couldn't find the Breakcore Party.

Bus to Kings Cross.

Synthetic Culture.

Danced and socialised.

Home.

Out: Crowbar and Will Haven.

Nearby Pub with Daniel and Sarah. And Jason Blond.

Talked to some girls, one of whom had blonde hair down to her knees.

She looked like an Angel but she dressed like a chav.

Sarah told me that I probably scared her off when I gave her a short history of Women's Hairstyles, from 1900 to 1945, ie I was too smart for her.

Nevermind, it was just a drive-by flirt thing.

Tube to Angel.

Slimelight til Dawn.

Hilary and her new boyfriend Nick and his flatmate Liam were there.

Note: I have made peace with the Hilary thing inside me.

It only took me a year and a half.

Nick gave me Glow Sticks on the way out.

I danced like a maniac before and after this.

Friends of mine were quite surprised, it is only recently that I was down for the dancing at Slimes.

Usually I dance at STJ and Sick n Twisted and lurk about at Slimes.

After Slimes: breakfast at Starbucks.

Then Home.

Now: out to the Dev to meet Richie and others.

Tomorrow I have stuff to do with the Productive end of my life.

Observations and Details later.

Over and out.

J

PS Glowsticks rule. I'm scared.

Hey Hey

Hey All,

Pride stops me from explaining how, but my money problems are sorted for the short term. (Don't worry, this doesn't mean that I've taken up dealing Crack. Yet. (Joking))

More long term, I applied for a job in a Games shop in Stratford this afternoon. Just a part-time position, but still a place I hadn't already applied for.

How hard can it be to say, 'The artwork in this game are superior, but the gameplay is inferior' and 'Sir, I am told that the XBox 360 is the leader for immersive graphics, but you may want to wait for the PS3, as many believe that it will be a superior machine.'

Anyways, the manager told me that he will be calling in people for interviews on Monday, so I will think how to approach the interview til then, then put it out of my mind after that.

And keep applying for jobs.

I mentioned that I have an interview next week to get a National Insurance Number? I mention it again because it is an important thing to have. It's one more thing to cross off the list of stuff I needed to do.

Arguably I should made the effort to get one this time last year, but that's by the by.

Too much going on this weekend.

Too much too much.

Tonight I have to decide whether to go to a Breakcore/Gabba etc party in SE17 (Elephant and Castle) or Goth/Industrial/Rock type club at Synthetic Culture (King's Cross).

Depending on which set of friends I want to see tonight, a decision has to be made.

It occurs to me that a reader would be concerned that all I do here in London is hang out in nightclubs. Not quite, but it is some of the more interesting stuff I do.

Furthermore, the clubbing scene interests me for this reason:

London is a very socially segregated city. The rich and the poor don't mix much, 'professionals' and the working class do their best to avoid each other, the educated and the common ignore each other as best they can.

Brisbane, where I'm from, is much more mixed. In Brisbane you'll find yourself talking to a millionaire without knowing. Academics and tradespeople are the best of friends and so on.

Maybe I have an idealized view of Brisbane, and maybe I am an unusual case (by way of upbringing, socialization and the like) but that is how I experienced it, and that is something I feel lacking here.

The place where the social barriers break down, here in London, is when you are clubbing. It seems to be one of the only scenarios that people of all classes and backgrounds mix freely. Seriously, my friends in the clubs range from post-grads to postmen.

The incongruity of it all would be enough for me as is, but it does serve a deeper purpose:

As someone who lives in one of the poorer areas of London, doesn't have much in the way of tertiary qualifications and perenially seems to be stuck in dead end deadwood jobs (all three of these are my own fault, I know), meeting people under these circustances gives me the opportunity to forge links outside my immediate milieu.

Yep, colour me Aspirational. Doesn't mean that I'm going to start voting Tory.

Anyways, that's enough exposition for one day.

But before I go, my Mother just told me that my Sister Elea is heading to New York soon. Sounds sweet, but if you're reading this, remember to pack not one, but two thick jackets. Because it is still cold here in Leytonstone. And if it's cold here, it will be freezing in New York.

Over and out,

J

One Step Beyond

Hey Everyone, I'm freaking out just a little right now. Everything seems to be running out at once, and I have to pay my rent soon as well. Add to which, my jobcentre claim is still being processed. The good news is that next week I have an interview to get a National Insurance Number, so that when I do get another job I won't be scythed so badly by the tax department. Though that does probably mean that I will have to learn how to do a Tax Return. Geez, had to happen sometime. I have finally pimped up my myspace site, though I will be tweaking it a bit more.

I went to a show at the Underworld last night with the express purpose of taking notes so that I could write a review of the bands and send it to an Australian HC magazine.

I wrote the review this afternoon, in between lifting barbells. I'm going to print it out, mark it up and then send it off tomorrow.

Did I mention that I put in my CV and a cover letter at the Video shop nearby?

I do despair of finding employment in a shop sometimes. It seems that the fact that I speak fluent English but I don't have any formal Retail Experience makes me a strange combination of overqualified and underqualified.

My boiler is leaking like a sieve that has been attacked with a HK SMG. I messaged my landlady about it on Tuesday, and she got back to me today. She's going to organise a plumber or something next week, but it might take as long as next Friday.

Fortunately it will probably keep til them. In medical terms, the condition of my boiler is Serious but Stable. Hopefully it won't go all Doctor House on us.

I had a hammer away at the Typing Tutor software, and strangely enough, it already seems to be having a pretty good effect on my typing. I was going between 50 and 70 WPM. As much as the idea is a betrayal of everything I've been trying to do for the last three months, if I can get my typing speed up to 90 WPM I might go into one of my agencies, get my typing skills retested and see if I can swing a £8-9/hour data entry job.

Although I can feel myself getting fatter just thinking about it.

This machine is running really slowly. I might logout and login again on a different one.

Over and out

(for the time being)

Hey Hey

Hey o!

I meant to blog yesterday, but things got beyond me.

Saturday night:

Met Richie at the Dev. Richie was talking to a bloke named John Murphy or something, who is now in an outfit called Knifeladder, previously played drums in SPK, the famed industrial band from Australia.

One of the members of SPK, one Graeme Revell, now makes all the music for CSI, among other things.

Interesting.

I also ran into Liam, one of Hilary's friends, who let it slip that the mystery male that is seeing Hilary is in fact his flatmate.

Which doesn't bother me, really. At least this one can speak English.

If I was bothered, it was at being left out of the loop.

But enough emo wussery, on with the story:

At the Dev was also Bernadette, the stunning Austrian girl that I assumed would not like me because I am not a long haired goth anymore. Later I would see Bernadette at Slimelight, making out with a short-haired raver boy. Nevermind. Still, she did offer to sign my membership form, and kissed me hello and goodbye on each cheek.

Which is how I found out that she has really soft skin on her face. Today I was in Waterstones and I looked up how to say 'Your skin is so soft' in German.

Best I can tell, it's 'Sein Haut ist so weich.'

Anyways, Patrizia and Robert, the usual Saturday Djs at the Devonshire Arms weren't there, which was weird. A purple-haired bloke in a tailcoat was instead.

Just after 10PM Richie had to leave to go to his job, which was in the Bank district. Which was just where I was going.

So we took the train to Bank and separated off.

The club I was looking for was easily found, since I ran into a goth girl just outside the station that was going.

Here's where it get's weird:

The girl that invited me to come to the club didn't turn up for an hour (and bear in mind, I was an hour late), then spent the night socializing before getting an asthma attack then a fever etc. Not a terribly auspicious date.

But I still had a great time. Why?

Because I had found out why Patrizia and Robert weren't at their usual haunt:

They were at this club spinning whatever they wanted. And it was great.

Patrizia thinks my new haircut is cool, by the way.

Come to think of it, I got mostly positive reactions about the haircut.

Anyways, I had a great time shooting the breeze with Patrizia and Robert, I danced around to their selections, I declared that I felt like starting a Trad Goth Band, and Robert told me that if I do, he'll either play bass or drums.

Nice. Let's see if I can write a couple of Trad Goth songs.

Come to think of it, I'm still working on writing some Gore-Grind songs, some Doom Songs, some Hardcore songs and some Industrial songs.

Maybe I'll be hit with a musical creative burst and knock them all off in a weekend.

Anyways, somewhere around half three or four I bugged out. Since I really felt like dancing out some of my physical and emotional toxins I found a convenient bus from Bank to Angel, where I paid into Slimelight, fielded comments about my hair and then danced agressively (but not irresponsibly) on both the dancefloors.

Sometimes clubbing sucks. Sometimes it is a facile and superficial way to spend money you don't have and time you can't get back with people you don't like in a place you can't wait to leave listening to music you wouldn't admit knowing.

But sometimes the beat resonates with something inside you and you can lose yourself on the dancefloor, always one jump ahead of the blues that nip at your heels. I might be running on empty, but I can draw strength from the music.

Jeez, what a hippy.

Anyways, as Slimelight wound down I chatted to a Polish lesbian who was working one of the bars (apparently Krakow is overrun with university age women because of the university there and the gender imbalance in Eastern Europe), before letting the male Brazillian cloak room attendant down gently. He had taken a liking to me, and was surprised to find a completely straight male at Slimelight.

After Slimelight: on to Starbucks, but I bugged out early to go home and get some sleep before going out again to the Dev to meet Liam and some of his friends (Nick, Liam's flatmate was there, but it wasn't too weird. Him and I are cool).

Patrizia also arrived later, and before I knew it I had hung at the Dev longer than I meant to.

I wound up crashing on Liam's couch in North London before taking the tube home in the morning. Nick was sick in the night from a bad kebab. Six times. Mental note: don't eat kebabs in Camden. Especially not Chicken kebabs.

Tube ride: chatted to a pretty barrister, who told me that she always felt sorry for the List Callers because everyone wanted a piece of them at once.

Yep, me and Pretty Lady Barristers; I have no chance but I can't resist them all the same.

I got off at Tottenham Court Road and looked around:

Virgin Megastore: Found three Big Black CDs, which was interesting because I thought that they had all been deleted. Money is a little tight right now, so I noted where they were for future reference.

Stargreen: Bought a ticket to the Bezerker show on the 24th (on for Fasterlouder) and one for the Adastreia/Season's End. One of the things the ways that Hilary and I always differed was that she is very politically disengaged, while to me, everything is political. The Season's End singer listed, on their website, that she extremely dislikes political apathy. So I think I'll chat her up at the show.

Anyways, I also had a look through the back streets of Soho, finding record shops and cafes. In on second hand record shop I found a Hawkwind record, where the Vocals were credited to 'Mike Moorcock'.

Mike? Har!

I also went to the Mac Shop, where I discovered that the Typing Tutor programme I wanted was back in stock. Since learning how to type really quickly can only benefit me, I bought it then and there.

By about midday I decided to head home, have a shower etc.

Just Now: my Wolfmother review is up on Fasterlouder, which is good, though I just read through it and spotted a typo straight away. AAAAAARRRRGGGHHH!

Also: There's a new editor at fasterlouder, and I think he is taking a little more of a hands on approach to editing the submissions. But he did leave all of my idiosyncratic stuff in.

Anyways, I'm going to tie off all this stuff then make a serious CV and Cover Letter combination for the video shop down the High Road.

Quiet night tonight. Stay home and watch Prison Break and The Mighty Boosh.

Side note about Prison Break: a reviewer in The Mail on Sunday described the actor that plays Schofield as giving 'intense performance'.

Intense is a word that has dogged me for years. Just a few weeks ago a girl used it obliquely to describe me (ie she didn't say 'you're so intense', she said 'don't be too intense'), but I am still not sure what it means.

If the character/actor on Prison Break is anything to go by, intense means 'thoughtful' mixed with 'doesn't blink'.

I just found a really interesting article on Borderline Personality Disorder, which frighteningly fits me really really well. Me and others, anyway.

The article is here: home.everestkc.net/vics/Biosocial%20Model%20of%20BPD%20-%205-19-5.pdf and it makes for fascinating reading.

Here's something: over the weekend I realised that overwhelming negative emotions can be neutralised if I imagine a still place inside me, enough that I can actually feel it in my torso, and let the negative feeling sink into the stillness.

Today I was thinking of posting that idea as imagining a cold, black pool of water inside me, so black you can't see the bottom. And I imagine that the negative emotion is a small animal that I push below the water, and hold until the bubbles stop.

But that's just playing the psycho for comedy value, and I really don't think that enough people would get the joke.

Anyway, gotta go, over and out.

J



Over and out.

J

One more down:

I just submitted the review for Wolfmother to Fasterlouder.

I'm running totally late to meet Richie at the Dev.

I saw the Red Sparrowes last night and it was totally amazing.

I even got in for free. My fickly mistress Serendipity smiles on me again.

The keyboard sucks becausethespacebardoesn'tworksometimes.

I have to run.

Over and out.

J

Hi Ho:

Hey All,

I've got some internet radio station in my headphones, playing some really trippy electronica. The kind of stuff I usually only hear as the soundtrack to the FlashTub movies on somethingawful.com.

Last night (as well as taking a call from Australia) I sat down and wrote the review of Wolfmother. I had already partially mapped it out, I just hadn't sat down to write it. Then I saved it as a .txt, later to bet put onto one of the neato flash chips my Dad gave me last time he was in England, and started writing a SF short story to enter into the SFX magazine comp.

Not too long ago I printed out the .txt file and at home tonight I will go through the hard copy with a red pencil.

It shames me that all of the reviews I have written for fasterlouder.com.au have lacked polish due to being rushed in some way or other, so I am trying to get into the habit of not letting this happen to any more.

The short story I just mentioned is nearly finished, and it is currently something like 1600 words, well within the acceptable word limit.

Other news: I'm going to put in a CV with cover letter at one of the local video shops, since they are looking for people who have a good knowledge of the film industry. And if I can't lay claim to that, I don't know what I can do.

And the Bell Tolls for this year's TV Licence. Which irritates me, since the BBC is so incredibly crap that I would pay not to have to watch some of their programmes.

Still, Life on Mars and Dr Who are pretty damn good, but are they worth the Licence Fee?

Nevermind. My share cames to just over £40.

Also: I just got a letter today that my National Insurance Number appointment has been booked for a few weeks from now. Which is good.

Tonight, just on a whim, I'm going to go see some bands play.

I think I won't go to Bang Face (a crazy new-school old-school raving thing at electrowerks), but I might go to Slimelight tomorrow night. Just for a stomp.

Over and out.

J

Scrooble!

Hey Everyone,

Tuesday afternoon I did actually get the haircut I was threatening to .

It came out much shorter than I meant it to: before the haircut, my fringe could be pulled below my mouth, now it barely reaches my eyes.

That's okay. What isn't okay is that my some of my hair is so thin that combing it straight back looks pretty lame. As soon as they isolate the gene in Native American Indians that stops their hair falling out and can sell it in a cream or something, I'll be the first in line.

In the meantime, I have taken the approach of spiking my hair up a bit. Most folk seem to like it, Haff did say it made me look like I was about to be made into a Halal Chicken, but he still thought it looked good.

The strange thing about a new haircut, it can make you swagger a bit more. Of course, I reckon that I'll probably last two weeks at the most before I shear it all off.

As threatened, I went to the Gothic Speed Dating thing last night, which could have been an exercise in degradation, but it actually wasn't too bad. Met some nice Swedish girls, a surprising number of Australian girls and actaully ran into on or two friends of mine.

Bizarre.

Naturally I completely forgot to keep a running score on my card, so at the end of the night I tried to remember who the not-fat girls were and ticked accordingly. The rules of engagement were that you only spoke to each person for three minutes, and I think that in three minutes of less I tend to give the impression I am a little crazy.

Where as over longer periods I confirm to people that I am a little crazy. But longer periods are good for looking intelligent as well.

I took the tube back from Archway, talking to Yukio, the half-japanese girl who I had met before (Goddamn those Half-Japanese Girls, I hear the chorus sing).

In a minute I'm bugging out of here to pick up another Robin Hobb book at the library. I'm less than a third of the way through the Iain Banks book I've been reading, but a Robin Hobb book is so absorbing that I'll be able to read it in time for it not to go overdue.

Over and out.

J

Quickly quickly

Hey all,

Didn't do much today.

I meant to get my haircut, but I didn't get around to it.

After I finish here I going to schlepp to Tescoes, do some shopping and then get back to the flat in time to pump iron while watching Prison Break.

Speaking of Sclepping, I just found this:

http://www.ariga.com/yiddish.shtml

A glossary of Yiddish expressions.

I shall persuse it at length when I next have time.

Unless I wrote it in my diary wrong, tomorrow I have some Jobcentre Appointment.

Tonight I thought there was some Gothic Speeddating thing at the Marlborough Head, but it isn't til Wednesday.

Over and out,

J

Hey Ya, Heeey Ya

Hey all,

It seems my attempt to stay one jump ahead of my black dog has worked, this time.

I made it to the Devonshire Arms about half an hour later than I meant to, but I had still beaten Richie to the pub. I saw a female friend of mine whose name escapes me, who was done in London for the weekend from Milton Keynes. She had come down for Na'ama's Birthday shindig on Friday and Slimes on Saturday.

Somewhere along the way I got talking to a Long-haired londoner named Mark, a tall Brazilian Named Alex and a Pretty Austrian named Bernadette. Mark recognized me as being Australian because his girlfriend is Australian. Bernadette was impressed by my German.

I had to run outside to take a phone call from my Mother (which always cheers me up, believe it or not), and while I was on the phone I saw Bernadette heading down the street towards the Tube Station (heading off to Slimelight).

In any case, I went back inside, talked to Richie, Robert, Patrizia and anyone else about.

Eventually the Devonshire Arms closed, leaving Richie and I to catch the bus to Angel. Which took longer than you would think in London. Added to which it was freezing cold and we got sprayed with Grit by the Council Grit Van twice.

We finally made it to Angel and Slimelight. At this point I discovered that there was some live Psytrance outfit playing on the top floor, so my usual Stompy Powernoise zone was being used by brightly coloured ravers. Dang!

Nevertheless I did have a whole lot of fun, dancing about, seeing friends and not giving a damn about anything else.

Interesting things: When I explained the way that I was feeling down my friend Callum turned out to be a sympathetic soul. Something I did not expect. Richie got talking to Bernadette. A northern friend of mine who usually dresses in militaristic uniforms left early with his girlfriend, clasping my hand in both of his the way italians do. For someone with possible Fascist tendencies, he is a genuinely warm human being.

After Slimelight I retreated to Starbucks with a couple of people, where my friend recently of Milton Keynes suggested we go see the Gothic Nightmares exhibition at the Tate Gallery. So Me, her and a Finnish kid I knew from STJ took the tube to the Vicinity of the Tate Modern.

Even in my sleep deprived state the Gothic Nightmares exhibition was well worth the admission. Etchings, prints, sketches and paintings by Blake (the artistically inclined poet), Fuselli (the darkly inclined artist), Gilray (the cleverly inclined cartoonist) and a couple of others made up the exhibits, each with their own annotations and interpretations.

Put simply it was an education. The draughtmanship and the thematic depth was incredible.

After that wassername led The Finn and I along the Thames, past the House of Parliament, trying to find somewhere we could get some food. It is bizarre that a city such as London could come so close to shutting down on a Sunday.

Eventually we found a pub that was a) open and b) serving food. Unfortunately the kitchen screwed up our orders (two full English and one Scampy and chips) leaving us to wait an incrdible amount of time. The pub wasn't even close to busy. The barman brought the wrong orders, then there was a delay on the right ones.

When the two full english finally came, I realized that both the Finn and I were down a sausage (the menu stated two sausages, we only got one each). The manager checked the menu in front of me to verify this, then sent a message down to the kitchen.

Strangely enough, one sausage would have been plenty, but I was channelling my youngest brother after being kept waiting so long.

After the food: onto the tube, where the Finn peeled off to head to North London, and my friend an I disembarked at Bethnal Green. I got a quick tour of Bethnal Green and even got to meet her old flatmate, who was a florist with an interest in comics.

Onto the Central Line and back to here, picking up a Sunday Times along the way.

The end of this story?

Most of the past 36 hours I have been feeling better. Meeting more people, exploring and seeing stuff. Learning things, seeing things I haven't seen before.

My muscles still hurt from Pole-dancing at Na'ama's shindig.
There is a Venetian Snares track with a sample at the intro, I'm not sure what it's from: 'Gran'ma told me that everyone has a Black Dog and a White Dog inside them. The one you feed the most eventually eats the other one.'

I know the name written on the collar of my present biggest black dog, and I am trying to tame it.

I've got other black dogs, but this one is one that bites me deeply, because it is one that I really should be over.

I can imagine someone reading this could cause someone to worry about me, since I am using such vague terms. Don't worry about me, I don't spell out what this recent spike of depression is about because it is embarassing rather than dark and evil. Embarrassing that I care when I thought that I didn't, embarrassing that a piece of me feels that I need something that I thought was superfluous to my life. Embarrassing that I've found it so hard to replace something I thought would be so easy.

But I'm getting too old to sit around petting my Black Dog.

I've got to feed the White Dog instead.

But I don't have to feed the White Dog alone.

I'm going home now, it's time I got some sleep.

Over and out.

J

Dancing on a pole

Hey all,

I'm starting to feel better.

To finish off this latest Blast of the Blues, I'm going to the Devonshire Arms to meet up with friends, then later I'm going to get all stompy on the Noise Floor upstairs at Slimelight.

Last night went a way to cheering me up. I got to Na'ama's party later than I meant to, but it was a slow starter, so that was okay. Saw some friends there even then, but it took me a while to see that Alex B was actually crouched behind the decks in the raised DJ booth in the far corner.

Just filling in: Na'ama's Birthday thing was downstairs at a bar on Cleveland Rd, a side street off Old Portland Street. The downstairs area had a bar, a few couches, a DJ booth, a sound system and a Brass Pole in the middle of the dancefloor. Not surprising, since Na'ama's invite did say that there would be pole dancing.

What she didn't say was that she would be pole dancing in a vinyl catsuit at her own party. Still, it's her party, and she'll dance if she wants to.

Of course, before pole-dancing mayhem broke out, we entertained ourselves trying to make balloon animals. I think I impressed some folk because I was one of the only people able to blow up the skinny balloons (I still have some of my Metal Singer Lungs left). But it was still heavy going for me.

A in between balloon animals a friend of mine who used to be involved with publishing gave me useful little tips, like get involved with a writer's group, and try Inertia, a local magazine, to see if they wanted anyone writing stuff for them.

I also gave into temptation and took a couple of twirls on the pole, in the process developing a new respect for pole dancers everywhere. Seriously, dancing on a pole is incredibly demanding, physically. Hours later and some of my muscles were still hurting.

Richie turned up later with Darryl (the Art-director for Terrorizer), having been at a Death Metal show, and talked me into going to a party at a club in Camberwell.

The Camberwell party turned out to be kinda crap, not to mention cold, but it did give me an opportunity to pick Richie's brains about Terrorizer.

Of course, by 0330 I was bored off my tits, and wondering how the hell I was going to get home. And my toes were starting to hurt from the cold.

Thankfully the DJ's changed and started playing some harder gabba stuff, and some of us commandeered a broken Fusball table and became Fusball Hooligans.

After three toe-freezing hours (it has been brutally cold in London lately) me and two french kids jumped on the bus up to Oxford Circus (actually, they got off at Elephant and Castle, but I continued all the way).

On the way I passed one nasty head on collision and a subway/tube station or something where the police were already taping it off. Dodgy.

Did I mention that my travelcard had run out at 0400? Fortunately it was a bendy bus with a reader in the middle, so I pretended to put my Oyster Card on the scanner. It's not something I do all the time, and I was going to get my Oyster Card updated as soon as I got to Oxford Circus, so it just seemed like a minor infraction.

Anyways, Oxford Circus to Central line, Central line home and into my warm bed.

Neato.

Other news: after constant frustration with 1001 Arabian Nights I have set it aside as my Tube Book and instead started reading Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell, something my Mother recommended months ago. And so far I am finding it a rewarding, if slightly frightening read.

Anyways, I am so late.

Gotta go.

Over and out.

J

Emerging

Hey All,

I went home last night and tried my best to make it to at least 10 PM, so that I could watch a new episode of house.

I failed.

I wound up passing out, fully dressed, on my bed at about 8Pm, and woke up at about 7 am, after a brief wakefulness in darkness sometime earlier. I stayed in bed until about 8 Am, when I got up, drank some orange juice, ate a cold steak sandwich and looked out the window. From my window I could see frost on the grass by the wall. It looked freezing cold out there, it felt freezing cold in the flat and I was still feeling sad and miserable. So after 11 hours sleep, I went to bed and slept some more. I think I finally got up properly at about three.

That's what it's like. Sometimes the Black dog comes from nowhere, grabs me by the neck and won't let go.

The thing I've noticed is that it always seems to do that when I'm starting to get somewhere, when I'm getting close to achieving some kind of goal. Not just a perfunctory one, but something real. Either that or I get sick, or someone dies, or some other convenient vicissitude befalls me.

And I'm sick of it.

Maybe sometimes I get elevated and take on too much. Maybe sometimes I try to do everything and try to be everywhere at once without considering if I can maintain the pace. But too many times I've folded my hand when I should have stayed in the game.

But I'm sick of letting my insecurities and black-spells dictate the course of my life.

Anyways, I'm going home now because I have something to go to tonight. My friend Na'ama is having a Birthday shindig at a club somewhere in the West End, and I'm already running late.

To finish the story of my day, I did more cleaning up in my room and then went to Leytonstone Library with a list of words from Robin Hobb's books that I didn't quite understand. I looked up the words in one of the Oxford English Dictionaries there and it occurred to me it might be something to post a Robin Hobb Glossary online (with the permission of the Author, of course).

Anyways, time to go.

Over and out.

J

Interesting day

Hey everyone,

I've been having a most interesting day.

To start with, this morning I didn' just get up in time to make my Job Centre Appointment, I got out of bed in time to clean up my room enough to find the three last payslips they wanted.

For some reason all the payslips from when I was working at Newham Council were neatly filed together, while the payslips from the Courthouse were scattered through my room like powerups in a videogame.

Although in a videogame they probably wouldn't be buried under magazines, old flyers and dockets from Tescoes. Cleaning my room, usually an overcomplicated affair for me, ran along a simple formula: magazines in one pile next to the bed all else either KEEP (throw in a shoebox) or THROW OUT (throw in the bin). All the KEEP stuff to be sorted later.

In any case, after two and a half hours of hard searching I managed to find the damn things and relearn a valuable lesson: file important stuff where you can find it, dammit.

Of course, this didn't leave me enough time to fill out the forms I had to fill for the appointment at 1040, so I started filling them then pell-melled to the Job Centre, which was located a little past Leytonstone Station.

When I got to Leytonstone Station (with a minute to spare) I was shown to the second floor by a security guard, when I took up a couch and continued filling the forms.

Two interviews followed: first the employment related one (mental note, bring in a resume for them), where I explained that I wanted to go into retail, since office work was sucking my soul out.

Then the Financial interview, which involved the documents I had been searching for, followed by filling out still more forms about when I arrived in the UK and why.

Somewhere along the way I mentioned to the interviewer that I was a writer, where she mentioned that she was an avid reader. When I told her that I'm working on science fiction/fantasy kind of stuff, she said something along the lines of 'You have that kind of air about you.'

Interesting.

Apparently I have some kind of air about me today, because on the tube into London afterwards a complete stranger asked me if I was in a band, since I looked pretty familiar.

Bizarre.

The rest of the day was a little disappointing. I went to Stargreen to see if they had tickets for the Wolfmother show next week, but they were already sold out.

I wandered down to Borders and read a Henry Rollins journal book for a while on a black leather couch. Then I took a bus down to the Virgin megastore to see if they had any CDs by Architects. Nope. None at Virgin at Picadilly circus. Their CD must not have any distribution yet. Either that or they don't have one out yet.

I met an Australian from the Gold Coast working at the counter at the Picadilly Virgin.

Then it was down to the tube and back to Leytonstone.

The girl Sheena from Cambridge had left a message on my Myspace page (which I had told her about because myspace.com/palegrey is less likely to cause an unsympathetic laugh than jason_deathpixie@hotmail.com)

I did nod off a little on the tube, and I currently feel somewhat emotional and alone. I know that it is really just me be tired, and I know that I have been cruising on something of a high the last week, buoyed along by a kick-ass weekend, pretty Austrian travellers and the like, but I do feel a definite darkness and loneliness upon me. It came on fast and it sits on my heart like a marble headstone.

Put it down to feeling tired. I'll go home and eat some vitamins and bannanas and read some books and have an early night. I don't think I'll go out tonight.

Just to fill in a gap, yesterday I got up a little late
=> took the first tube to Charing Cross Road to try to catch the Central St Martins open day

=> discovered that it wasn't an open day, it was a tour through the building that I had missed by three hours

=> ran into an Italian friend of mine that I had met at a show

=> chilled in Cafe Nero drinking Bannana Strawberry blend drink with more Italian Musicians

=> walked out into the snow

=> it stopped snowing

=> looked in discount bookshops and music shops

=> bought 'Down and Out in Paris and London' by George Orwell and 'V for Vendetta' by Alan Moore. A friend who works in a comic shop later expressed that he was waiting for the movie, planting a seed of doubt in my head that I should read it before the 17 of March.

=> looked in Forbidden Planet.

=> looked at Leicester Square. Didn't feel like seeing any movies, besides couldn't risk not making appointment in the morning.

=> Doubled back to tube station.

=> tube home

=> stopped in here but didn't time to blog, but I did check out a myspace that a friend told me about a week and a half ago, which left noisy percussion banging in my head all night.

=> Home

=> watched TV, read books

=> sleep later than I meant to.

There you go, the point version of Wednesday the 1st of March.

Don't worry about me, I'm sure I'll be okay in the morning.

Nothing this bad that comes on this fast can last for long.

I'm going home to have a nap.

Over and out.

J