Botox of the mind

TIME WARP... It is funny how we try and freeze our look in a grimace of youth, poisoning our cells so they can be mummified into a constant teen state. We try and fight this loosing battle in complete denial of the obvious and inevitable outcome, old age and death. Yet we slap on cream poke and poising our faces, scrub off layer of skin, pour acid on our cheeks, dip our faces in placenta belonging to animals we would not even share a yard with- all in the hope of looking 5 years younger. Much like we did as children digging ditches in the sand, building castles, and writing our names close to the sea line with the juvenile conviction that the water would never wash it away... I mean we even build a 4 centimetre wall! Inevitably and relentlessly the wave would wash away in a few seconds that that took a day to build.

Would we not be much happier if we could botox our mind? Recall and re-live with paralysed perfection an instant of our existence for as long as it would take for the poison to wear off? Would it not gratify us more to experience in full detail that one time as a teenager when we were driving to that party with music blasting, laughing friends tightly packed into our micro 4 hand car rather than looking in a mirror and seeing a 40 year old teenager staring back?

Maintaining our looks is an act of altruism, but botox of the mind is the true hedonism...

not so drunken ramblings...

Matt Costa: Whiskey and wine

http://www.radioblogclub.com/open/138769/wine/09%20-%20Matt%20Costa%20-%20Whiskey%20And%20Wine

You know when you are old ... when a drink at the put is actually a drink at the pub. It does not turn into a reciprocation of rounds or a half eaten pizza on top of two bottles of cheap white (it's never the cheapest bottle, it's always the one just above). Which incidentally leads me to believe that the cheapest bottle does not really exist and it is just a fake price they place there to allow people to actually order the cheapest bottle guilt free....

When was the last time I was gob smack- drunk on a Monday (non bank holiday)... hum...it must have been the good old westbourne flat times, when Ryan came home with lovely light blue pea flower blossoms- proudly announcing he had been fired! We the proceeded to get absolutely hammered and even smoke menthols (you know it's a good night when the menthols come out). We improvised a dinner for six (Ryan, me, Jess, sally, Chris, Ana and Robin) and carried on until we had drunk the house dry.
I guess that doing it now would not be the same thing. We seem to even have the nerve to feel appalled by drunk silly people when up until a few years ago, we were them! The only person that seem s to be able to keep it up (smoking, drugs, drinks and all), while still looking beautiful and youthful is Kate Moss. God knows what that girl does to look like that regardless... For there 33rd birthday she partied for 72 hours solid and spent 16 K on booze- Miss Moss I salute you!

Tell me lies tell me sweet little lies

Regina Spektor: Fidelity
http://www.radioblogclub.com/open/106621/regina/Regina%20Spektor%20-%20Fidelity

Did you ever ask yourself why adults always tell you, you should not lie as a child? They try and beat lying out of you, punish you until you own up to your lies and catch you out at any chance. Much like Pavlov’s dog they condition you to feel guilty about your half truths and creative recollection of reality (the word lie is so awful, I prefer these synonyms). Now this would be justified if you where a bad liar, and let’s face it most kids are, but why punish a good liar? Why gun down the Picasso of fibs? The Stradivari of bullshit? It makes no sense, particularly considering that humans are incapable of dealing with reality all the time.

Lincoln once said “you can lie to everyone a few times, you can lie to someone all the time but you can not lie to everyone all the time”- now Lincoln was a clever man (not clever enough to save his ass in the long run, but nevertheless clever). Though Honest Abe recommends not ling to everyone all the time (keeping track of the stories would be far too complicated) he accepts the necessity of fibbing once in a while.

So why not toss a few little happy lies- lies that make other people happy and that avoid causing pain. Why should we be compelled to tell someone a truth they do not want to hear, even if beckoned? Are we so foolish to think that when a friend asks us what we think of her half witted new squeeze- she is not fully aware of his shortcoming? If she did think he was a Steven Hawking in the body of Daniel Craig and with the face of James McAvoy and manners or George Clooney (I digress)- she would not ASK. She would just sit there with the world’s largest grin and an air that says “look at what I landed myself! Behold Mr. Perfect”. At most she would give you the condescending “your boyfriend seems Nice…”- which translates into “so… is that spineless, flabby being, with the idiot smile actually the person you shag every so often? Ohh poor you”
This very much applies for men’s need to state the obvious, even when not called upon. Now why do you always feel the need to say, what is as crystal clear as the waters of Tonga, “this is just casual.” Do you seriously think that one night equate to a lifetime together in our heads? Do you think all women incapable of understanding a mood? In most cases we have not even thought about the possibility of going steady, because if we had we would not be so blaze’ about your lack of hygiene, messy room and revolting eating habits. Nevertheless pointing it out is just… well un- gentlemanly and frankly patronising. It makes you look like the merciless sperminator and makes us feel like the sucker which has been taken for a ride. Why kill the possibility and along with it the poetry?

Yes, because often when we ask a friend for an opinion all they want, really, is reassurance. When a lover does not ask for anything all she wants is not to know…So bring on the little white lies and the untold truths and let’s be blissfully ignorant and happy, albeit for a few moments, before it all ends in tears.

Remember – reality sometimes SUCKS!

Life is not fair

Moldy Peaches: Whose Got the Crack

http://www.radioblogclub.com/open/23435/moldy_peaches/The%20moldy%20peaches%20-%20%20Who%27s%20Got%20the%20Crack

I have never been so horny in my life, I have never been in such sterling physical shape, yet it seems that between 29 and 30 years of age I have developed a mature conscience and a level of pickiness which means I will never get laid!!

Yes because some day, whilst I was lying drunk in the gutter somewhere, while I was getting a lap dance from a russian illegal immigrant in a London strip joint, whilst shagging some exceptionally good-looking shallow film director wanna-be, my brian must have ticked over scruple-less, yet kind and fun loving girl of little morality- to a middle age bigot that is looking for love. And this means that for some cosmic reason that escapes me, I can no longer answer booty calls from a Portuguese ex-banker turned fruit delivery boy (with a six pack that would put Greek statues to shame). No because for as horny as I am I unconsciously decided that free love in no longer the way. You may think that is good but no! it’s a curse. Now I am horny and looking for love.

Think what that means…. In the long run…

My horny-ness will cloud my judgement and convince my brain that the unemployed alcoholic, bias to sexual asphyxiation is actually a misunderstood romantic that would make a great catch! I see it every as I eye up men 10 years younger, and actually make 2000 cups of tea because the rout to the kitchen happens to bring me by the dark room where horny quality assurance geeks (considered the bottom of the media barrel) spend the day watching TV in their sweaty gear.

I need to take immediate action- this will come in the form of an astonishingly short skirt and a pair of brand new fuck-me boots. God help me- I am going to kill my morality even if it takes me with it!

oh... myla god!

SONG: Serge Gainsbourg- Je t'aime...Moi non plus
http://www.radioblogclub.com/open/94301/gainsbourg/Serge%20Gainsbourg%20-%20Je%20t%27aime...%20Moi%20non%20plus%20%28J.%20Birkin%29.mp3

Surely there is a word for when you change your status on MSN to “appear offline” and sit there observing whom else is online. Almost keeping a watchful eye on a girlfriends that you suspect of cheating or an ex, that is spending too much time on MSN for you liking…. If there is no such word there should be. Worst yet, whist still keeping your identity hidden you click on that persons card and look over all ther pictures hoping to gather a little more information about their present without letting them know that you are snooping into their life.

And as you look through their drunken pictures you are reminded of how little in common you had and how annoying he was that one time he got wasted at new years and moaned all the way home just to throw up on your door step (vomit that froze over winter and was there to haunt you again in spring). As the pictures waltz in front of you fading in and out you look around at the little apartment you have all to yourself, your new fluffy pillows, freshly washed duvet, great half read book and . you think of how you will slip into a silky nighty you bought at myla, untie your hair and still smelling of rose water and cream you will wrap yourself up in those soft covers. You may even read a little erotica and, well… spend some time alone. And all of a sudden you realise why you don’t miss the jerk one bit.

My horoscope said I have just entered a 12 year spell of good fortune… so here I come!

A little indulgence

So I am updating my post from a grotty internet cafe (use the term loosely) in New Dehli! The city of lights where everything is possible. I saw the pits of poverty in Kolkata, where chidren and dogs fight over a bit of chepati- I saw the burning gate of Varanasi where a man with a shovel cracks the chest of a cadaver so the fire will take better, and a watched as people bath each morning in the ganges- following the strict hindu ritual, to end up in Dehli- which in comparison seem like tokyo! What a crazy ride it's been. It broke my heart and mended it 1000 times over- what a great crazy country!

I have chatted to PHD professors that had an obvious fascination with the west. I met ashanti owners that banked on their "guru" status in the eyes of western hippy twenty somethings, that are looking for answers. I listened to indian nationalsits that dislike all that is english, and smiled at teenagers that insisted on taking pictures with us. I waited for a sacred cow to move in order to cross the sreet, negociated to death with merchants - knowing full well I would still get overcharged at the end. I slept sorounded by snoring indian business men on a packed train- to wake up with someone's sock on my head. I had to tell a temple army guard exactly what a tampax is used for (he founded in my bag- and it does look like a cotton bullet...). I am slowly learniong all the names of bolly stars and starlets - and will soon be able to tell if the new or old Don is better.

I walked the excrement covered roads and rode on the immaculate pavements. I negociated with rich merchants and untouchable country girls.... and still there is soo much to see! I loved every second of it!

Everyone here smiles money or not sun or rain- it really does make one think. .. how lucky we are to be alive right now in this crazy world.

Ode to the arti’st

Nina Simone:
http://www.radioblogclub.com/open/115265/ne_me_quitte_pas/nina%20simone%20-%20Ne%20me%20quitte%20pas%20%28If%20you%20go%20away%29

All girls go through this and some girls hang on to it for way too long- the romantic love for the artist. We have all met the broody, talented (in some cases even talent less) man – that as a modern day Mr Rochester, is tormented by a secret, burned by his passion, consumed by his misunderstood talent. A contemporary miserable that struggles everyday to survive in a world that does not bow to his creative spark. With an agenda full of personal lost fight, rejection to come up against and hours of self pity and “no one can understand me, really” stories to tell- it’s surprising that this creature actually finds time to date or better to allow himself to be approached my idolising girls. Their eyes full of “I can fix yous” and “let me be your harbour of peace” these girls inevitably fall in his trap. They will fight all his battles, sit quietly in a corner and to the rhythm of “ne me quitte pas” will stand by his side as an old and loyal hunting dog feeding off the scraps of his time. They will defend him vehemently, at the sole mention of his self-obsession and negate their very self for a kind word. History is full of them, if you dig deep enough. Contrary to their talented partner – they are not remembered. Their existence of self-sacrifice is summed up in a footnote at the end of his bio. See for yourself, do you know Jeanne Hebuterne? No, but you probably know her husband Amedeo Modigliani, yet his bio reads:

“Amedeo Modigliani died in the Hospital de la Charite. The next day Jeanne Hebuterne, in an advanced stage of pregnancy, committed suicide.”

That is all we have to say about her. I ask you is this really what love is about? Becoming a nobody for someone else, destroying you very essence to feed that of your partner? It sounds to me more like cannibalism… How can you become the recipient of someone’s love when they are all too in love with themselves to even have time to notice you?

Hollywood, literature and poetry should take a good look at themselves and admit guilt for having hatched a bunch of foolish, dim-witted self-sacrificing women and rethink its role models. Why not write the “ode to the accountant” or “portrait of the banker as young man”? Better yet the “unbearable lightness of being a thirty something guy that is not too into his job but really enjoys life”?