Category Archives: Columns

On December 12 I was given the challenge not to say anything negative or bitch about anyone for thirty days. When I heard about this I cried. When I told my close friends they laughed. It was like challenging a sportsman not to state the obvious or a teenager not to use the word ‘like.’ As an artist, whinging about the output of my peers is as much a part of my vocabulary as swearing and self pity. Just how much so I wasn’t to realise until the pending days.

Day 1 – We all know the law of being asked not to do something, suddenly it’s all your brain can muster. My first challenge came during a soundcheck with my band. Andy, my bass player mentioned a ‘hilarious’ band that opened at Meredith Music Festival. “How did they get booked? Have they had as much JJJ play as me?” I blurted out. “You’re not allowed to say anything negative,” I was reminded by Kat, the guitarist’s girlfriend. Andy then mentioned a song in the iTunes Top 50 called “Yeah x3.” I had a song called “C’mon x 5.” I closed my eyes.

Day 2 – I was asked what I thought of a particular comedian. “I’m not allowed to say anything negative.” I was happy with my new loophole answer. Inside, my blood boiled as I sliced their name to shreds. I hate most bands, most comedians, most plays, most shows, most things. The older I get, the worse it is. Cynicism? We’re beyond that. This is professional bitterness. It’s the amino acid for performers.

Day 3 – I am seeing a friends band that I don’t like. Why don’t I like them? I think their songs are dull. I don’t hate them, but I hate the idea of them doing better than me or being given more opportunities. I don’t normally like to bitch, as a rule. I once made up a saying “a bitcher taints a thousand words”. These days I’ve become economical. I look at my girlfriend and say “nuh”, and then turn and leave. At this age, I’ve bagged out so many acts that I know the dirty words are like throwing a party in your head. It’s fun at the time but hardly worth the cleanup the next moment.

Day 7 – I seek temporary exclusion from the challenge, stating emotional duress. I’m having one of my awful moods where I say a bunch of negative things to my girlfriend that I’ve been bottling up for too long. History tells us ‘if you haven’t got anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.’ This advice is bad in relationships. Fear of confrontation means you can’t tell someone things like you feel smothered and occasionally their breath smells weird. This is constructive criticism. Although you have to prize the words out of your head, at least it’s going to the right person. (Even if it makes their eyes water.)

Day 9 – It’s Christmas and I can be cheery. I’m in Sydney and eating Mexican on sunny King street, flicking through the Sydney Festival guide. These guides, like streetpress, often trigger my insecurities, acting like a phonebook of achievement. I rarely enjoy the successes of others, but rather take them as personal attacks. I am a child wondering why I haven’t been invited to the party. Eddie Perfect has a show. He is a great example of someone who is beyond my flaming sword of judgement. He is genuinely talented and a really nice guy. Annoying!

Day 9 – My girl is reading a blurb. She asks me what ‘post-rock’ is. I stare at the page of an impossibly cool American duo. “It’s rock that goes for too long”. I am being negative. I am failing this challenge. The bile rolls off my tongue like water off a duck’s metaphor.

Day 12 – Bitching brings people together. A close friend I’ve fallen out with and I have a rare phone chat and bond over our mutual dislike of a play. I’m aware I’m cheating on the challenge, but the joy of sharing a few laughs is too fantastic. Thank God something failed! It’s so much easier to take one point off everyone else, than to add one to yourself.

Day 13 – My challenge has been brutally thwarted by the fact I’m performing at several summer music festivals. As history goes, my only natural defence to a barrage of higher status acts, stinking weather and trendo bogans is an electric fence of barbs and quips. When I’m tired and anxious and about to perform, most people can get fucked. Woodford Folk Festival is one of the most positive environments known to man. It’s gonna rain for three days straight. God knows I’m trying. I am once again seeking temporary exemption on professional grounds. Taking away my right to gripe at a festival is like telling Bear Grills he can’t drink his own urine.

Day 14 – My girlfriend knows my moods. She says I’ve done well to remain quite chipper despite all the gig friggery and leaky tenting. At 9pm on the second day I snap. I’d just put on fresh socks and trod in the middle of the tent floor which was damp.

Day 15 – While this challenge has only made a minimal reduction to my criticisms, it has forced me to delve deep within to look at my motivations. On the drive into Falls I chat to a music publicist and a comedian. Both confirm that bitching is rife amongst their creative brethren. In comedy, the moment anyone gets a gig there is a pack of five, regardless of experience, bemoaning why they didn’t get it. In music, managers and publicists will readily discredit another band. It’s Australia, we conclude. It’s in our colonial blood. Stick your head out and we’ll punch it back in.

Day 18 – My manager and I are chatting about LCD Soundsystem. “I hated their album this year”. Whoops.

Day 18 – Someone mentions the first song on their album, how it has a massive volume jump three minutes in. I say I find it really annoying. “I don’t mind it” says my manager. I really want her to back me up. I bitched, and then I wanted to be validated. There’s nothing more relieving than when you bag out something and your friend agrees. It’s a little ego stroke, meaning you are ok and that other person or thing isn’t. Survival mechanisms. Gee, we’ve come so far from our tribal roots.

Day 25 – Honestly, I’d stop bitching if bands would stop being boring. Life is spent in a cocoon of loner superiority. You are above everything – never participating fully. Guarded – defensive  – sceptical. It’d be kind of cool if it made you happy. I had a dream last night that I got really angry at my best friend Josh Earl. I was shouting at him about all kinds of things. He’s a performer as well. I think I’ve managed to fail this challenge on a subconscious level. That makes me feel better.

Day 26 – The W.A. music festival failed to pick me up from the airport, gave us tents instead of hotel rooms and no rider. My attitude toward this was not positive. I tried to not say anything until I was charged $4.50 for a small latte at the chai tent. I elbowed an indie kid in the dick, with my eyes.  Once again, I am seeking exemption from the challenge stating emotional and professional duress.

Day 27 – Showbiz has turned me into a frustrated, conceited, jealous, ego-blown, self obsessed black hole. I’m okay though, because I’m also pretty nice and to survive as an artist you’ve got to develop a thick skin, and you can’t fear the by-products of that which is predominantly fuelled by a healthy sense of competitiveness. My primary school teacher once wrote: “Justin does well but he tends to rush.” I was trying to kick Rhett Beaumont’s arse at mathletics. Me me me. Win win win.

Day 28 – I’ve performed to a couple of thousand people, many who have sung along to the chorus of one of my songs. As the afternoon sun crests over the distant green hills, and a joyful wave of adrenalin pumps through my heart, I feel a sense of calm. I have worked hard and am extremely lucky to be doing what I do. I walk off stage and see the face of my stunning girl waiting for me.

“Could you tell my guitar was out of tune?”

“The city that never sleeps.”

I recently went for a holiday in New York. My first impression was that it’s also the city that never showers. With a population of eight million, the city’s rubbish collecting infrastructure is weak. There’s no space for alleyway skips, so small mountains of garbage bags line the sidewalk. Garbage-mountain dwellers are known as ‘gleaners’, a consortium of Chinese who sort through the bags for plastics to make into sideshow prizes.

“Take a walk on the wild side.”

I’d never seen an African American in real life, and spent most of my time on the subway admiring their inherent coolness. Having only experienced them through television gave me a unique perspective, and every time I saw a Knicks cap and hi-tops I thought ‘you’re from The Wire.’ I was bombarded with other races I’d barely experienced including Latinos, Mexicans and loud, earnest whites. (‘You’re from Jerry Springer.’)

“Cos’ everyone’s your friend in New York City.”

New Yorkers, while stereotyped as rude, for the most part obey the social laws of American hospitality. On the friendliness meter, the locals shone, offering directions freely and passionately, even if they were wrong. In an apartment block jungle, elevator etiquette included bidding your floor pal a good day. Being Australian, I hadn’t greeted a stranger since I started wearing pants in public, and replied with a nod and grunt, (Bargearse for ‘you’re welcome.’) This friendliness does not apply on the roads, where cars are fitted with horns that permanently honk, only relieved by the pressing of the wheel.

“King of the hill, top of the heap.”

I was in the studio audience for the David Letterman Show. The aggressive briefing ordered us to laugh and cheer before threatening “if Dave doesn’t think you’re on his side he won’t do his A material in the warm up.” The experience was so surreal I may as well have been watching it on TV. Dave had his mug replaced during every break and there were five different Paul Schaffers. Jay-Z was on and when asked how he escaped the ghetto’s said: “not everyone had talent so they ended up dead or in jail. Fortunately I had extreme talent and a little bit of drive.” Jay-Z, like many rappers, suffers a condition where the body produces too much self-belief. Being a celebrity, he can afford to treat it with cocaine.

“No sleep till Brooklyn!”

Williamsburg is ‘the hipster capital of New York’ (therefore the world), and the most Fitzroyish. When I arrived it was all bikes, vegie bookstores, record cafés and those ambiguous boutiques where you can’t tell if it’s a gallery or a shop and everything is a cassette turned wallet or a clock with no numbers or hands. If Melbourne is the commonwealth games then Williamsburg is the hipster Olympics. Fashion tip: wire rimmed glasses and not smiling.

“…new york city man but he couldn’t take the pace / thought it was like a dog eat dog world.”

More like dog eat hot dog. Every ten steps there’s a cart selling wieners, soft pretzels and butterscotch good humors (yankee golden gaytimes). Red white and blue are the colours you’ll turn after digesting the cocktail of fat, sugar and salt available at the frequent pizzerias. The burgers and slices I sampled were incredibly bland, my felafel came in a box while root beer turns out to be flat dr pepper. Nowhere was I more offended than at Australian themed chain ‘Outback Steakhouse’. While I tolerated the corporate Aboriginal art and ‘Shielas’ on the bathroom door, I could not forgive the menu inclusion of ‘Aussie fries’ (an ironic acknowledgment of our Americanisation). More baffling were the tokenistic fusions of ‘Tasmanian buffalo wings’, ‘New South Wales sangria’ and ‘Walkabout soup’.

“New York I love you, but you’re bringing me down.”

Stand-up comedy is the best way to tap into the mentality of a city. After surveying several gigs, the most popular subjects appeared to be racism and porn. (Comedy’s sex and death). My favourite show was ‘Long Story Short’ by Colin Quinn, directed by Jerry Seinfeld. It covered the history of civilisation in an hour. By the three quarter mark every nation had gotten a serve and I was dreading Australia not being mentioned. Finally, we were characterised as the over eager friend, always popping up whenever there was a war: “God bless the alcoholics. We’re like, yeah Australia I was gonna call you. (whispered) Do I even have their number?” After summing us up as denim cut-off wearing Paul Hogan types he hammered home the geography. “There are three planets closer to us than Australia.”

“The only living boy in New York”

I spent most of my time spotting the many differences between America and Australia. Exit signs are red, the green crossing man is white, entrees are what they call mains, toilet bowl water levels are twice as high and there’s no self-deprecation. Vehicles are at least one and a half times bigger, with single Moms cruising round in terrifying black combat tanks. Language wise, I realised I’d spent my whole life not pronouncing my ‘Rs.’ Where a New Yorker will say ‘parrt’ I would say ‘paaht.’ I had an accent malfunction while trying to explain a busker I’d seen. “A what? Bosca?” was the reply. The local referring to a brand of chocolate soda. “Oh, buskerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

“The lights will inspire you.”

The only thing the lights of times square inspired me to do was kill and kill again. What I had always thought was one or two electronic billboards was actually two blocks of multistorey, king sized capitalist epilepsy – the equivalent of twenty megaphone wielding salesman screaming around your head. The advertising cancelled itself out as my eye-line couldn’t find a place to land, like a fly in a sauna. The capital of corporate hell was M&M world where you could buy everything M&M known to man, including the infamous ‘black M&M’, sold in separate packets during the 50’s. From across the store I heard clapping and cheering, it turned out to be a party generated entirely by the staff, urging the blue and yellow M&M costumes to beat each other in a splits competition. It was then that I penned the first line to my own song about the big apple.

‘People weren’t meant to live like this.’

Having never travelled outside Australia, I wanted to go to the one place I’d heard nothing but rave reviews about. While being the centre of the artistic universe, New York is still an overcrowded townhouse cluster bomb with the loudness, smelliness and uptight vibe of any super city. The subway’s genius, the organic superstores are priceless (in a pricey way), and central park is like a movie set, but there’s also lousy shoebox housing, racial inequality (whites man the shopfront, blacks and latinos sweat out the back), and more art means more bad art. Being raised modest, I don’t think it’s healthy for any place to have so much ego.

“First we’ll take Manhattan (Melbourne), and then we’ll take Berlin (Burnie.)”

The foggy universe of my childhood’s psycho-sexual development was filled with everything from cousin flashing, beanbag humping, Madonna filmclips and vaginal graffiti through to my first official fantasy of the princess from The Never Ending Story lying on top of me, putting her mouth on mine.

At age seven, Mum sat me down to tell me about a thin layer of membrane that went over a girl’s vagina only to be broken the first time she and the man had love. I sat there utterly baffled, trying to fathom how this in any way answered my question about who He-Man was.

I lobbed the experience like a tennis ball and continued about my boyish affairs, happy in the knowledge that I had only the vaguest idea what sex was but didn’t need to concern myself with it. When I was thirteen and on the cusp of ‘happy ending bath-time’, I discovered my Uncle’s 1970’s porn mags at my Nan & Pop’s. Squarely on the fence between childhood and adolescence, I felt the hormonal satellite awaken and a complex tickle punctuate my world.

By today’s standards, 70’s porn is pretty cuddly. Soft, normal-looking women with curves and curls, wearing jumpers and socks to reveal a forestry of lady hair. For a few months they became my sweet secret friends, until one day I decided to move onto the articles. I came across a piece of fiction which started off dull enough but soon held my ‘readathon’ mind captive as it descended into unimaginably squelchy horrors.

In the fantasy sequence Percy (a disturbingly yester-year name) is about to get married, so before the wedding four female ‘friends’ come into his room, blindfold him and proceed to get off any way they can. While it wasn’t the ‘truncheons and chalices’ erotic language that broke me, it was the fact that like any written story, I visualised what was happening in my mind. My imagination, once a place reserved for cars, robots and Footrot Flats now had people rooting and getting fingered in there.

I closed the magazine with the gravity of one who was acutely aware he had done  something he would permanently regret and drifted, pale and stricken into the hallway. Instead of the birds and the bees I had gotten the vultures and the wasps. Ironically, I had bypassed the characteristically vague parental chat and taken a left turn down a seedy alleyway of too much information.

For about a month I had full blown kiddie depression, I willed myself into thinking about the story constantly and carried the weight of guilt on my sunburnt shoulders. Little details niggled away at me, like the sound of them all “climaxing together” (orgasms were something I never really understood) and the fact the women had to stuff tissues under their dresses at the end. (This for a quiet Tasmanian boy usually concerned with Carlton’s place on the ladder and Lenny Kravitz’ position in the Rage Top 50).

A few weeks later I returned to the familiar box hidden in the spare bedroom cupboard and found the magazines were gone. I had a sneaking suspicion Nan had thrown them out. While I longed to see the girls again I was mainly grateful.

In time I would witness things far more graphic, but nothing could compare to that first electro-shock to my innocence by an adult world so shady and aggressive. Looking back, I realise it wasn’t so much an introduction to sex but an introduction to porn. With its ever exploitative mutation of the natural by the testosterone fury of the male psyche, it set the tone for my life-long discomfort with it. I would spend the next ten years trying to decipher society’s mixed messages about sex; finding self-education the most reliable source to cut through the filth and backup my own instincts.

Hundreds of years ago, Mothers would warn their children about getting square eyes from sitting too close to the telly. These days, the old wives tale has updated itself to contracting Oblong Eyes from computer abuse. The average Australian spends 75% of their time in front of a computer screen. (source: poor journalism). Here are some suggestions on how you can hit refresh on your Outlook.

1. Pimp Your Screen. Have the best of both worlds by hooking your laptop up to a data projector and blasting your workstation onto the big screen. Say goodbye to hopelessly anti-social nights hunched over your mouse with squinty eyes, Get some pals around and make it a family occasion. Hit the music and photo applications and make up your own bohemian slide show. End the evening with YouTube roulette, where you take turns programming your favourite videos –  from film clips to old ads, animals doing stuff and inevitably ‘Three year old Korean boy singing Hey Jude.’

2. Go AWOL. Why should professionals be the only ones who get to use those auto-reply ‘I’m away from the office’ vacation messages? If you’re a student or vaguely self-employed, why not chalk yourself up some rostered days off and step away from the desk, even if it’s just into the lounge. Set your auto-reply to ‘Hey, I’ll be away from email but you can contact me on this number only if it’s URGENT.’ You not only get to take a break from the infernal screen, but you give the impression that you’re important and busy. By playing hard to get, you’ll double the demand from your colleagues and friends.

3. Real Life Facebook. Have you heard about the hot new trend that’s sweeping the US and UK and soon to catch on here? It’s called SOCIALISING! Apparently you just arrange to meet up with friends and LEAVE THE HOUSE. Real life Facebook is much less user friendly that its online companion as you have to converse in real-time and people can see from your body language what a shy weirdo you are. Apart from this it’s relatively the same. You’ll be bombarded with advertising, but you’re a lot harder to track for high school bogans. Most importantly there’s no staring at the screen, until you gravitate to the silent TV in the corner of the bar as you’ve run out of things to say – about Facebook.

4. Typed Postcards. If I have to read one more piece of pop-journalism about how ‘hand-written letters are making a retro comeback’ I’ll spew in my mouth. Despite being told for five years how it’s time to get out the pen and Anne Geddes paper, the truth is letters are poxy to write when your handwriting is that of a four year olds. Solution? Typewriters are cool and a postcard can be easily fed into the spool. Postcards are fun and no-one ever expects much from them. What would make for a banal email will seem much more exciting because you’ve gone to some trouble, and meanwhile your eyes can recover that fine layer of film they once had.

5. Robo-Secretary. Voice recognition and docu-speak technology has been floating around for a while now, so why not download it from one of your share sites? Triple the fun of worktime by having that contract read to you by a sexy robot, savouring every syllable. While intended for the visually impaired, let’s face it, as Oblong Eyes we’re all going half-blind. As the trend catches on, celebrities will lend their voices to the programs and you’ll have Morgan Freeman reading your friends travelblog while Bindi Irwin adds sparkle to those Centrelink reminders. Hopefully the next step is being able to lean back in your chair like an 80’s movie boss and dictate documents to your micro-chipped minion.  The day will come when we can all stop being so mouse whipped, and make computers really work for us.

 

To the menfolk of Australia.

Quick, we haven’t got much time. While your girl’s in the shower I need to tell you a few things, man to man. Turn off the TV. I DON’T CARE IF FUZZY FROM VH IS TALKING! Right, I want to talk about legs. Namely, yours. Tell me – this summer, what are your leg plans? Have a little think. Stroke that stubble. Wait, lemme guess, you’re gonna wear jeans right? Unless it gets real hot and maybe you’ll wear those ‘sport jeans’ that cut off at the knee. What about down the beach? Probably just your boardies yeah? Good ol’ faithful baggy arse ocean flappers. They’re nice and loose, just like the surfers wear. So, do you actually surf? No? Okay.

Answer me this tiger, is the main reason you keep your legs covered up because they’re so florescent they upset babies? Have you been chastised in the past for pins so pastel they show up on Google Maps? Have you considered the possibility that the main cause of this symptom is that for years your upper leg region has been as heavily guarded as a US military document? Without being overly dramatic, as it is not the way of the old mate, I beseech ye to consider the notion that you may be caught in a self fulfilling shame spiral of negative body image and that the key to casting off these shapeless poly/cotton shackles is at hand. Listen closely, the time to capitalise is now.

MEN OF AUSTRALASIA – IT’S TIME TO TAKE A STAND AND KNOCK DOWN THE OPPRESSION OF OUR THIGHS LIKE TEN PINS.

There was a time in the early 80’s when our ancestors roamed free in colourful side split gym shorts and belted high waisted safari numbers without a care in the world. Men kept their legs healthy, took them out for walks, gave them plenty of water, drenching them in essential Vitamin D. Sometime in the late 80’s things changed. Surfing culture became fashionable and board shorts descended down like a spandex sting-ray, casting a shadow over thighs forevermore. Aided by grunge and gangster culture, for twenty years men have been locked into the regime of the knickerbocker. Men’s knees have become what ladies ankles were in the 1800’s. Pair this with the Speedo backlash of recent times, the once playful ‘budgie smuggler’ gags turning increasingly spiteful to the point where professional swimmers now cover themselves in body suits and I see it as society’s message that men should be ashamed of their groins.

Can you hear the hair dryer? Ok, I’m nearly done. STOP PICKING AT THAT AND LISTEN. I know this isn’t easy, and it’s okay to be worried. I know what you’re thinking, short shorts are a gay thing. Yes, while we’ve been bogged down in boardies, they’ve been warming their buns in the disco oven. The truth is we could learn a lot from such man pride. With the metrosexual tag tiring, society is finally accepting that all gents great and small are body conscious and clothing aware. Fashion has always been about rebelling against the norm and is often born out of the ironic statements of a subculture. We lads, the dedicated followers of out-of-fashion could be that movement. All it takes is a thirty degree day, some stubbies and a dream. If anyone asks, tell them Bon Scott sent you.

Look, I know short shorts may seem like a stretch. But if it’s not something you want to do for me, or for yourself, then as least do it for her. The greatest gift you can give women this summer is something to perve on. A bum, some thigh, a hint of package, even if it is your keys. Ask yourself, how many years have they been tirelessly getting their A-game on while we slouch around like bass playing b-ballers? The longest journey begins with a single step and this summer I urge you to get your thighs out and show the world that men actually have bums and they will no longer be silenced.

This is your call to legs!

Yours, in short,

Justin.

 

At the end of each year, many young Australians make the pilgrimage back to their family homes. Here, they try and assimilate with their parents and grandparents, whom are more or less middle-age frenemies they have nothing in common with. Before entering the weatherboard compound, the subject is forced to undergo a strict quarantine procedure – a sniffer dog hunts down tobacco while a sniffer Dad looks for traces of homosexuality. A Mum operated x-ray evaluates their posture, while senile officials determine whether hairstyle and dress sense match the strict requirements stated in the Backwards Act of 1955.

Many students and artists reach their homes in a poor state. A year of checking emails and talking about their ideas for a film has left them nervous and withdrawn. Their family tries to be sensitive to the highly tailored needs of the individual they have known very little about since they stopped watching Ninja Turtles by feedings them chops. The subject is then forced to undergo a rigorous interview about their motivations for coming home, how long they plan to stay, and a breakdown of their income, complete with audit from the Bank of Mum. The subject usually becomes agitated and is tranquillised with ‘anti-defensiveness cordial’ also known as Sherry.

The teenager 2.0 may spend some time trying to spiritually reconnect with their family home, only to find their bedroom has become the Times Square for cat ornaments. They may realise some of their treasured possessions have vanished such as a box of Juice magazines, roller blades and the complete X-Files on VHS. Accusations will be met with a passive aggressive manipulation of childhood guilt, offering of one of Aunt Jenny’s fruit fingers and an invitation to put together an Andre Rieu jigsaw. This offer will be declined, until it is evident that YouTube doesn’t work well with dial-up and it’s not wise to get the Bank of Mum CEO offside.

Being the end of year, the modern young person will be eager to relax and treat their family visit as a holiday. The child’s flaunting of such time-wealth will be deeply resented and punished with a meticulous campaign of psychological torture. This will comprise of the curtains being ripped open at eight oclock every morning as the subject is made to watch Sunrise, their eyes pinned open by a mugaccino of International Roast. They will try hard not to think about the fact they could be on a beach in Thailand or bumming around Berlin if they hadn’t spent all their money on alcohol and grain waves. All further attempts to unwind will be countered by a relentless parental work ethic – a front for undiagnosed OCD. The sound of vacuuming drowned out by swearing at the dog who only barks because the cricket is up so loud.

After a few days the young person will have the distinct feeling they are being held captive. As if their family are trying to break them in an attempt to find out their secrets, such as whether it’s really true they have no idea what they’re doing with their life. In turn, the family will unfurl the second wave of their operation in the form of a family bbq. (There will be beetroot.) The twadult (between teenage and proper adulthood) will be faced with the terrifying task of operating the Rubik’s gas BBQ while finding a way to express they don’t eat meat. They will then be interrogated by a fleet of family friends and grim cousins all wanting to know in twenty five words or less what it is they do and how much money they are making. “You had me at hello. You lost me at ‘voluntary work in Cambodia.’”

A rise in the reports of Post-Mum-Syndrome in both sexes has authorities advising young people not to travel home unless they are in a strong physical condition. Doctors are prescribing a shot of vitamins and minerals that will help buffer against eating so much chicken as well as a sedative that will alleviate the anguish of watching Millionaire Hotseat, also known as Sherry.

Each year, as I become more self conscious and weird, it becomes harder and harder to relax at home. I touchdown in Tasmania a burnt out husk, declare my tears at customs and am bundled into the back of Mum’s Kia feeling like an overgrown teenager with improved vocabulary and fashion. This year, my home time imploded after the ‘Nan VS the gas barbecue’ fiasco left me so tense I changed my flight back to Melbourne three weeks earlier than planned. Sticky fingers clicking around webjet, thoughts as maxed as my credit card, I realised something. Home isn’t a holiday.

It’s a common dilemma for people to tire of their families after a few days. The fuss, the frustration, the flicking of your personality switch to ‘defensive.’ This has never been an issue for me. I am spiritually bound to these people through contracts written in blood and memories and soup. Now it’s just Mum and Nan and they are my elders whom I love more than the stars in the sky. I am their Justin, the prodigal only child who returns each year with tales of success and gentle humour. I feel too much guilt and responsibility to allow myself the luxury of impatience.

This year, something broke. I arrived at Nan’s place still sporting my city scowl, retinas hot with emails. I took a turn around her garden, (the Big Day Out of the flower world – a festival of colour), closed my eyes and drew in my medicine. The sweet warmth of freshly opened roses and mown grass massaged my memory banks; a cotton-soft sunkiss blessed my back while meticulous songbirds plucked scraps from my ears. Inside I sat, underslept and sweaty as Mum and Nan quizzed me about happenings. My mental minions worked overtime, unpacking the words to capture my spinning plates existence. I tried to tell Nan about my new girlfriend, but she was not celebratory. She warned me about my past hurts and I snapped at her. Snapping at your Nan is the worst thing you can ever do.

Grumpy and ghostly, I parked myself in front of the cricket, the dull haze of the crowd and meandering commentary acting as a security blanket. Nothing says ‘rehab’ like zoning out infront of ads for carpet court, munching away on chips while you explain to your Mum why its too early to tell who’s winning. You shouldn’t be here, bohemian demons whispered, you should be on some beach in Thailand or a vodka bar in Berlin like other cool people your age. My girlfriend had just gone to New York for three months and a chorus of my former selves were screaming from the photos…’you have to go visit her.’ I’d tried, but I’d spent all my money making an album.

Home isn’t a holiday, it’s like a class free period at uni. Sure, you’re not doing work, but it isn’t exactly a ‘break’. Going home is like a school assignment where you are made to visit the museum of emotions and write an essay about it in small talk. Perhaps family become harder the older we get because we realise just how much we have grown into them. Mum nervously eyes the timetable and makes us stand outside fifteen minutes before the bus arrives – I am witnessing the softly spoken evidence of where I come from and why I’m such a worrywart. To her credit, she is able to joke about it. It’s not all bad. We are just two damaged people who can still share a laugh.

Home time is at its best when I go over to Mum’s unit. Our ritual is sharing a stubbie and talking about life and the past. The irony is Mum, who I could barely get a word out of during my childhood, is now more talkative than me and carrying the conversation. It’s a strange twist of fate, in my hour of need she is there for me. That night I lay in the single bed I grew up in, staring up at the sticker stars that still glow bright. With my glasses off its a big fuzzy universe. Things could be a lot worse, I think. It’s important to remember that.

So Thom Yorke has come out and declared the album dead. This isn’t the first time Thom’s been the bearer of bad tidings. In 2004 he cancelled the second Melbourne Radiohead show due to a frail voice. Frail voice? I thought that was the whole point. Not only did I have a ticket but I’d won a competition to meet him by sending in four barcodes from my brand of anti depressants.

Well, if the album isn’t dead it’s certainly lying in intensive care with a cracked case and a terminal cross-hatch of scratches on the disc. Since the advent of iTunes, the trend has been that no-one under twenty buys CD’s any more, and why would they? The things get ripped straight onto computers and then what use are they? To load into your discman on the train? To slot alphabetically into your CD tower? I’m afraid this, along with lying on your bed reading lyrics in 6-point is relegated to the 90’s along with Vienetta’s and magic eye. Now we get an album cover gravatar and a tracklist destined to be corrupted by file sharing cowboys and DJ shuffle.

In the past singles have been used as an incentive to sell the album. Now, the concept of buying a CD single is laughable (They’re $10, if you can find them, when a single itunes track is $1.70.) Instead, kids are happily breaking up albums like chocolate bars to get the no obligation songs they like. At best, they may grace the others with a thirty second audition. This is why tunes need catchy hooks more than ever, for the iTunes preview – and songwriters thought radio edits were harsh.

Spare a thought for the poor musicians, who spend the best part of two years and tens of thousands of dollars painstakingly recording their six stringed super hits in 24-bit high definition, only to have it crudely crushed into an .mp3 and listened to through flat earphones. Those of you who take music for granted should realise the audio quality of an .mp3 compared to a CD is like going from a five course indian banquet down to a sausage roll. Music isn’t just about that awesome guitar riff or those pounding synth drums, it’s about the dynamic texture of the high treble frequencies blending with the mid-level tones and the soothing sub-bass. Just think of the loud shirted, poor postured producer who has sat at the mixing desk labouring for months to ensure the song reaches your ears with just the right blend of equalisation. Every time you listen to your ipod, he cries control tears.

So, is our lord and saviour Thom Yotke correct in peering down from his post-EMI pedestal and declaring the album dead for us non-visionary plebs who don’t have a spare two million strong fanbase to give our album away for free to? (Crazy Thom’s gone mad, he’s slashed his prices not his wrists!) Part of me says screw you dude. I’ve waited my whole life to be able to make an album. The rush of running a knife along the box and seeing the ribbed canvas of a hundred identical spines glowing back. To lie in bed listening to my own ideas and sonic creations purring through the cradle of compression and the gloss of mastering. I think of the hours I’ve dedicated to the finer details like liner notes, the font, barcode placement and gap before the self indulgent secret track – all of it will be demolished by someone grabbing a heap of shit off a mate’s ipod. Sure, that person may have otherwise never been exposed to your music, but do you really want to be dubbed ‘Unknown artist’ with your hit record ‘unknown album’ featuring the breathtaking single ‘track one.’

When I was fifteen I recorded my first album of songs ‘Ad-Liberation.’ This was done in my bedroom, on a little cassette walkman with a stereo microphone blu-takked to the indoor clothesline (how Radiohead record, I believe). I finished the songs, most of them seven minute power ballads about Jenny Garth, complete with mum knocking on the door in 4/4 time and ‘waiting for the cat to get off the lyrics’ solos. I gave the album a texta drawn cover, and the wax seal of any amateur production, extensive copyright information. It’s the professional equivalent of playing dress-ups, writing ‘all rights reserved’ and having no idea what it means. Released on tape, ‘Ad-Liberation’ fast-forwarded into obscurity when not even my biggest fan, me, could stand to listen to it any more, but it made me hungry to one day make the real thing.

I’m about to release my third Bedroom Philosopher album, happy in the knowledge that in this vintage obsessed era, my CD format is already considered retro. Though the album may be dying, music itself is thriving. It’s never been so accessible, and despite the file share explosion, there has been an apparent revival in young people buying vinyl. For now, it means that dad’s like me pushing thirty can proudly bang on about how great Radiohead CD’s were to Gen-i kids who can’t really hear and don’t really care. They’re too busy biting off more sausage roll than they can chew.

Did you know that every thirteen minutes a relationship in Australia ends? Statistics tell us that only 5% of these relationships will end cleanly. The majority will haemorrhage into heaving silence with one staring into space and the other in tears. Sentences will get said: “I don’t know what I feel any more. I just don’t think I can give to this relationship.” The carcass of trust shall hang from necks. There will be gazes from the doorway. Beautiful creatures in knee high socks and soft cotton dresses sprawled on the bed, faces buried in pillows. Nervous men out of scripts and drawing on movie memories. Walk out the door. Just walk out that door. There’s no turning back. We’re past the point of no return.

Having done a snap-survey of my friends I’ve concluded that for those of us that are single, it’s not easy. We’re all nursing a photo album of bruises in our hearts. We’re all staring longingly into the suburban sunset, waiting for the smooth arms of a perfect match to cradle us through this spiritual recession. We have so much to give and we feel like we are going to waste. We sit on public transport retina scanning from afar, while love songs poke us like senseless siblings. We glance at stockinged legs wondering if now’s the time to stand up, ride the bumps like a fate surfer and wander over with business cards in hand and a ‘hey…you seem really…nice…let me know if you want a coffee sometime…’ before thrusting our little rectangle mangle of a lifeforce into the clenched hand of the long-haired lovely, nursing shopping and a good book – innocent royalty in this fraction of a possibility.

How can we meet new people? Us loners. Us washed up lovers. How can we tune into the frequencies of those who would hold our arm as we picked out videos. Who would add a ‘kiss me’ to our things to do lists and watch the ground for us as we text-walked? What combination of words and actions could unlock the vault of chance that would lead us to a universe of warmth beneath covers and the body lock of sweetheart sweat – the autumn-fall of thoughts leading to the timeless utterance ‘I’m so glad I found you.’

How can we find those we’d be so glad we found?

We go to gigs, parties, we flick about on Facebook. Everyone looks occupied and unattainable. The beautiful people have their friends, their drinks in hand, they don’t need us and our overthought desperation. We over thought it already. Our sentences are like highschool clay, all fingerprints and lumpy joins. What could we possibly offer? We are on the outside of the painting looking in. Colours are creamy and expressions are effortless. It’s a dream in there. How could we approach? We are covered in shadows.

Within a typical day the average single person will create over 186 conflicting thoughts about love. They may tell themselves things like ‘this is a good time to be single’ within the same stanza as ‘I’m horny, everything’s fucked.’ This is normal, and is reflective of the human experience. We are wise-cracking muddles all wrapped up tight in string, like Kris Kringles waiting to be given to the right person. We are store-bought bundles of poetic observations, clever humour and kisses. Oh dear God we are good kissers. Did we mention this? Upon the well-timed mouth we’ll make you forget every insult you’ve ever been given. We’ll take you up in a hot air balloon and land you in a forest of flowers, make you biscuits of the ripest honey and read you the funniest and saddest story, in voices soft as rain.

You just have to find us.
We just have to find you.

 

 

 

In grade 10, my girlfriend Kristen cheated on me with an older guy. When I say older, I mean he was on his P’s. I’d tried everything I could with her: a four-hour phone conversation when we lived half-an-hour away; some serious leg playing; I even let her boss me around and change her mind every five minutes about whether my school shoes were ‘yay’ or ‘nay’. She ate my chips, she finished my jokes, she left cryptic messages on my pencil case. Now I think about it, she was pretty annoying.

As an apology for cheating on me she blu-tacked the lyrics to Roxette’s ‘It Must Have Been Love’ to my locker. I was devastated. It wasn’t my locker. She’d been seeing eight other guys while we were together. The ‘youth group’ she’d taken me to was just a big second date.

Earlier, in grade six, I had been part of a girlfriend lottery scheme for four-eyed boys. I was placed next to Tennille. She was from New Zealand and had brown skin, blue eyes and a shy but funny demeanour. I was an egg with a bowl cut. We wrote letters to each other, sat next to each other at play-lunch, I think once we even spoke. Crunch time came during the school camp. It was night and we were wandering around the bush, high on Chomps. With childlike curiosity, and not-so-subtle urging from friends, we gravitated towards the back of the cabins; alone for the first time. We stood there staring at the moon-flecked wood pine for 10 minutes. Neither of us spoke. I didn’t breathe.

My brain had bungee-jumped into my heart, which was skydiving into my stomach, which had unravelled down my legs. I knew why we were there, but I also knew that it was impossible. She was so lovely and warm, and waiting patiently, and if I had just let my eyes close and my face drift forward, guiding it gently against hers – the softest snap-crackle-tickle could have been mine. I did not. Would not. Couldn’t. With twigs cracking like Pop Rocks, I led us back to our friends.

A few weeks later, Tennille said she didn’t want to keep being my girlfriend. This message was delivered by her friend, in a note, photocopied from a Magna Doodle. I went into denial, relying on a cocktail of Ovalteenies and Fruita to get by. Where had it gone wrong? I attributed it to the fact that the day before, Mum had come to pick us up in her little Yellow VW Beetle. The thing roared like Crazy Frog and looked like a Matchbox Pop Ball. Tennille didn’t look so rapt about being in the back seat. Yet the more I think about it, the more I come back to that night behind the cabins. I had revealed a crucial weakness of character. I had tucked my windcheater into my shorts.

My first real kiss wouldn’t come until four years later, when I started wearing contact lenses and girls realised I was all right in the face. I used to attend a regular Christian camp, which had such dangerous rope swings (not to mention ute-powered grass sledding) that it was in your best interests to have JC on side. Saturday nights were always pretty flirty and we’d guzzle our desserts down, watching girls from afar. Once, a love-struck couple got their braces stuck together and they had to call in the SES.

Through a series of whispers and trampoline dares, I’d paired up with Chantel, both of us shy and second-tier cool. We meandered up the gravel road and, under a clear night sky, I told my body that history wouldn’t repeat. It’s a shame it didn’t, because we bumped teeth. Several times. Even God had to look away. It lasted a couple of minutes, after which we slunk back in silence, too embarrassed to ever talk to each other again.

Twelve years on, not much has changed. Only now I bump hearts.

 

 

Press stud check shirts and three piece flared suits
Art Deco prints and mod Beatle boots
vintage scrabble with no pieces missing
a few of my favourite second hand things.

Ah yes, like Scrooge McDuck used to flap wildly about in his columns of cash, the modern young thing can interpretive dance around shelves of perishable trinkets and wardrobes laden with long-lost fabrics, basking in the wealth of yesteryear. Boy/Girl, do we love vintage! If we had it our way, the whole world would be one big ‘the 60’s.’ Psychedelic pop art, milk in bottles, mint condition Stones records and no-one would have to go to work. We’d be too busy running barefoot through the sun drenched grass, on our way to the Sunbury markets.

For me, like many, a relationship with retro began as a child. Stomping about on orange and cream carpets, fighting with crochet pillows, being scolded for getting too close to the Royal Doulton tea sets – soothed by the bottle green pleats of Nan’s polyester skirt. Second hand stores existed within our first hand homes. Who hasn’t looked through the square window of childhood photos and seen a vintage catalogue. Your two toned blue Hawaiian t shirt, your Mum’s maroon cardigan, the yellow and chestnut diamond curtains – you’d happily buy it all. We learned to associate the bright woollens and warm vinyls of the past with a safe, adoring environment.

After rinsing away the brainwash of high school, we strolled independent through the bell-tripped opportunity doors. Baskets and racks, tables and shelves lay brimming like twenty cent smorgasbords. A museum of manufacturing seen through a Kodachrome kaleidoscope. If there are super foods then surely these were super things! Collectibles you could wear. Secrets you could sift. Modern antiques you could pick up and play. Treasure hunts, dress ups, shopping and charity all wrapped up in one glorious ball of wool. In a corruptible world, op shopping was our ideal private universe.

Ten years on and corruption has crept in like mildew. What was once an innocent love affair has been exploited into a vintage ‘industry.’ We are mere consumer demographic for big city boutiques; A-grade hoarders glued to E-Bay like arty pokie victims. Ironically, at a time when quality retro is supposed to be running out, we are granny blanketed with prize finds that have had the ‘treasure’ sucked off them like chocolate and the price tags privatised. Second hand has been sanitised for the mainstream. Like meat was once hunted and vegetables were grown, vintage was once ‘found.’ Now, it comes marked up and mark free.

Last year, in an attempt to keep up with this acceleration, my op shopping became more aggressive. I bled my internet trigger finger until my post box was choked with the 70’s ties I collect. I patrolled the inner-city circuit, budget blind and paying up to $20 dollars a piece. I chatted up store assistants and asked to look through the boxes out the back – on my hands and knees, rummaging through the retro rainbow, forever out of reach and drawing me forth. I was trying to collect an unlimited set. With the sense of discovery and bargain aspect gone, what was left? This was no casual afternoon browse, this was calculated retail therapy. I had mutated my hobby into a necessity, a distraction, a competition, an emotional drug. I was trying to buy my way back to better times. I was just another consumer filling a void. I had out retro’d myself.

With the commercialisation of vintage, it’s easy to lose sight of the wide-eyed wonder that drew us to it in the first place. I’ve recovered from my blow out, learning to put the mod in moderation. It helps to venture out to the country, where many op shops still remain untouched. They remind us that second hand cannot be measured in monetary wealth, but in that childlike elation where one’s trash becomes your treasure. The surprise hug from the past, somehow meant just for you.

They say humans spend a third of their lifetime sleeping. Of that time, I spend a third lying in bed swearing, a third sitting in the kitchen eating ham and a third rolling around in a half-awake dream state with the devil playing Pictionary. Rock and roll brain, you god forsaken sponge! Where did it all go wrong? Insomnia. Discusszzzzzzzzzzz.

I’ve always had an overactive imagination, and can’t remember a time when I didn’t spend at least half an hour hurtling through wormholes down the rabbit hole of my mindioli. Through childhood, this tended to be an exciting time, like a fairground for the subconscious. I’d lie there staring up at my glow in the dark stickers (the universe was blurry with my glasses off), enjoying the weight of a balled up cat on my feet, kaleidascoping friends faces with storybook scenery and a pencil case of colour. Teenagedom was reserved for a tour de farce of sexual fantasies and idea fireworks for stunts I could pull at school. With the 4/4 chug of my heart in my ears, a sound I’ve never been too comfortable with, I allowed my engine to power down, safe in the knowledge that I’d always manage to drift off.

As an adult something changed. Dark emotions weaved in like Pacman’s ghosts and screwed with the controls. My single mattress was adrift in space, galaxy’s outside my comfort zone. I was living in a Sydney sharehouse, directly next to a train line and under a flight path. One day a train and plane went by at the same time and the phone rang and I screamed. For weeks on end I’d still be awake at four am. I’d just left the warm arms of a long term relationship and was now tossing and turning like a rotisserie man-chicken – playing one man twister where every colour is BLACK! I drew the viscous circle of not sleeping and then worrying about not sleeping. My sticker-stars were replaced by the corrupt glow of the Internet, the only weight on my feet was unsorted washing.

They say the first thing you should do when you can’t sleep is get up. (James Brown often sang about this). My testament to this theory is a cache of virus ridden computers, a discography of ‘poor man’s Beck’ acoustic demo’s, half arsed attempts at Peter Carey novels and the kinds of snacks that would get you kicked off a cooking show. After alphabetising my medication, I’d return to my usual program of: whywouldshesayathinglikethat!maroon prism dissipates into yellow jelly bean! mustpaymobilebillcanborrowoffmum!sadlovelybushwalkmemorytreees!halfabuildingcrashedontogumboot!beatlesmelodylionsfacewaterslidebreasts! swimming in surf club burnt my steak beer with katrina tomorrow volcanic double faced clown crayon butterscotch scottishcloud stained glass whistling sandra sully! still not fucking asleep! 4:39! Tomorrows centrelinkkkk be at gig at 6sleep till 12no11no12okay1130 yes! No! don’t sleepin, mustsend email tofestivalbluepolesturningintohexagonflipsmeltsmillionsdarkness! can you have two wanks in a night?

The next day I’d awake like a smashed ant and try to conjure Edward Norton from Fight Club. At least he made walking around like a zombie look cool. (Scratch the blowing up credit card companies shtick…although…centrelink…*mumbles to self*)

Today, things are a bit better, and I’ve grown more confident in my ability to adapt. I’m tired of running at half capacity. I’m trying to funnel the fallout into a routine of exercise and early mornings. There are other practical things like no caffeine after four, getting up at the same time each day, and no Lolcats before bed. (SAD FACE). Others have suggested warm milk, BBC World Service and masturbation (all at once). I feel like there’s a world of meditation out there I’m yet to explore, and I think of my mind as a startled stallion that can be handled and tamed. Oh for rain on the roof, freshly washed sheets and snuggling deep under the covers. Oh for drifting into a beautiful dream where you’re flying high above the navy ocean, skimming the sunset clouds.

This is how it goes:
Me: I’ve never been overseas.
Person: What!?
Me: Yep.
Person: But you’re from Tasmania.
(Person laughs for 18 minutes).
Me: True. I guess I have then.
(Person continues anecdote of how they caught a train from Paris to Berlin and then ended up in Amsterdam and fell in love with a New York girl who they lived with for a while before moving to London via Tokyo.)
Me: I’ve been to Broome.

You’ve heard of the 40 year old virgin, now meet the 29 year old travelling virgin – oft attracting the same kind of playful derision from friends and colleagues that Steve Corell’s character does. Like him I am equally sheepish yet matter of fact about it. It just never happened, and now I’ve left it for so long that it’s become too bigger deal. I’ve missed the Contiki boat. Just as Steve’s friends assure him it’s not too late and start an intervention, I want someone to get me drunk and set me up with Thailand.

Travelling’s that thing that everyone does where they escape their life to feel the most like themselves and become more interesting with stories you can’t relate to. Travelling is an opportunity for people to come back to Australia and strut around like explorers with their Spanish fighting sticks, London hangovers, Vietnemese snake wines and American gusto. They can waltz around their home ‘village’ safe in the knowledge they’ve seen outside the square and have an unbreakable bond with the rest of the world forged through a quickie in a Bolivian backpackers.

I was raised with the philosophy of ‘we have no money,’ and jet setted around Tasmania in a caravan. I loved every minute of it, but didn’t think outside the triangle. As an adult, all my money was spent keeping my artistic ball in the air. I couldn’t shake the feeling there was work to be done here before running off to Scotland to crack a fat over architecture. As a comedian I was blasted with orders to go to Edinburgh Fringe and do a show, only to watch colleagues return, screaming about what a great experience it was, only to break down a month later with $10, 000 credit card debts. C’mon, I can lose that kind of money here.

When you’ve never been outside Australia, you spend most of your energy convincing yourself you haven’t made a huge mistake with your life. Here goes – part of me wants to wait until I pass the black belt of my personality so I can get better value for money – like rereading your favourite book and getting more out of it. I get my adrenalin rush from performing; I’m proving myself all the time; Touring Australia gives me an enormous sense of satisfaction and perspective, cruising through airports with loner superiority; I meet plenty of foreigners after gigs – at least one!

Me: New York seems amazing. From what I could tell from The Ninja Turtles Movie it has a lot of interesting characters.
Person: Where will you travel to first?
Me: (Thinks for 18 minutes) Uh, New…
Person: York?
Me: Zealand.

I think I’m going to break the ice with India. The sitar is my favourite instrument, Indian is my favourite food, I think Indian women are the most beautiful and apparently Bombay is stuck in the 70’s and you can get cheap custom made flares. I figure if i’ve left it this late, the only way in is the deep end. A massive dose of food poisoning, brutal scenes of poverty and a complete culture shock will shake me loose of this tiring precociousness. I can finally join the ranks of real adult mavericks who have taken the plunge, delving through the worlds chapters with glee – from the apple isle to the big apple!

ALTERNATE ENDINGS

Person: Where should I go in Tasmania?
Me: The airport.

Alcohol is pure sex. Frosted white wine splashing between your lips. A smooth green bottle, snug in your dancing hand. The spitfire sweet of a straw sucked liqueur. The luscious punch of ice shrapnel between teeth, a slush of lemon and gin anointing your smoky throat. Alcohol lubricates your gasping mind. Oils your dancing bones. Fuels your childlike craziness. Alcohol is the slinky DJ at the decks of your brain, fading your inner monologue and amping up the joy. Alcohol is your dear, dear friend. Wild and reliable. The champagne spray that christened your adulthood will also toast your passing.

As a teenager it was like cordial 2.0. This thing called beer that came in smooth blue cylinders. Charisma in a can! Like Popeye I could crack the top open and swallow one whole. As I opened my eyes the grimy rumpus room became disco spectacular. Faces seemed friendly, my jokes were ripe and my head filled with shampoo scents and creamy skin. With my fuzzy meters maxed out I could allow my curious hands to creep under tops and find soft beating chests. Childhood was gone and with this grown-ups drink in me I had found my footing.

By University my friends and I were worshipping alcohol weekly. We’d drain the glass batons and erect a shrine on the coffee table, lighting the cigarette lamps. If there was an art to this miracle drink we wanted to perfect it. With the upchuck of high school behind us, we synchronised our intoxication, erupting into pokie room dance routines, psychedelic singalongs and uncommissioned public transport pantomimes. Alcohol gave us giddy-sweet paper wings to fly high above society.

Hangovers happened. I’d awake with a gum sealed face and a vacuum cleaner emptied out on my head. But with a girlfriend to snuggle and a high-fivin’ greasy breakfast with friends it could be laughed off with the bravado of a scun knee from a bike trick. After a shower and video i’d be back on my feet, licking a bourbon to take the edge off. This was a time when my footprints were still on the edge of introspection.

Alcohol started running out of tricks in my mid-twenties. With the bubble of uni burst I was flat broke in big cities. I had my first time getting drunk by myself. On a Saturday night I flicked through photos while red wine sat by my side and watched me like a cat. Alcohol wasn’t lifting me up but had its arm around me. With my performer friends we’d still drink like professionals and laugh jaded at the sunrise, but some ingredient was missing. In 2004 my Uncle was struck and killed by a train. Booze had been his second skin, and he’d been overflowing with it when he’d passed out on the tracks. Novelty smashed like a bottle in the night.

Humans are strange really. We use stimulants to relax and depressants to have a good time. I’ve watched alcohol rust away the goodness in those I love. I’ve seen my family ride it like cowboys and tumble into darkness, only to have no memory the next morning. In a year when I’ve been at my happiest and saddest I can no longer take it for granted. It’s a drug with side-effects that I take to feel better about myself. So many nights I feel like I’m going through the same slow motions. I don’t get the rush I used to while the hangovers grow more unbearable. What used to be a headache is now an emotional shit-storm that opens the doors to my sadness I’ve worked so hard to close. It poisons my sleeping and takes Viking swings at my bank account. The world’s standard issue social elixir is failing me. I don’t know how many chances I can keep giving it or how many it deserves.