2 minute hate

Even though I mostly live my life through very cynical eyes, there are times when something or someone comes along and I think that this time it’ll be different. Somehow it’ll end up well with this one. That’s what I thought about you but I was wrong. Or maybe it’s just that given enough time, everything converges to a finite point. Certain death if you like. But either way, it’s your fault. And now I’m resentful. Mostly because it’s not like things just fizzled over time with us. You left. I’ve been discarded and I know that somehow you’ll make it like it was just a time thing. That we grew apart. Or worse — that it was my fault. But it’s not. It was all your doing. And I am a resentful, petty little man and so I feel like saying these things.

But yeah. That’s all I have to say.

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I saw Jason Mraz on Sunday. Other people have written about the concert so I won’t. He was good. I liked it.

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This whole thing about me looking like Chow Yun Fat is kinda getting out of hand. Really. I mean, it’s a flattering comparison and all. And I am quite a fan of his work. But last week, these people just came up and asked to take a picture with me. It used to be mostly Honkies (or I suppose other ethnic Chinese races) who would see a resemblance and yet be too shy to mention anything until a more appropriate time. And then people would have a nice little laugh at it and we’d all move right along. Now it’s strangers. Even non-Asians. I don’t really know that I’m complaining here. But it’s just beginning to feel a little creepy.

Three posts in under a week. Wow! This one was inspired by my lunch this afternoon. You know the tune. Just sing along.


Killing me slowly (with chicken)

I heard he cooked a good chook, I heard it has a style
And so I came to see him and ate there for a while
And there it was this chicken, 11 herbs and spices

I’m licking my lips and my fingers
Grease dripping down from this bird
He’s killing me slowly with chicken
Killing me slowly with chicken
Clogging my whole heart with this bird
Killing me slowly with chicken

Feeling all flushed with fever, a Pepsi cooled me down
I had the Hot and Spicy, it tasted good I found
With potatoes drowned in gravy, a Picnic bar as well

I’m licking my lips and my fingers
Grease dripping down from this bird
He’s killing me slowly with chicken
Killing me slowly with chicken
Clogging my whole heart with this bird
Killing me slowly with chicken

This chicken made me smile in all my dark despair
But when I ate the last one, there was nothing left there
Except a greasy sore throat, and another year off my life

I’m licking my lips and my fingers
Grease dripping down from this bird
He’s killing me slowly with chicken
Killing me slowly with chicken
Clogging my whole heart with this bird
Killing me slowly with chicken

Yeah it tasted good
But it was killing my life

Killing me slowly with chicken
Clogging my whole heart with this bird
Killing me slowly with chicken

Hi. I just wanna quickly recommend some things. And then I’ll go. I’m just afraid they might slip by unnoticed if nobody says anything about them. A film and two CDs.

Secretary
A film, starring Maggie Gyllenhaal and James Spader. Directed by Steven Shainberg
I guess this isn’t a film for everyone. And I couldn’t imagine how anyone could make a film about S&M be both ‘nice’ and even ‘cute’. But this movie, in my mind, achieved that. It’s about a lawyer and his secretary and the interesting relationship that develops between the two of them. There’s nothing hardcore about this. There aren’t even any whips and chains. Just good old-fashioned spanking and crawling around on all fours. It’s essentially a romantic comedy. Just with a bit of kink to it. It doesn’t try to preach, promote or educate. It’s not serious enough to be pretentious, yet it never lowers itself to the level of parody. It strikes a nice balance. Probably my favourite movie of the year so far. Go see it if you feel like something off-beat.

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Songs about Jane
Album by Maroon 5
I discovered this band on Amazon.com. It was one of their recommendations based on other CDs that I enquired about. They’re a pop band that might appeal to the same kind of fanbase as John Mayer and Jason Mraz, although they sound more like Jamiroquai or The Brand New Heavies — just with a harder rock edge to them. I know the CD’s available in Australia somewhere. I just haven’t been able to locate a copy as yet.
Favourite tracks: Harder to breathe, This love, Sunday morning.

If it was you
Album by Tegan and Sara
This is actually the second album by these two Canadian sisters although I’d never heard of them until now. And they’ve come at the right time with the current explosion of the whole ‘chicks with guitars’ thing. They’re a little hard to explain. Kinda somewhere between punk, folk rock, and Josie and the Pussycats. Make no mistake. They’re a pop outfit. But they’re raw and energetic and actually sound like they’re having fun. I imagine this is how Avril Lavigne wishes she could sound like.
Favourite tracks: Time running, City girl, I hear noises.

You and me against the world

Last week I found a little dog and I took him into my care and gave him a home and gave him a name. The geek inside me called him Jean-Luc.

But let me say this:

He’s not a real dog. He’s a soft toy. Small. Not much bigger than my thumb.

I found him under my foot. On the ground. Just as I got out of my car at a Westfield’s carpark. I’ve been having a lot of bad luck at carparks lately. Scratches and stuff. Another story I suppose. And not one particularly worth telling.

But on this day, I found a little dog. And he had a bead for his left eye and a long thread where his right eye must have once been.

And so I picked him up and I took him home. I had saved him from the dirty car-oil-soaked concrete floor that would certainly have been his last stop before the garbage bin.

And at home I cut off the thread in his right eye so that from some distance he would look like he has both eyes intact. And as I was cutting, his mouth got stuck to my scissors.

He’s magnetic, you see. I remember now. I’ve seen him before on TV. Well not him him, but you know what I mean. The ads. I’d seem others like him before. They have a magnet about where their mouths should be. And they come with little metal toys that stick to them and you can pretend like you’re kinda playing tug-o-war with them.

Cute.

But Jean-Luc has no metallic toys. So he just sticks to my scissors. He even sticks to the fridge. It looks pretty ridiculous actually. A little dog holding on with his teeth on a smooth white surface. In this position, Jean-Luc looks every bit the toy that he is.

But I’ve given him a name. And I’ve given him a home.

Literally.

I made him a little dog house out of left-over cardboard. It even comes complete with a corrugated cardboard roof. And now he sits in my car, under which I had found him, in his little doggy house and he looks as happy as an inanimate object can be. And as I look into his cute puppy dog eye, I can’t help but smile a little.

eh… so I’m an idiot.

But I can make the world safe for you, Jean Luc.

A portrait

My friend is down in the basement of his father’s house. It’s cold and damp down there. He sits on a creaky wooden chair, at a creaky wooden desk and writes by the light of a candle. Of course there is also an electric bulb swinging from the ceiling. It is the twentieth century after all.

Actually no, it’s the twenty-first…

…but he still hasn’t gotten used to that.

And indeed when the draft blows out the candle, he can still see. He can still write. In fact, he doesn’t even notice the difference. But he is a romantic after all. And romantics write by candlelight. Romantics wear scarves and stare off blankly into the distance. Romantics write on parchment with feathered quills.

Brain to the hand. Hand to the quill. Quill to the parchment.

He is writing a poem to her. And it’s all bleeding out of his heart.

My friend loves and wants to be loved. He writes and wants to be written about. There are songs that touch his heart that he wishes had been written about him. Or by him. Or something like that. He just wants to be a part of it all.

But he knows it’s just a song. And even mouthing the words won’t make them his.

‘It’s about you’ he whispers.

And he writes.

And he writes.

And then the words become a blur. As the hand begins to ache. As the songs begin to deafen. And the bottle of gin becomes a bottle of air.

But there’s still a long way to go. There’s still a few hours left before daylight. And we haven’t even gotten to the tears yet.

* * *

‘Is this really what I am?’ he might say to me.

‘Probably not’ may be my reply.

But I doubt that his version would be any closer to the truth. He is a romantic after all. And romantics tend to paint when they could have just sketched. Skip when they could have just walked. Romantics sing when they could have just said ‘hello’.

And frankly, I think I just happen to like my version better.

Bloggaversary

I missed my one year anniversary of blogging. It was earlier this month. I can’t believe I missed it. Especially since I never even expected to last longer than a month before becoming bored with the medium.

But here I am. One year older. And one year bloggier.

I suppose I’ll go for a drink with Sleepwalker or something. Or I’ll buy myself a present. Maybe create a new banner for this site. I don’t know. Maybe.

It went quite quickly. The year I mean. Even though I did struggle towards the end there. I hope I get to write more in year two.

All the comments that I have for my old blog entries have disappeared. They said that it’s not gone. It’s just been put in storage. So I go look up what I have in storage and there’s nothing there. Oh well. I guess it’s gone.

On Sunday night, I sat riveted, glued to the TV screen, watching the Eurovision song contest. What makes this worse than it already sounds is that I didn’t even get to see the performances. All I saw was the points tally and the final performance by Turkey. But I saw the T.A.T.U. girls hugging each other everytime someone gave them 12 points so I had to stick around.

They really do live in a different world, those Europeans…

Finally, before I go on to write a useless year-end awards thing, Riss wanted a mention if I was to write about blogging for one year. So here you go. Riss. You got yourself a mention ; )
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A useless year-end awards thing (xtn, season one, 2002/03)

All my favourite things from the past year.

Favourite CD - Ben Kweller (Sha Sha). This is an example of when random purchases work. I went to HMV, tried this CD by some geeky-looking guy I’ve never heard of, bought it and now it’s my favourite CD of the year. Trust me. It’s really good.

Favourite song - Curbside prophet (Jason Mraz). This guy is like Eminem with a guitar and without the violence… or the swearing… well maybe he’s not much like Eminem at all. But I’d rate these two as the most clever lyricists I’ve heard in a long time, if not ever. And I’m going to his concert! Yay!

Favourite concert – The Bens. I got Riss to thank for bringing me back to watching concerts (see, you got another mention). Although at the time I thought the Counting Crows concert was better (and in some ways it was), thinking back on it now… Kweller’s drugged out charisma, Lee’s um… well he sang well… and Folds’ sheer brilliance on that piano… not to mention the excellent rapport they had with the audience and each other… the way they were bumbling around the stage… and Jimmy Barnes’ surprise appearance… now I’m thinking, man, I’m never gonna see a concert that good ever again!

Favourite movie – Brotherhood of the wolf. Yeah, it’s a weird-arse French martial arts horror period piece. One of those. And I know it probably isn’t the best movie released in the past year. But it stands out as the most memorable. 8 mile gets an honourable mention. So does LOTR: The two towers. Matrix Reloaded gets a thumbs down from me.

Favourite purchase - My car. My fully-sick-mobile. Yeah I’ve been driving this Lancer MR for the past five years anyway… but it feels different when it becomes my car. Especially with the personalised plates and all.

Favourite piece of politics – The war with Iraq changing from being about weapons of mass destruction to being about freeing the Iraqi people. I don’t care much for politics but I found this… um… entertaining. And if anyone happens to read this and thinks I’ve misunderstood something or whatnot, please don’t bother saying anything. I won’t care enough to listen.

Favourite TV moment – When David Letterman decided to drop all this stuff from on top of his building onto an empty alleyway. What did he drop? Gallons and gallons of bottled water, a few buckets of superballs (really bouncy rubber balls), 25 cans of paint, hundreds of packets of playing cards, 20 bowling balls on a used car and my favourite, a giant bowl of chocolate pudding! This was on par with the time he wanted to see how many guys in bunny suits can go into a café before the owners complained.

Favourite new TV show – How old is Always Greener? Because other than that, I can’t think of anything else. I still watch old shows. How about Enterprise? Did that come on during the past year?

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That’s enough time wasted.

Thanks for reading.

Hope you’ll be sticking around…

Christian Harimanow
Sydney 2003

Staring blankly at the sky

TEA MAKES ME PEE

Should be on a bumper sticker. Or a t-shirt or something.

TEA MAKES ME PEE

I was thinking this last night as I got out of my bed for the fourth time in an hour to go relieve myself. I don’t have to explain that I had a mug of tea before I went to bed, do I? Otherwise this would all make very little sense.

I was trying to get back into my reading. But I had to have a toilet break after every chapter and it was late and I was tired and I had Dave Matthews singing ‘can’t buy me love, love, love…’ in my head, except in my head it might have been me singing rather than him but just with his vocal range instead of my own pathetic range so I’m sure that I’ve forgotten everything about the book already.

This is really bad.

I haven’t been reading much. And I haven’t been writing much. Or playing the piano. Or even trying to play the piano. I feel like my creative mojo has been sucked out of me. I’m distracted. I have nothing to write. Even though there is so much I could write about. But the words won’t come out. I’m choking. Hey everybody’s joking now. The clock’s run out. Time’s up, over… oh shut up Em!

Fine. So I have nothing to write. I guess I’ll just have to write about nothing if nothing is all I have left.

I will de-chronicle my life. Right here. Right now. For now. I will specifically not write about things that have happened to me. I may end up forgetting a few memories but I probably won’t. And if I do forget then I wouldn’t remember that I used to remember anyway. So I lose nothing. It’s all the same. It’s all about where I am right now.

My arse hurts after all that.

So now I finish off with a thought. One I had last night. Somewhere in between the book and the toilet and Dave Matthews. It goes something like this:

I think I will buy a small plot of land somewhere up the coast. I don’t know. Somewhere like Port Stephens perhaps. It could be on the side of the road. Somewhere convenient. Maybe near a petrol station. On it I will build a small shack. It will be made out of glow in the dark bricks so people driving past at night won’t miss it. I will be sitting on a nice comfy chair inside the shack and on the roof will be a giant inflatable doll of myself (or if I can’t afford that, I’ll just buy a McDonald’s one and place a likeness of my face on top of Ronald’s) holding a sign saying:

THE WORLD’S MOST PHOTOGRAPHED MAN

And there will be other signs on the streets and highways pointing to my shack. And all the signs will say:

THE WORLD’S MOST PHOTOGRAPHED MAN

And people will come from all over to take a photograph of the world’s most photographed man. And they will even be taking photographs of photographs of the world’s most photographed man. And next to the shack where I sit will be a small panel van with a TEA MAKES ME PEE bumper sticker on it and the back will be open and that will be where you can buy all the merchandise. You can buy stickers, autographed polaroids, postcards, coasters, t-shirts with ‘My friends went to see the world’s most photographed man and all I got was this lousy t-shirt’ printed on. There will also be mugs, pens and all sorts of other stuff. Even a cardboard cut-out of me that you can take a picture with.

A couple of hundred metres away, exactly the same junk will be available from authentic dodgy-looking Indian peddlers, at a 25% markdown.

Japanese tourists will come and take pictures of me before even thinking to ask who I am. And this will of course perpetuate the myth and more will come.

A smart middle-aged American couple will take eight pictures of me from several different angles.

‘Look Ned, it’s the world’s most photographed man.’
‘Well what do you know.’

Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap!

‘I wonder who he is Ned.’
‘Why, he’s the world’s most photographed man, Blanche. It says so on the sign.’

Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap!

‘But who is he Ned? What does he do?’
‘I suppose peoples takes photographs of him blanche.’

That was my thought.

It was an interesting thought.

I thought it was interesting anyway.

I need to pee.