Sunday 12 April 2009

Easter Sunday. This morning I awaken at a healthy 8.15 which is a surefire sign that my body clock is getting used to having days off. I did have interesting dreams but upon waking I soon forget them before I make an effort/gesture to remember and recall them.

Over the course of the morning elements and flashbacks of the dream return to me. These are of shots of riding an escalator out of a tube station after some kind of successful meeting in town. As I leave the place (wherever whatever) in a gesture of an upbeat sense of victory I go to put “Isn’t Everything” by My Bloody Valentine on my iPod but instead “Loveless” comes out and I actually find myself singing along to it in public aware that I look and sound stupid but without care regardless. It is a Friday afternoon but I still head back to the office to catch people before they leave (the girls). When I get back they have already gone and the office now resembles something of an old attached house. Inside I find my mother alone cooking sausages as the others desert the place for the weekend. I ask her if she doesn’t get lonely and she tells me she doesn’t.

It is with a flying start I begin today, the resurrection. Once more I am pounding the keyboard with writing/typing and words flow (if not fly). Conscious of it being a Sunday morning but still eager to listen to music I look for a more quiet selection. This is actually a tough exercise knowing my taste in music. Off the back of my dream I scour my harddrive for “Isn’t Everything” but fail in my efforts eventually settling on the much derided new Trail Of Dead and Stevo’s favourite Deerhunter.

The first thing I am working on today is the tricky final chapter of Gestures. I fear it will be top heavy as I wrote extensive notes (pretty much the finished prose) on a notepad during Christmas 07 when it was all happening and going down. Once these notes finish and the chapter switches to part 2 I fear I may be stranded and unable to come up with half the length of material already produced (as I write this standing at 17 Word pages and 8993 words). As I failed to do any writing towards the book yesterday this feels like a deserving punishment.

As I wonder whether today is the weekend in the month that The Observer does its music magazine, flicking through yesterdays Guardian I see the latest largest advert for this year’s Latitude Festival. Lots of names have been added and it feels so apt that it is in The Guardian where I read this, it truly was the whitest middle class festival last year. The additions to the bill are pretty uninspiring but that is always to be expected.

At 11.54 disaster occurs as a power cut hits and I lose all my writing for the day. Suddenly the 8993 words as mentioned above are suddenly back to 8379. How the fuck does auto recover work? Rebooting it appears to have saved nothing. After a productive morning I find myself back at step one with a mountain to climb to regain what I had accomplished.

I thought Jade was going to be resurrected today; you could sense the public willing it on. I think the recent outpouring of emotion represents a distinct lack of caring by the populous regarding reality, regarding the tangible aspects in/of their lives. As they people head towards middle age with their careers and families in place the elements of their lives that they have always strived and fought for are becoming mundane in the process and with it individuals begin to become bored and care less and less about what they actually have in their lives. I fear that this is a major problem now for my generation brought about the way things (the world) move too soon and how our lives appear to peak too soon now. So yeah, it’s a shame she didn’t come back today. I’m truly surprised that Max Clifford failed to arrange it.

Today I finally bite the bullet and watch the final ever episode of JPod. It does come together with a proper climax and ending coupled with a dark twist right at the end. It’s not quite the ending of The Sopranos but it is still a good one. Now to find that missing episode (eleven) that was never actually broadcast.

Back in the real world as I once again attempt to write and once again resoundingly fail, looking over at the TV and BBC1 I find myself confronted by the sight of Camp Rock. Now this is not some kind of homosexual music documentary, more it is the new High School Musical – this once more is the world according to Disney. Not Walt Disney but the people from Buena Vista in suits dressed like hitmen.

It is just far too easy to be cynical about these and as Jonathan Ross said “you have to embrace” things such as High School Musical, whats the point in upsetting a bunch of teenage fans now when they have the remainder of their lives to live in abject misery.

Camp Rock is on the surface a sweet and well-intentioned movie about a girl chasing a dream, being coerced into reinventing herself before winning out at the end of the day upon discovery that she should “just be herself.” More power to her. In between this the Jonas Brothers come along wearing their promise rings (much like I suspect my committed Christian American former friend does) to act like non-threatening love idols in the process of subtly (and not so subtly) promoting their music, their new record, their lifestyle and their careers.

As an adult the crux of the movie is that it is nonsense but nonsense in the best possible way. This is not music in this movie it is team sport for ungifted athletes. I love to think that Camp Rock is now what Gringo Records is like but my suspicions are such that the only camp in Gringo Records is the limpwristed kind. When Jonas Brother #1 finally drops his mask from being an arse to playing an acoustic number he has just written but “will not sell” it is almost straight out of a Smog or Bonnie Prince Billy song. Maybe.

OK, I know this is not aimed at me and to scoff at it (and as a result the kids watching it) is cruel but much like High School Music it is really pushing an existence of just as much fantasy content as Lord Of The Rings or Narnia (maybe). Were I, god forbid, to have kids that liked this stuff I would be quite concerned that they would turn into the kids at school that suffer, that ones that do not thrive and the ones, much like myself, that end up in therapy.

And so we come full circle as a 32 year old man (well, manchild) I end up bored and watching too much of this movie than is healthy for a person in my situation.

Eventually I look away from Camp Rock enough to catch up on the writing that I lost in/through the power cut this morning. This time round I don’t feel the writing is as good or as flowing as what I lost but what am I going to do now? Sadly the excitement just feels as if it has gone from the piece.

With the writing caught up I begin to set about organising my flat with view to finally once more become an adult again. As ever this is an arduous job that I somewhat suspect is beyond me with my OCD qualities. Ultimately despite my efforts I only manage to make the flat even untidier with new piles of rubbish.

One good thing does come from the power cut occurring as I discover that the resetting of my Freeview box in the process has caused sound to return to the channels. This is a good thing. As I scan/scour the revitalised selection of channels I come across Joe Versus The Volcano on Channel Five which I have always loved and found slightly dark in the process. Hanks in the eighties (and early nineties) had some really great subtle and sleeper hits in his cannon. Volunteers anyone? Definitely Splash. And of course The Money Pit. Also if nothing else Joe Versus The Volcano should be thanked for introducing my generation to “Come Go With Me” by the Del Vikings.

If this is not evidence of my boredom taking over, later I find myself online looking up the name Jennifer Parisi who is (or plays) the air hostess in the Sure Protection adverts – she is fucking hot. Maybe she has a website, maybe she has a Facebook page, maybe I should get out of the house before it is too late.

As it becomes apparent my TV is not going away today, I find myself watching the Tim Burton Willy Wonka, which is probably the least healthy thing I do today.

With a sense of guilt/shame I spend the early evening attempting to write some music reviews for Diskant and/or No Pictures but this is difficult when the majority of records I listen to are poor and unexciting. My day could also be described in this manner.

The one beacon of hope is the Eugene Mirman album “En Garde, Society!” which came through the post the other day. I have been listening to this for years and it is amazing but the DVD that comes with the record remains a mystery to me.

With my mind having been shredded/dragged through a mental sieve today I attempt to redeem proceedings by watching something cutting edge. My choice at this time is the mumblecore movie The Puffy Chair. With Spoon on the soundtrack it is a healthily indie movie complete with annoying slacker characters and weird resolutions. I get the impression that this is one of the better movies of the genre.

Now I sleep.