In most businesses success is assessed by how much money you can sell your product, time, expertise or labour for.
Art has nothing to do with money. Once we start valuing work on a financial basis the spirit leaves.
In a culture obsessed with money the artist has to ask himself if he has chosen the incorrect business.
Parkstreet.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Hooray For Ecstasy.
Last night I enjoyed receiving a sexual favour from a neighbour. I'd like to thank the drug ecstasy, my neighbour, her dealer, and the manufacturer without whom this event would never have been possible. She told me, she only did it because of the pill.
This morning we bumped into in the elevator. She was with her boyfriend. Until that moment I didn't know he existed. The elevator has mirrors on three walls, I had no idea where to look.
I'm not morally opposed to drug use, whatever rocks your boat, but I hate being caught up in someone else's trip, drug fuelled or not. I'm sure there will be millions of ill considered acts on new year all over the world. It's not a big deal, not to me, but I'm sure it will be a big deal to my neighbour's boyfriend when she gets drunk and confesses and then it might become my problem.
I find it hard to get perspective on these things. Was it just harmless fun, a lady cutting loose on a big night, was the drug an excuse to do what she wanted to do anyway? Or did a drug make her act irresponsibly, ruin a relationship? I was either part of a naughty adventure or a chemical miscalculation.
If we were all honest with ourselves we wouldn't need drugs to lower our inhibitions, be honest about our desires. Self honesty, honesty with others, we might all have more fun and less guilt.
Parkstreet
This morning we bumped into in the elevator. She was with her boyfriend. Until that moment I didn't know he existed. The elevator has mirrors on three walls, I had no idea where to look.
I'm not morally opposed to drug use, whatever rocks your boat, but I hate being caught up in someone else's trip, drug fuelled or not. I'm sure there will be millions of ill considered acts on new year all over the world. It's not a big deal, not to me, but I'm sure it will be a big deal to my neighbour's boyfriend when she gets drunk and confesses and then it might become my problem.
I find it hard to get perspective on these things. Was it just harmless fun, a lady cutting loose on a big night, was the drug an excuse to do what she wanted to do anyway? Or did a drug make her act irresponsibly, ruin a relationship? I was either part of a naughty adventure or a chemical miscalculation.
If we were all honest with ourselves we wouldn't need drugs to lower our inhibitions, be honest about our desires. Self honesty, honesty with others, we might all have more fun and less guilt.
Parkstreet
Acid Test.
For an ex drinker New Years Eve is the ultimate sobriety test. Everyone thinks it is a great idea to have just one beer, just tonight, and they won't stop telling me that is what they think.
I feel like a mercenary soldier turned pacifist. I've done my share, done enough killing. I've nothing to prove.
It's hard to explain that I'm happy watching everyone else get off their nuts, enjoy the show. It's a pretty funny show, people say woo a lot, wobble about, say stuff that doesn't make sense, sleep with folks they'd not usually look twice at.
People generally accept difference in others much better than we expect. They accept nutty religions, diet choices, out of the ordinary appearance, sexual deviancy, drug use, strange hobbies, just about anything, but tell an Australian you don't want a drink on New Year and they won't hear of it. And they won't shut up about it.
I'm enjoying the South Park marathon.
Parkstreet.
I feel like a mercenary soldier turned pacifist. I've done my share, done enough killing. I've nothing to prove.
It's hard to explain that I'm happy watching everyone else get off their nuts, enjoy the show. It's a pretty funny show, people say woo a lot, wobble about, say stuff that doesn't make sense, sleep with folks they'd not usually look twice at.
People generally accept difference in others much better than we expect. They accept nutty religions, diet choices, out of the ordinary appearance, sexual deviancy, drug use, strange hobbies, just about anything, but tell an Australian you don't want a drink on New Year and they won't hear of it. And they won't shut up about it.
I'm enjoying the South Park marathon.
Parkstreet.
Airport Airport.
Airport, airport, airport.
They've got everything I need at the airport.
Coffee bar, sushi bar, cocktail bar, rent a car.
A place where time means everything and time means nothing in it's white flourescent arctic summer twenty four houredness.
Arrivals and departures, births and deaths, airport tears are practise for real life.
I feel secure at the airport. A reassuring adult voice tells me to guard the threat that is my luggage.
There is an information desk at the airport, for when I feel perplexed. At San Francisco International I ask the sage behind the desk,"do I lose faith in myself when I lose faith in god, love and art, or is it the other way 'round?" He hands me a map for the Bay Area Rail Transit system. I accept it gratefully. In these existential matters one guide is as good as any other.
I catch the train, which I notice can be driven from either end, and alight at the pallendromic Civic station. My question has been answered.
Airport, airport.
Don't forget, getting there is half the fun. In fourteen hours when I reach the next airport I'll have had half the fun I'm going to have.
Airport, airport, airport.
They have everything I need at the airport.
.
Coffee bar, sushi bar, cocktail bar, rent a car.
Some day everywhere will be like the airport.
In the future the whole world will be like an airport.
Parkstreet.
They've got everything I need at the airport.
Coffee bar, sushi bar, cocktail bar, rent a car.
A place where time means everything and time means nothing in it's white flourescent arctic summer twenty four houredness.
Arrivals and departures, births and deaths, airport tears are practise for real life.
I feel secure at the airport. A reassuring adult voice tells me to guard the threat that is my luggage.
There is an information desk at the airport, for when I feel perplexed. At San Francisco International I ask the sage behind the desk,"do I lose faith in myself when I lose faith in god, love and art, or is it the other way 'round?" He hands me a map for the Bay Area Rail Transit system. I accept it gratefully. In these existential matters one guide is as good as any other.
I catch the train, which I notice can be driven from either end, and alight at the pallendromic Civic station. My question has been answered.
Airport, airport.
Don't forget, getting there is half the fun. In fourteen hours when I reach the next airport I'll have had half the fun I'm going to have.
Airport, airport, airport.
They have everything I need at the airport.
.
Coffee bar, sushi bar, cocktail bar, rent a car.
Some day everywhere will be like the airport.
In the future the whole world will be like an airport.
Parkstreet.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The Radio Cab Man.
He parks the big old black and white radio cab outside the Three Friends Coffeehouse on 12th about nine each night. Tall, skinny, mean looking under his jazz hat and sideburns but he must be allright because the girls behind the counter always smile when he approaches.
I'm often sitting outside when he leaves, we've seen each other often enough to offer polite nods back and forward. When he starts the car the stereo comes on automatically, bossa nova every time. I bet it's on cassette.
Brazilian jazz is cool with me, I've found my ride to late gigs.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm often sitting outside when he leaves, we've seen each other often enough to offer polite nods back and forward. When he starts the car the stereo comes on automatically, bossa nova every time. I bet it's on cassette.
Brazilian jazz is cool with me, I've found my ride to late gigs.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Susan Boyle.
For those who've been living in a cupboard Susan Boyle is a sweet voiced singer who is being promoted by the production company that makes the television show Britain's Got Talent. If she were to ever need a wrestler's name it would be The Overnight Phenomenon.
I hope she'll make some dollars from this fiasco. Tens of millions of units have been moved but she is a one trick pony so no follow up album is possible. The same mob produced a faux opera singer last year and he has already returned to the obscurity he came from. Overnight cuts both ways.
You've probably seen the footage of her first appearance. She was pushed in front of a camera in a dowdy dress, no make up and a mad woman's hairstyle, the ham actor judges played their role, their faces in close up from disdain to wonder. It was a youtube moment, carefully planned, like a politicians soundbite. Giving the public the illusion that they discovered her, that those posh judges were proven wrong, is a genius move.
These manufactured stars, plastic dolls with moulded mounds where their genitals should be, are the future for big production houses. As independent musicians are taking back the business that is rightfully theirs these stunt and blitz campaign affairs will be milked until the public wises up and a new technique is devised.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I hope she'll make some dollars from this fiasco. Tens of millions of units have been moved but she is a one trick pony so no follow up album is possible. The same mob produced a faux opera singer last year and he has already returned to the obscurity he came from. Overnight cuts both ways.
You've probably seen the footage of her first appearance. She was pushed in front of a camera in a dowdy dress, no make up and a mad woman's hairstyle, the ham actor judges played their role, their faces in close up from disdain to wonder. It was a youtube moment, carefully planned, like a politicians soundbite. Giving the public the illusion that they discovered her, that those posh judges were proven wrong, is a genius move.
These manufactured stars, plastic dolls with moulded mounds where their genitals should be, are the future for big production houses. As independent musicians are taking back the business that is rightfully theirs these stunt and blitz campaign affairs will be milked until the public wises up and a new technique is devised.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The Conversational Arts.
In any conversation there is always one person who can state his opinion quicker and more succinctly than anyone else. It is usually because he has rehearsed those opinions, held the same ones for decades. Even when he is one hundred percent right he is bloody annoying.
The person who is listening to others, thinking, responding doesn't get a word in and so the art of conversation dies. It has been sick for so long it is almost a relief.
I see performers like this too. Their act is rehearsed to perfection, a neatly trimmed hedge of a show. They too are one hundred percent right, the audiences line up to pay big money to see them. I despair.
It isn't music, it isn't art, it is an amusement. There is no conversation between musicians or audience, just a lot of nasty showing off from people who were starved of attention by their mothers.
And so music will go the same way as conversation.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The person who is listening to others, thinking, responding doesn't get a word in and so the art of conversation dies. It has been sick for so long it is almost a relief.
I see performers like this too. Their act is rehearsed to perfection, a neatly trimmed hedge of a show. They too are one hundred percent right, the audiences line up to pay big money to see them. I despair.
It isn't music, it isn't art, it is an amusement. There is no conversation between musicians or audience, just a lot of nasty showing off from people who were starved of attention by their mothers.
And so music will go the same way as conversation.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Dime Slots At The Gas And Go, revisited.
He stands, pushing dime after dime into the slot machine at the Gas and Go. If he looks like he doesn't care if he wins or loses it is because he doesn't, the university pays him well enough.
The male/female coin and slot, the mysterious machinery that turns the wheels, the random results which are unaffected by his expectation, he thinks and doesn't think at the same time.
Soon he'll drive back into town and submit his paper for publication. It is right. The problem is solved.
Parkstreet.
The male/female coin and slot, the mysterious machinery that turns the wheels, the random results which are unaffected by his expectation, he thinks and doesn't think at the same time.
Soon he'll drive back into town and submit his paper for publication. It is right. The problem is solved.
Parkstreet.
The Cult Of Busy.
I asked her out for coffee, her eyes became born again glazed and her mouth recited the Cult Of Busy mantra.
"I'll have to check my schedule."
This time I saw the signs early, a cult member can only love the cult, there is no time or space for another human.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.
"I'll have to check my schedule."
This time I saw the signs early, a cult member can only love the cult, there is no time or space for another human.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.
The Cult Of Self Destruction.
Self destruction in the pursuit of a beautiful cause is cool. Self destruction for the sake of it is a pretentious anti hero wank.
There is a cult built around self destruction, complete with leaders, prophets, icons, literature, music, all the trappings. Like all cults it attracts the emotionally stunted, fantasists and self important but talentless masturbators. This cult oould not be more run of the mill and tedious. I can say this with certainty because I was a paid up member for eighteen years.
The destruction of a human is easily achieved. It takes seconds, minutes if one is sentimental. All us spoiled rich kids do is put on a good show, make enough small cuts to bloody the bathwater.
Parkstreet.
There is a cult built around self destruction, complete with leaders, prophets, icons, literature, music, all the trappings. Like all cults it attracts the emotionally stunted, fantasists and self important but talentless masturbators. This cult oould not be more run of the mill and tedious. I can say this with certainty because I was a paid up member for eighteen years.
The destruction of a human is easily achieved. It takes seconds, minutes if one is sentimental. All us spoiled rich kids do is put on a good show, make enough small cuts to bloody the bathwater.
Parkstreet.
Apples.
It is well known that men love forbidden fruit but I've recently realized that some women enjoy being that fruit.
These women hang, luscious, sweet, ripe, always just out of reach. I know one who turns up where she knows I'll be when I stop paying attention, disappears when I reach for her.
Women like this risk withering and rotting on the branch before they allow themselves to be plucked.
Parkstreet.
These women hang, luscious, sweet, ripe, always just out of reach. I know one who turns up where she knows I'll be when I stop paying attention, disappears when I reach for her.
Women like this risk withering and rotting on the branch before they allow themselves to be plucked.
Parkstreet.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Blue Notes.
While I was out playing blue notes to pay our rent she was out giving me reason to play them. I caught her on the corner of Lex and Flattened Fifth, she'd told me Lex was her clarinet teacher but there wasn't room for a cane reed between their lips.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
Parkstreet.
Parkstreet.
Culture Schmulture.
An Italian friend reminded me of an old saying, loosely translated, "to eat the pasta white is divine." White pasta, pasta blanco, is fresh pasta tossed in olive oil then smothered in quality finely grated parmesan cheese.
This dish is simple, elegant, essential. It contains no bells, whistles, smoke or mirrors. This sort of food is well out of fashion just as finding the divine in the everyday has lost it's vogue.
Many Asian cultures have a similar saying. "A man hasn;t truly eaten until he has truly eaten rice." Italy and China could not be more culturally different. Cuisine, religion, romance, art, politics, as diverse as possible, yet they are the same because people are the same. When people get up in the morning they want the truth, the essential truth, from work, friends, lovers, eating, sleeping, being.
The same truth applies to music. The question I am most often asked is,"what sort of music do you play?" There is no simple chatty answer to this question. I usually respond,"Albanian Vendetta Music." Musical genres are marketing tools, learned labels that scrape the surface but don't comprehend anything of the essence.
For me simple, honest, essential music is just music, like pasta blanco is just food. Think of a lone bugler playing the last post after a moving ceremony, playing the simplest of tunes on the simplest of instruments but played well he is channeling the divine.
Our culture is based on selling bells and whistles, sizzle not steak. The truthful, essential, divine doesn't have a place in popular culture but people will always come back to it.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.
This dish is simple, elegant, essential. It contains no bells, whistles, smoke or mirrors. This sort of food is well out of fashion just as finding the divine in the everyday has lost it's vogue.
Many Asian cultures have a similar saying. "A man hasn;t truly eaten until he has truly eaten rice." Italy and China could not be more culturally different. Cuisine, religion, romance, art, politics, as diverse as possible, yet they are the same because people are the same. When people get up in the morning they want the truth, the essential truth, from work, friends, lovers, eating, sleeping, being.
The same truth applies to music. The question I am most often asked is,"what sort of music do you play?" There is no simple chatty answer to this question. I usually respond,"Albanian Vendetta Music." Musical genres are marketing tools, learned labels that scrape the surface but don't comprehend anything of the essence.
For me simple, honest, essential music is just music, like pasta blanco is just food. Think of a lone bugler playing the last post after a moving ceremony, playing the simplest of tunes on the simplest of instruments but played well he is channeling the divine.
Our culture is based on selling bells and whistles, sizzle not steak. The truthful, essential, divine doesn't have a place in popular culture but people will always come back to it.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.
To Live With Intent.
To live with intent is a simple statement but an essential one if you want to live a full, adult life.
For me the opposite is to be passively aggressive. The passive aggressive displays no intent so he or she can always claim they are being picked on, blamed for something that they didn't mean to happen. They rely on other adult humans to forgive actions that are hurtful when those actions were unintentional, and less inclined to forgive when they believe the actions were intentional.
Children are unable to discern other people's motives, they feel only the pain, explaining that,"I didn't mean it" doesn't change anything for them. There is no point playing passive aggressive with a child, it doesn't work. Children, however, can learn how passive aggression works very easily. Some passive aggressive people are stuck at an early emotional age, can't break a child's habit. Most are employing a childish device to get out of living with intent, living a full adult life.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
For me the opposite is to be passively aggressive. The passive aggressive displays no intent so he or she can always claim they are being picked on, blamed for something that they didn't mean to happen. They rely on other adult humans to forgive actions that are hurtful when those actions were unintentional, and less inclined to forgive when they believe the actions were intentional.
Children are unable to discern other people's motives, they feel only the pain, explaining that,"I didn't mean it" doesn't change anything for them. There is no point playing passive aggressive with a child, it doesn't work. Children, however, can learn how passive aggression works very easily. Some passive aggressive people are stuck at an early emotional age, can't break a child's habit. Most are employing a childish device to get out of living with intent, living a full adult life.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
An Awkward Christmas Visit.
I remember being about twenty years old and going to some friend's house to drop off a combined Christmas and housewarming present. They were a really cool couple, both arts students, just moved into their first tiny home together near Melbourne University.
She was home alone, he was out at work, he'd taken a job for summer, an attempt to experience some of the real world. He was fitting tyres or the like. She was edgy, he was late home from the work Christmas party. He liked a drink even when he wasn;t thirsty. The later it got the more she flirted with me, some instant revenge action on her bahalf.
He arrived, stinking drunk, working class mate in tow. The boss had taken them to a strip club. The tension was thicker than a model. She couldn't restrain herself, she had to voice her disapproval of the exploititive nature of men leering at strippers. Unfortunately the mate was a working class poet, despite his drunkenness he put up a spirited defence for himself, her boyfriend, the fact that the girls made a shitload of money and he enjoyed looking at them.
The boyfriend was in boyfriend hell, between a mate rock and a girlfriend hard place. And he was very drunk. He made a tactical retreat to the local pub, the mate followed, I was left behind with an enraged feminist arts student who wanted to punish her man by fucking me. She was hot, I found myself in a hard place, but knew that honour wouldn't allow me to honour her offer.
I never saw either of them ever again. By scorning her come on I'd ensured her wrath, the fact that she wore the pants in the relationship actually turned me on a little, but I could only cause more pain by acting on it. He never knew, but I couldn't look him in the eye, never be mates.
Christmas brings unexpected gifts.
Parkstreet.
She was home alone, he was out at work, he'd taken a job for summer, an attempt to experience some of the real world. He was fitting tyres or the like. She was edgy, he was late home from the work Christmas party. He liked a drink even when he wasn;t thirsty. The later it got the more she flirted with me, some instant revenge action on her bahalf.
He arrived, stinking drunk, working class mate in tow. The boss had taken them to a strip club. The tension was thicker than a model. She couldn't restrain herself, she had to voice her disapproval of the exploititive nature of men leering at strippers. Unfortunately the mate was a working class poet, despite his drunkenness he put up a spirited defence for himself, her boyfriend, the fact that the girls made a shitload of money and he enjoyed looking at them.
The boyfriend was in boyfriend hell, between a mate rock and a girlfriend hard place. And he was very drunk. He made a tactical retreat to the local pub, the mate followed, I was left behind with an enraged feminist arts student who wanted to punish her man by fucking me. She was hot, I found myself in a hard place, but knew that honour wouldn't allow me to honour her offer.
I never saw either of them ever again. By scorning her come on I'd ensured her wrath, the fact that she wore the pants in the relationship actually turned me on a little, but I could only cause more pain by acting on it. He never knew, but I couldn't look him in the eye, never be mates.
Christmas brings unexpected gifts.
Parkstreet.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Gut Feeling.
Last night I played a gig with the right guys, in the right venue, playing the right material. It all felt right.
I'm about to head out for the day still feeling right about everything, I don't care how I look, don't care what's waiting out there for me, I feel right. Not all gigs make me feel this way, some leave me feeling empty, like I've just wasted a couple of hours of my life.
I recently met a girl who makes me feel the same way. When I'm around her I feel confident and happy, even inclined to show off a little. She has a boyfriend so there is no chance of romance but I'm glad I met her just the same. She has reminded me that connection exists, that buzz, that feeling of rightness with another human being. The last girl I was with inspired nothing but doubt, it was her method holding the high ground. It wasn't fun.
The obvious lesson from both these events is to pursue the work, people, feelings that make me feel good. So bloody obvious it is easily overlooked. Maybe the learned behaviour of the Christian work ethic, the idea that doing hard things will build character blinds me to seeing the easier, happier path.
Another resolution, choose joy, choose to be around people that thrill me, choose to play the music that fulfills me. It's not a new idea, but it's a new idea for me.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.
I'm about to head out for the day still feeling right about everything, I don't care how I look, don't care what's waiting out there for me, I feel right. Not all gigs make me feel this way, some leave me feeling empty, like I've just wasted a couple of hours of my life.
I recently met a girl who makes me feel the same way. When I'm around her I feel confident and happy, even inclined to show off a little. She has a boyfriend so there is no chance of romance but I'm glad I met her just the same. She has reminded me that connection exists, that buzz, that feeling of rightness with another human being. The last girl I was with inspired nothing but doubt, it was her method holding the high ground. It wasn't fun.
The obvious lesson from both these events is to pursue the work, people, feelings that make me feel good. So bloody obvious it is easily overlooked. Maybe the learned behaviour of the Christian work ethic, the idea that doing hard things will build character blinds me to seeing the easier, happier path.
Another resolution, choose joy, choose to be around people that thrill me, choose to play the music that fulfills me. It's not a new idea, but it's a new idea for me.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.
Raunch.
Many years ago I was at The Melbourne Wine Room in St.Kilda on new years eve. Paul Williamson's Hammond Combo were playing the groove jazz, the atmosphere was cool, sexy, fun.
There was a handsome tall fellow in a cowboy hat a couple of tables away. A really hot girl in tight jeans and singlet straddled his lap and syarted gyrating. It was a seriously raunchy moment, she had made a public statement that she wanted to fuck this man.
The thing that made it work was the way he reacted. He was cool, the very definition of cool. He moved his drink out of her way, lit a smoke and sat back, like he was saying,"o.k. then, impress me'. You see, I would have giggled. I really would have.I would have spoiled the moment.
She leaned forward and took a drag on his cigarette, went to take his hat but he took it back. A minute or so later she went for his hat again, he took it off himself and placed it on her head, the deal was done.
I've no idea if they were boyfriend and girlfriend or strangers; they certainly weren't married. It doesn't matter, it was just great to see an honest expression of raunch by both parties. It takes both parties to make it work. Women are naturally edgy about instigating sex, or just sexiness, because men get it wrong so often. Now I'm a little older I'd like to think I'd know how to act in such a situation, how to be a man for a sexy woman. I hope I wouldn't giggle.
Vive la raunch.
Parkstreet.
Shameless self promotion bit, the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes and all the other sites.
There was a handsome tall fellow in a cowboy hat a couple of tables away. A really hot girl in tight jeans and singlet straddled his lap and syarted gyrating. It was a seriously raunchy moment, she had made a public statement that she wanted to fuck this man.
The thing that made it work was the way he reacted. He was cool, the very definition of cool. He moved his drink out of her way, lit a smoke and sat back, like he was saying,"o.k. then, impress me'. You see, I would have giggled. I really would have.I would have spoiled the moment.
She leaned forward and took a drag on his cigarette, went to take his hat but he took it back. A minute or so later she went for his hat again, he took it off himself and placed it on her head, the deal was done.
I've no idea if they were boyfriend and girlfriend or strangers; they certainly weren't married. It doesn't matter, it was just great to see an honest expression of raunch by both parties. It takes both parties to make it work. Women are naturally edgy about instigating sex, or just sexiness, because men get it wrong so often. Now I'm a little older I'd like to think I'd know how to act in such a situation, how to be a man for a sexy woman. I hope I wouldn't giggle.
Vive la raunch.
Parkstreet.
Shameless self promotion bit, the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes and all the other sites.
The Hotel New Hampshire.
The building I live in used to be a hotel, The Hotel New Hampshire. Anyone who toured to Sydney with a band in the 80's or 90's now know where I live.
The Hampster, as she was known to her mates, was the hotel of choice for rockers of all descriptions. It was one of the last free places on earth. Like Irving's novel it was a place for free thinking and free acting. The only rule was to do nothing that would piss off one's fellow guests, as the other guests were equally chilled it was pretty much a free for all. Unfortunately none of that vintage debauchery is happening at my place right now. The most hedonistic thing that happens in my apartment is using the old hair dryer which is still attached to the bathroom wall to dry myself on a chilly winter morning.
The building is full of inner city yuppies now, it is only a series of freak accidents that finds me here. The one night of the year that the ghosts of Hampster past come out to play is New Years Eve. With a view of Sydney harbour, bridge, opera house, all the way to the heads, this building is the old lang syne ticket. The place goes off. Strangers kiss, end up in each other's apartments, it's all on for one night only.
Hotels are transient by nature, they give license to behave how you wouldn't at home. Now the building is a home it has lost it's overnight morality. i live in a furnished apartment, it feels like a hotel room, I'm transient by nature, I believe we all are but are afraid to live that way.
My resolution is to start livng in a way that will honour the old Hampster.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.
The Hampster, as she was known to her mates, was the hotel of choice for rockers of all descriptions. It was one of the last free places on earth. Like Irving's novel it was a place for free thinking and free acting. The only rule was to do nothing that would piss off one's fellow guests, as the other guests were equally chilled it was pretty much a free for all. Unfortunately none of that vintage debauchery is happening at my place right now. The most hedonistic thing that happens in my apartment is using the old hair dryer which is still attached to the bathroom wall to dry myself on a chilly winter morning.
The building is full of inner city yuppies now, it is only a series of freak accidents that finds me here. The one night of the year that the ghosts of Hampster past come out to play is New Years Eve. With a view of Sydney harbour, bridge, opera house, all the way to the heads, this building is the old lang syne ticket. The place goes off. Strangers kiss, end up in each other's apartments, it's all on for one night only.
Hotels are transient by nature, they give license to behave how you wouldn't at home. Now the building is a home it has lost it's overnight morality. i live in a furnished apartment, it feels like a hotel room, I'm transient by nature, I believe we all are but are afraid to live that way.
My resolution is to start livng in a way that will honour the old Hampster.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Rosellas On My Balcony
Yesterday there were five Rosellas perching on the railing on my balcony. I turned the television off and stood quietly in the doorway, a much better show.
They were just gossiping, I'd swear to it. Wobbling up and down the rail, chirping just loud enough for the bird up the end to hear, where the good seed is at, who is roosting with whom, whose plumage is looking a little shabby this year, one day I'll leave this stinking city and live somewhere peaceful by the beach. I'm sure this was the conversation.
This chatter, passing the time of day, shooting the shit, is a universal passtime. Friends and strangers do it all over the world, in every culture. Sometimes it leads to a deeper conversation, other times it is a few words to display recognition, respect.
Taking a few moments to say I love you to a fellow human is always worth your time. That's what the Rosellas on my balcony were up to yesterday.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, improvised flute track, available for download on iTunes, all the other sites.
They were just gossiping, I'd swear to it. Wobbling up and down the rail, chirping just loud enough for the bird up the end to hear, where the good seed is at, who is roosting with whom, whose plumage is looking a little shabby this year, one day I'll leave this stinking city and live somewhere peaceful by the beach. I'm sure this was the conversation.
This chatter, passing the time of day, shooting the shit, is a universal passtime. Friends and strangers do it all over the world, in every culture. Sometimes it leads to a deeper conversation, other times it is a few words to display recognition, respect.
Taking a few moments to say I love you to a fellow human is always worth your time. That's what the Rosellas on my balcony were up to yesterday.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, improvised flute track, available for download on iTunes, all the other sites.
Perspective Through Beer Goggles.
In a few days on New Years Eve I'll be celebrating seven years since I last took a drink of alcohol. While this is a personal victory for me it is interesting on other levels.
You can probably imagine how removing a mind altering substance from my life has changed me. The differences are practical and emotional. More money in my pocket, less stupid mistakes, less casual sex, much less, less guilt, you can guess the rest of the list. All it took was one decision and my life changed for the better overnight, then progressively got better for seven more years.
It leads me to wonder what other obvious decisions I can make to make my life better? Giving up alcohol was so obvious, but it took me years to work out. There are probably other simple, easily made choices I could make right now, it is a matter of seeing them clearly.
As I'm writing this I can see one person I have to let go of completely, have nothing to do with ever again, no matter how beautiful she is. I can see that moving out of Sydney will make me happier. I can see that making a firm decision on a path for my musical career will make that career more successful. These practical, easily achieved changes are in front of me, and all I had to do was start writing this blog, pose the question, and there they are.
I can feel I need to make a more substantial change, emotionally, spiritually, not just the practical. I think it is to do with self honesty, asking myself hard questions and not hiding from the obvious truths that arise. I guess I can start by choosing to take muself more seriously as an artist, be humble rather than embarrassed by talent, creativity.
If I can beat a negative like addiction there is no reason I can't thrive on a positive like pursuing honest and complete musical expression.
Parkstreet.
You can probably imagine how removing a mind altering substance from my life has changed me. The differences are practical and emotional. More money in my pocket, less stupid mistakes, less casual sex, much less, less guilt, you can guess the rest of the list. All it took was one decision and my life changed for the better overnight, then progressively got better for seven more years.
It leads me to wonder what other obvious decisions I can make to make my life better? Giving up alcohol was so obvious, but it took me years to work out. There are probably other simple, easily made choices I could make right now, it is a matter of seeing them clearly.
As I'm writing this I can see one person I have to let go of completely, have nothing to do with ever again, no matter how beautiful she is. I can see that moving out of Sydney will make me happier. I can see that making a firm decision on a path for my musical career will make that career more successful. These practical, easily achieved changes are in front of me, and all I had to do was start writing this blog, pose the question, and there they are.
I can feel I need to make a more substantial change, emotionally, spiritually, not just the practical. I think it is to do with self honesty, asking myself hard questions and not hiding from the obvious truths that arise. I guess I can start by choosing to take muself more seriously as an artist, be humble rather than embarrassed by talent, creativity.
If I can beat a negative like addiction there is no reason I can't thrive on a positive like pursuing honest and complete musical expression.
Parkstreet.
Give Me A Band.
You can keep your Ivy wannabe, press play dj, pillhead club, it's sterile and futile.
Give me a band.
Give me five like minded maniacs using their legs and feet, arms and hands, lungs and cords and lips and tongues to make the art that vibrates the air then disappears forever. Give me their combined energy, their individual power, their passion.
Let the boys play the grooves that make the girls dance. Let the boys play because they have to.
When I'm blowing tenor over the funk the drummer is Kerouac's typewriter keys hitting the telex roll paper as he writes the word blow. Cassady is shouting in front of the stage. For a long time I took holy boy road, now I'm on be bop road.
You told me to let my hair down. My hair is long and sweaty and more down than you could know.
Who are you anyway?
Parkstreet.
Give me a band.
Give me five like minded maniacs using their legs and feet, arms and hands, lungs and cords and lips and tongues to make the art that vibrates the air then disappears forever. Give me their combined energy, their individual power, their passion.
Let the boys play the grooves that make the girls dance. Let the boys play because they have to.
When I'm blowing tenor over the funk the drummer is Kerouac's typewriter keys hitting the telex roll paper as he writes the word blow. Cassady is shouting in front of the stage. For a long time I took holy boy road, now I'm on be bop road.
You told me to let my hair down. My hair is long and sweaty and more down than you could know.
Who are you anyway?
Parkstreet.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Living On The Edge.
I couldn't sleep last night, realized I'd hardly eaten all day, the only thing in the fridge that didn't involve chilli, apart from eye drops, was an out of date yoghurt. I decided to take the risk and eat it.
I was kind of hoping it would make me sick, confirm my natural aversion to risk, but it didn't. Against my will my heart is hatching plans to pack up a bag, an instrument and a notebook and get the hell out of Sydney, not return for a year or two. I'm concerned there is a whole new vein of risk taking entering my life and I don't like it, I don't like it at all.
Guess Who's Coming To Dinner was on late night T.V. I've seen it at similar hours enough times to ignore the dated melodrama but there are always lovely moments in that film. The discovery of Oregon boisenberry ice cream for one. I discovered Oregon Summer berries this year, a choir of angels crying on my tongue.
The love affair is the beautiful thing. Superbly portrayed, two people meeting and just knowing it is right. The ultimate risk, yet no risk at all if one's heart is open and honest and pure. That's the sort of risk I could live with.
Parkstreet.
I was kind of hoping it would make me sick, confirm my natural aversion to risk, but it didn't. Against my will my heart is hatching plans to pack up a bag, an instrument and a notebook and get the hell out of Sydney, not return for a year or two. I'm concerned there is a whole new vein of risk taking entering my life and I don't like it, I don't like it at all.
Guess Who's Coming To Dinner was on late night T.V. I've seen it at similar hours enough times to ignore the dated melodrama but there are always lovely moments in that film. The discovery of Oregon boisenberry ice cream for one. I discovered Oregon Summer berries this year, a choir of angels crying on my tongue.
The love affair is the beautiful thing. Superbly portrayed, two people meeting and just knowing it is right. The ultimate risk, yet no risk at all if one's heart is open and honest and pure. That's the sort of risk I could live with.
Parkstreet.
Boxing Day Rats.
Boxing day is a tough day for the rats in my neighbourhood. I live in the red light, nightlife district of Sydney and Christmas day is the one a year it isn't overrun by rampaging drunken hordes from the suburbs. The rats that are sustained by discarded junk food, the cheese smear on the wrappers, the spew of the Irish backpacker, go hungry for a night and a day.
Just like revisionist history there is currently a movement towards revisionist popular culture. We're told that rats aren't so bad, their image is just wrong, surely you've seen that cute quirky chick on t.v. who keeps one as a pet? We are talking about an animal that will eat your eyes and tongue if you fall into a coma.
The revisionist philosophy appears to be to take any generally unpopular thing or idea and make it cool. Does it get any more ridiculous? We aren't talking about rediscovering something of quality and making it cool again, this trend is to take the low quality, the ugly, the shit and somehow making it heroic, ironic, chic.
Rats are rats.
Parkstreet.
http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030554483
Just like revisionist history there is currently a movement towards revisionist popular culture. We're told that rats aren't so bad, their image is just wrong, surely you've seen that cute quirky chick on t.v. who keeps one as a pet? We are talking about an animal that will eat your eyes and tongue if you fall into a coma.
The revisionist philosophy appears to be to take any generally unpopular thing or idea and make it cool. Does it get any more ridiculous? We aren't talking about rediscovering something of quality and making it cool again, this trend is to take the low quality, the ugly, the shit and somehow making it heroic, ironic, chic.
Rats are rats.
Parkstreet.
http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030554483
A Good Egg.
Whenever someone starts a story with the words,"back in my day" my brain switches off to protect itself from boredom.
This morning I had reason to hark back to the good old days. Friends brought me fresh eggs from a farm so I boiled a couple and ate them in front of a vintage cartoon. Marine Boy actually. The bad guys were greedy, the good guys noble. There was no educational message embedded in the story.
The eggs tasted like eggs. We've been domesticating chickens and harvesting their eggs for thousands of years. With modern technology we can now produce eggs that don't taste very good, quite an achievement. Tomatoes that don't taste like tomato, bread that doesn't taste like bread.
We are what we eat, so our lives are tastelesss. There is no educational message embedded in this blog, just nostalgia, a back in my day when food tasted like food moment.
Parkstreet.
This morning I had reason to hark back to the good old days. Friends brought me fresh eggs from a farm so I boiled a couple and ate them in front of a vintage cartoon. Marine Boy actually. The bad guys were greedy, the good guys noble. There was no educational message embedded in the story.
The eggs tasted like eggs. We've been domesticating chickens and harvesting their eggs for thousands of years. With modern technology we can now produce eggs that don't taste very good, quite an achievement. Tomatoes that don't taste like tomato, bread that doesn't taste like bread.
We are what we eat, so our lives are tastelesss. There is no educational message embedded in this blog, just nostalgia, a back in my day when food tasted like food moment.
Parkstreet.
The Boyfriend Job Application.
A couple of years ago I had a brutal break up with a girl I really loved. I thought the sun shone from her luscious Italian arse but she dumped me. I must have been wandering around looking like a boy who lost his puppy, so some friends decided to get me a new puppy by setting me up on dates.
I went out with three truly terrifying women. They all had remarkable hairstyles, the sense of entitlement of a teenage girl and carefully studied refined taste. They quizzed me, like an interview for the exalted position of boyfriend. It was horrific. They asked me subtle and cunning questions about home ownership, brand of car, future prospects. I reacted by talking myself down and there was no protest when I made shit excuses and left.
As a joke I came up with my own girlfriend test.
1. Do you treat waiters with courtesy and respect? I believe one can tell a lot about a person's self awareness by how they interact with hospitality workers.
2. Do you have any reggae in your music collection? This question doesn't need explanation.
3. Do you freak out if it rains on your hair? Any woman who is too busy being pretty to function normally is disturbed.
In fun I ran this test by a woman I was courting last year. She took it in good humour, but earnestly answered the questions. I realized I'm the only person who doesn't screen applicants, that I'm completely naive. Some are more subtle than others.
For a while I found myself wondering what was a test and what wasn't but now I just don't care. Take me as I come, interpret as you will, judge as you see fit. You have that zing or you don't, the rest is bullshit.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
I went out with three truly terrifying women. They all had remarkable hairstyles, the sense of entitlement of a teenage girl and carefully studied refined taste. They quizzed me, like an interview for the exalted position of boyfriend. It was horrific. They asked me subtle and cunning questions about home ownership, brand of car, future prospects. I reacted by talking myself down and there was no protest when I made shit excuses and left.
As a joke I came up with my own girlfriend test.
1. Do you treat waiters with courtesy and respect? I believe one can tell a lot about a person's self awareness by how they interact with hospitality workers.
2. Do you have any reggae in your music collection? This question doesn't need explanation.
3. Do you freak out if it rains on your hair? Any woman who is too busy being pretty to function normally is disturbed.
In fun I ran this test by a woman I was courting last year. She took it in good humour, but earnestly answered the questions. I realized I'm the only person who doesn't screen applicants, that I'm completely naive. Some are more subtle than others.
For a while I found myself wondering what was a test and what wasn't but now I just don't care. Take me as I come, interpret as you will, judge as you see fit. You have that zing or you don't, the rest is bullshit.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
The Christmas Bat.
I live on an eleventh floor, each evening at dusk bats fly past my window on their way from the Botanical Gardens in the city to Centennial Park where they sleep.
Tonight I was on my balcony, I noticed the bats were flying haphazardly, lurching around the sky like lunatics. They usually take a direct route using tall buildings like mine as sonar reference points. Maybe it was the swirling wind, more likely the loud music from all the Christmas parties that was confusing them.
One came crashing into my balcony, bashing around the ceiling screaching and hissing insanely. A lesser man would have soiled his trousers. Luckily I was in a mellow Christmas night stupour and only had time to think of a dozen or so stupid things to do and no time to do them before the batty bat was gone.
Some blind humans have learned to navigate using sonar. They can hear the echo of a click and obtain information from it. Humans need to train their brains from an early age to gain skills like this, but I wonder what other skills we could extract from our largely dormant brains?
We've all had moments of prescience. I've known in advance how one person would die, when for another. I do believe that I was close enough to both these people, knew enough about them to gather a lot of tiny facts and inferences, more a collation if data than E.S.P. With training maybe we could all predict much more of the future. If we learned to pay full attention to all our senses, witnessed all the facts without lying to ourselves we might be able to see the banally obvious path that much of the future takes.
With all the swirling winds and loud music I can't see it happening in the near future. Hey, it's working already!
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live. solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the other sites.
Tonight I was on my balcony, I noticed the bats were flying haphazardly, lurching around the sky like lunatics. They usually take a direct route using tall buildings like mine as sonar reference points. Maybe it was the swirling wind, more likely the loud music from all the Christmas parties that was confusing them.
One came crashing into my balcony, bashing around the ceiling screaching and hissing insanely. A lesser man would have soiled his trousers. Luckily I was in a mellow Christmas night stupour and only had time to think of a dozen or so stupid things to do and no time to do them before the batty bat was gone.
Some blind humans have learned to navigate using sonar. They can hear the echo of a click and obtain information from it. Humans need to train their brains from an early age to gain skills like this, but I wonder what other skills we could extract from our largely dormant brains?
We've all had moments of prescience. I've known in advance how one person would die, when for another. I do believe that I was close enough to both these people, knew enough about them to gather a lot of tiny facts and inferences, more a collation if data than E.S.P. With training maybe we could all predict much more of the future. If we learned to pay full attention to all our senses, witnessed all the facts without lying to ourselves we might be able to see the banally obvious path that much of the future takes.
With all the swirling winds and loud music I can't see it happening in the near future. Hey, it's working already!
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live. solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the other sites.
Who Are They To Judge Us, Just Because Our Hair Is Long?
I've always had short, sensible haircuts, mostly out of laziness, the last year I've let it grow long, curly and silly. The reaction from other people is fascinating.
The most noticeable thing is that people take me more seriously as a musician. In the past I'd be asked what my day job was, now I guess I look like I could never obtain a proper job. I distinctly remember one bloke I met in a bar who would not believe I played full time, yet that week I had played on seven daytime Sydney Harbour lunch cruises, two jazz gigs on flute and three solo cafe gigs.
I also notice that people are surprised when I am polite. They used to see my courtesy as weakness, now it is a pleasant surprise. Folks appear to love the idea of a rough diamond, a gentleman down on his luck perhaps.
Women seem to like it, but only for the image, they'd never introduce me to their family unless they wanted a reaction. It's the closest I've ever been to being a bad boy and I won't pretend I'm not enjoying it.
Hair! Who'd have thought it? Who'd have thought people could be so shallow, only look at the form and not listen to the content? It is a hackneyed tale, but to live it is like being a walking social experiment. I see all the people who react in form with the cliche as the guinea pigs, the rats in the maze.
Maybe if I'd played up more as a teenager I wouldn't be enjoying playing hair games so much now. I'll grow up and cut it soon. Maybe next year.
Parkstreet
www.kentparkstreetblog.com .
The most noticeable thing is that people take me more seriously as a musician. In the past I'd be asked what my day job was, now I guess I look like I could never obtain a proper job. I distinctly remember one bloke I met in a bar who would not believe I played full time, yet that week I had played on seven daytime Sydney Harbour lunch cruises, two jazz gigs on flute and three solo cafe gigs.
I also notice that people are surprised when I am polite. They used to see my courtesy as weakness, now it is a pleasant surprise. Folks appear to love the idea of a rough diamond, a gentleman down on his luck perhaps.
Women seem to like it, but only for the image, they'd never introduce me to their family unless they wanted a reaction. It's the closest I've ever been to being a bad boy and I won't pretend I'm not enjoying it.
Hair! Who'd have thought it? Who'd have thought people could be so shallow, only look at the form and not listen to the content? It is a hackneyed tale, but to live it is like being a walking social experiment. I see all the people who react in form with the cliche as the guinea pigs, the rats in the maze.
Maybe if I'd played up more as a teenager I wouldn't be enjoying playing hair games so much now. I'll grow up and cut it soon. Maybe next year.
Parkstreet
www.kentparkstreetblog.com .
Odds.
Who is going to give me odds on Tiger Woods finding God in a big way, appearing in the media with his pastor, maybe an in depth, confess all teary interview with Oprah?
Parkstreet.
Parkstreet.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Rush, as published in Reviewer Magazine.
Rush.
By Kent Parkstreet.
Whenever an Australian radio announcer says something inane, insensitive, illegal or just plain stupid media commentators compare him to Rush Limbaugh. From that distance Rush is seen as the guage for the lowest standards in broadcasting.
So I wake up on my first morning in America, obtain the degree in physics required to operate the hotel room ipod clock radio and for the first time I hear the great man's morning show. I'm immediately reminded of a nature documentary baboon displaying his bulbous, brightly coloured arse to any who will pay attention. Just like when I see it on television I don't find it attractive but can't help but be amazed, enthralled and disturbed by it. I keep listening.
I'm also reminded of a kidnapper cutting up headlines to rearrange the words to make them say whatever he wants as he selectively quotes from an impressive range of souces. He quotes himself regularly. A kidnapper holds the child of one wealthy man. Rush holds freedom of speech captive in his basement and molests it again and again, holding the Republican Party and elected governments to ransom with the threat of harm to their popularity.
In the country that showed us that freedom isn't just a word there are people who call themselves dittoheads. There is no doubt that in a free country it is a right to give up one's own right to think to another human. I wonder if it is possible to set up Chinese style re education camps but in reverse, teaching the people to reject indoctrination instead of accepting it.
As the show drawls on I am again reminded of a monkey, but this time the type that gets wound up so it will bang away on it's little cymbals. I wonder who winds the key in his back? Is it the advertiser's dollar?
Normal, well adjusted loud mouthed idiots paint their faces in the colours of their team and take themselves to a sports stadium where they can happily shout for three hours. Rush Limbaugh has turned this joyous passtime into one of the highest paid jobs in the world. I grudgingly admire his genius.
By Kent Parkstreet.
Whenever an Australian radio announcer says something inane, insensitive, illegal or just plain stupid media commentators compare him to Rush Limbaugh. From that distance Rush is seen as the guage for the lowest standards in broadcasting.
So I wake up on my first morning in America, obtain the degree in physics required to operate the hotel room ipod clock radio and for the first time I hear the great man's morning show. I'm immediately reminded of a nature documentary baboon displaying his bulbous, brightly coloured arse to any who will pay attention. Just like when I see it on television I don't find it attractive but can't help but be amazed, enthralled and disturbed by it. I keep listening.
I'm also reminded of a kidnapper cutting up headlines to rearrange the words to make them say whatever he wants as he selectively quotes from an impressive range of souces. He quotes himself regularly. A kidnapper holds the child of one wealthy man. Rush holds freedom of speech captive in his basement and molests it again and again, holding the Republican Party and elected governments to ransom with the threat of harm to their popularity.
In the country that showed us that freedom isn't just a word there are people who call themselves dittoheads. There is no doubt that in a free country it is a right to give up one's own right to think to another human. I wonder if it is possible to set up Chinese style re education camps but in reverse, teaching the people to reject indoctrination instead of accepting it.
As the show drawls on I am again reminded of a monkey, but this time the type that gets wound up so it will bang away on it's little cymbals. I wonder who winds the key in his back? Is it the advertiser's dollar?
Normal, well adjusted loud mouthed idiots paint their faces in the colours of their team and take themselves to a sports stadium where they can happily shout for three hours. Rush Limbaugh has turned this joyous passtime into one of the highest paid jobs in the world. I grudgingly admire his genius.
The Princess and the Pea.
In the old fairy tale a test is designed to determine whether a young lady is a princess or not. The softest mattresses in the land are stacked one upon the other for her to sleep on, a tiny pea placed under the bottom one. When she complains that she couldn't sleep because the bed was lumpy there can be no doubt of her status.
The modern princess doesn't have a staff of minions to make her feel important and special, she has a boyfriend. A disobedient serf would have his head cut off, a disobedient boyfriend has sexual priviliges removed. She doesn't notice that he carried the heavy mattresses, just the pea. It isn't that nothing is good enough, it is that nothing is perfect enough.
The modern princess has forgotten the other qualities that define her status. Grace, charm, elegance, kindness. Without these she is a despot.
One method to depose the throne is to turn the tables, become the prince. Many princesses see themselves as kissing frogs until they find the man who will lord it over them. I reckon this kind of superiority game is trashy in either gender, but it works.
Another method is to live in a republic, where all men and women are equal and treat each other so. For me power games have no place in relationships. Why would anyone want to look down on the one they love? Or be looked down on?
The common man and woman can be prince and princess in each other's eyes without having to make either a slave.
Parkstreet.
The modern princess doesn't have a staff of minions to make her feel important and special, she has a boyfriend. A disobedient serf would have his head cut off, a disobedient boyfriend has sexual priviliges removed. She doesn't notice that he carried the heavy mattresses, just the pea. It isn't that nothing is good enough, it is that nothing is perfect enough.
The modern princess has forgotten the other qualities that define her status. Grace, charm, elegance, kindness. Without these she is a despot.
One method to depose the throne is to turn the tables, become the prince. Many princesses see themselves as kissing frogs until they find the man who will lord it over them. I reckon this kind of superiority game is trashy in either gender, but it works.
Another method is to live in a republic, where all men and women are equal and treat each other so. For me power games have no place in relationships. Why would anyone want to look down on the one they love? Or be looked down on?
The common man and woman can be prince and princess in each other's eyes without having to make either a slave.
Parkstreet.
The Bug In My Shower.
There was a bug in my shower this morning.
I have a shower over a bath tub, it was right up the end so at first I thought it was a piece of sock fluff that had stowed away on an unknowing toe. It jumped from the water. Something about sharing a confined space with any creature that moved faster than my eyes freaked me out, my heart was suddenly filled with murderous intent.
I took a mouthful of water and sprayed the bug back into the water. It struggled around for a while, then leapt out again. I refuelled the water cannon and riot squad style gave it full pressure. The bug was washed towards plug hole, bravely attempting to swim against the flow the whole way. I was overwhelmed by the courage of such a tiny being.
He hit the drain and like an adventure flick hero he grabbed hold of a splinter of soap that I'd just let wash down. I was so impressed by his skill and daring that I decided to save him, maybe like a trench soldier on Christmas day shake hands with him, share a smoke, play a game of football, humans versus bugs. I'm guessing the soap dissolved the oil that enabled him to maintain surface tension on the water, and suddenly my new comrade was gone.
Some days us humans just aren't cool.
Parkstreet.
Shameless self promotion bit, the naive e.p., live, solo, now available on itunes and all the other sites
I have a shower over a bath tub, it was right up the end so at first I thought it was a piece of sock fluff that had stowed away on an unknowing toe. It jumped from the water. Something about sharing a confined space with any creature that moved faster than my eyes freaked me out, my heart was suddenly filled with murderous intent.
I took a mouthful of water and sprayed the bug back into the water. It struggled around for a while, then leapt out again. I refuelled the water cannon and riot squad style gave it full pressure. The bug was washed towards plug hole, bravely attempting to swim against the flow the whole way. I was overwhelmed by the courage of such a tiny being.
He hit the drain and like an adventure flick hero he grabbed hold of a splinter of soap that I'd just let wash down. I was so impressed by his skill and daring that I decided to save him, maybe like a trench soldier on Christmas day shake hands with him, share a smoke, play a game of football, humans versus bugs. I'm guessing the soap dissolved the oil that enabled him to maintain surface tension on the water, and suddenly my new comrade was gone.
Some days us humans just aren't cool.
Parkstreet.
Shameless self promotion bit, the naive e.p., live, solo, now available on itunes and all the other sites
More Nude Kent.
I've always wanted to go to a nude beach. There is a fundamental reason I don't go but it may not be what you think.
I don't have a car and nude beaches are, by nature, tucked away, but I'm sure I could find a way if I were keen. It isn't the nudity. I am a skinny fucker, my body is no masterpiece but I'm within the normal proportions, nothing weird or anything. I know which bit you are thinking of but that isn't the problem either, my bits can hold their own in most company. A choir of cherubim are wondering how I got one of their arses here on earth, it's that cute!
And it isn't the embarrassing involuntary erection problem. I seriously doubt there would be any young honeys fit to inspire such a reaction on any beach I'd land on, and I also imagine most nudists would be open minded, just see it ass a trap for new players.
The real problem is other people. What sort of creeps and weirdos would there be on this beach? Sure, I want to go, but I'm o.k., it's just the other people who'd want to go that would be strange.
We often think this way about others. My stuff, your shit, my quirk, your annoying habit, my kink, your perversion, my fascination, your obsession. The list of personal prejudice goes on forever. Seeing the world accurately through one's own eyes is difficult, through another's near impossible.
Maybe a nude beach is one place where such judgements can be put aside.
This summer.
Parkstreet.
I don't have a car and nude beaches are, by nature, tucked away, but I'm sure I could find a way if I were keen. It isn't the nudity. I am a skinny fucker, my body is no masterpiece but I'm within the normal proportions, nothing weird or anything. I know which bit you are thinking of but that isn't the problem either, my bits can hold their own in most company. A choir of cherubim are wondering how I got one of their arses here on earth, it's that cute!
And it isn't the embarrassing involuntary erection problem. I seriously doubt there would be any young honeys fit to inspire such a reaction on any beach I'd land on, and I also imagine most nudists would be open minded, just see it ass a trap for new players.
The real problem is other people. What sort of creeps and weirdos would there be on this beach? Sure, I want to go, but I'm o.k., it's just the other people who'd want to go that would be strange.
We often think this way about others. My stuff, your shit, my quirk, your annoying habit, my kink, your perversion, my fascination, your obsession. The list of personal prejudice goes on forever. Seeing the world accurately through one's own eyes is difficult, through another's near impossible.
Maybe a nude beach is one place where such judgements can be put aside.
This summer.
Parkstreet.
Nude Kent
This morning I undertook my usual morning routine, wandered out on my balcony in the birthday suit to water the chilli plants. I was met with a spontaneous, enthusiastic round of applause. Naturally I bowed graciously, whilst scanning the horizon to see where the clapping was coming from. Eleven flights up privacy is not usually a pronlem.
Turns out the outdoor restaurant across the park was hosting a Christmas party, the boss must have just announced the yearly bonuses. The rapturous ovation had nothing to do with me or my willy.
Funny how the male ego works.
Parkstreet.
Shameless self promotion bit, the naive e.p., live, solo, availanle on itunes and all the other sites.
Turns out the outdoor restaurant across the park was hosting a Christmas party, the boss must have just announced the yearly bonuses. The rapturous ovation had nothing to do with me or my willy.
Funny how the male ego works.
Parkstreet.
Shameless self promotion bit, the naive e.p., live, solo, availanle on itunes and all the other sites.
The Prince Of Instruments.
I've played flute for half my life, banged a guitar around, sung a bit, but I've recently fallen deeply in love with the tenor saxophone.
It is everything I'm not, big, shiny, loud. It can express everything I can't, pain, joy, anger. It is irresistible to women.
I know what you are thinking, if I can be and do these things through the saxophone then they are inside me, I don't need the instrument to be everything I want to be. Is the genie in the shiny thing or is it just a talisman that gives me self belief?
When I'm improvising with a cool rhythm section there is a perfect feeling of timelessness and oneness with all. It is a god awful cliche but it is true. I've never found this in any other pursuit, not even sex. Again, it must be in me, but I'm yet to find the bridge between musical experience and the rest of my life.
I know that having a relationship with a tenor saxophone isn't healthy or normal but for now it is plenty for me. If the saxophone is causing a ripple in the still lake of my soul I'm confident that ripple will spread, become a wave.
Parkstreet.
It is everything I'm not, big, shiny, loud. It can express everything I can't, pain, joy, anger. It is irresistible to women.
I know what you are thinking, if I can be and do these things through the saxophone then they are inside me, I don't need the instrument to be everything I want to be. Is the genie in the shiny thing or is it just a talisman that gives me self belief?
When I'm improvising with a cool rhythm section there is a perfect feeling of timelessness and oneness with all. It is a god awful cliche but it is true. I've never found this in any other pursuit, not even sex. Again, it must be in me, but I'm yet to find the bridge between musical experience and the rest of my life.
I know that having a relationship with a tenor saxophone isn't healthy or normal but for now it is plenty for me. If the saxophone is causing a ripple in the still lake of my soul I'm confident that ripple will spread, become a wave.
Parkstreet.
Karma and The Lesbian Folk Singers.
Years ago I was rehearsing with two lesbian folk singers. As a sensitive type flute player I think I was given honourary status.
When I used their bathroom, and I was probably the only person who ever stood up in there, I could see their clothes line in the backyard. There was a row of big cotton comfortable underpants and a row of cute little girly ones. I'm a bloke, I'll admit that I was a little turned on by the whole Mama Bear Papa bear thing, but I told myself it was all about the music and went back to rehearsal.
One of the girls was a nurse, she took care of intensive care patients who needed constant attention. I admired her greatly. Her work did affect her which I found natural and healthy. She told me about the young fellow she was caring for, he'd slam dunked a basketball, hung onto the ring then found himself pinned to the court by the ring, the backboard, the housing and pole that supported them. He was quadraplegic.
A conversation about karma arose. What the ladies didn't know is that I had put two and two together and realized I knew the bloke she was nursing. A friend had broken off her relationship with him just two weeks before. I didn't like him, and I didn't like the way he treated my friend. I still couldn't bring myself to believe that karma had punished him for being a spoiled rich kid dickhead.
What's more likely, the accident was caused by the man being a flash, show offy git, or that he was tall, heavy and athletic enough to slam dunk? A couple of these accidents occured, the government inquiry discovered a weakness in the design of some basketball rings.
For me physics is a much more likely explanation of any accident than karma will ever be. I don't believe there is a list of karma offences and karma sentences.
I told the girls that I thought there must be karma free people, those who commit evil constantly and profit from it. The look of sadness on their faces made me feel churlish. They believed and i was pissing on their tofu. Once said it couldn't be taken back.
The services of the slightly feminine flute player were no longer required. Karma?
Parkstreet.
When I used their bathroom, and I was probably the only person who ever stood up in there, I could see their clothes line in the backyard. There was a row of big cotton comfortable underpants and a row of cute little girly ones. I'm a bloke, I'll admit that I was a little turned on by the whole Mama Bear Papa bear thing, but I told myself it was all about the music and went back to rehearsal.
One of the girls was a nurse, she took care of intensive care patients who needed constant attention. I admired her greatly. Her work did affect her which I found natural and healthy. She told me about the young fellow she was caring for, he'd slam dunked a basketball, hung onto the ring then found himself pinned to the court by the ring, the backboard, the housing and pole that supported them. He was quadraplegic.
A conversation about karma arose. What the ladies didn't know is that I had put two and two together and realized I knew the bloke she was nursing. A friend had broken off her relationship with him just two weeks before. I didn't like him, and I didn't like the way he treated my friend. I still couldn't bring myself to believe that karma had punished him for being a spoiled rich kid dickhead.
What's more likely, the accident was caused by the man being a flash, show offy git, or that he was tall, heavy and athletic enough to slam dunk? A couple of these accidents occured, the government inquiry discovered a weakness in the design of some basketball rings.
For me physics is a much more likely explanation of any accident than karma will ever be. I don't believe there is a list of karma offences and karma sentences.
I told the girls that I thought there must be karma free people, those who commit evil constantly and profit from it. The look of sadness on their faces made me feel churlish. They believed and i was pissing on their tofu. Once said it couldn't be taken back.
The services of the slightly feminine flute player were no longer required. Karma?
Parkstreet.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll.
As Ian Dury said, sex and drugs and rock and roll are very good indeed.
Today I find that whilst I'm not averse to bouts of kinkiness I prefer sex in a relationship, caffiene is the strongest drug I use and I'm much more likely to listen to Miles Davis Sketches of Spain than The Clash London Calling. In one of Colin Hay's songs he says he doesn't drink as much as he used to, he's shaken hands with time. I reckon that is a gorgeous way to put it.
All the naughtiness while you're young is great, ideal, perfect. I'd do most of it again. Most of it. It opens one's eyes to the infinite possibilities, to real joy and real pain. By forty I hope I've learned enough about my limits, my tastes, my natural energy. Sex isn't always better with the best looking girl, reality can be truly romantic and cool, music isn't always better louder.
I always thought I'd dread the day I felt this way but I don't, I really don't. I'm still a subscriber the school of hope I die before I get old, but young is in my head, in creating, in feeling and thinking, not in excess and dubious exploits.
William Blake said that the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. I'm not claiming wisdom, but I think I can see it down the road a piece.
Parkstreet
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.
Today I find that whilst I'm not averse to bouts of kinkiness I prefer sex in a relationship, caffiene is the strongest drug I use and I'm much more likely to listen to Miles Davis Sketches of Spain than The Clash London Calling. In one of Colin Hay's songs he says he doesn't drink as much as he used to, he's shaken hands with time. I reckon that is a gorgeous way to put it.
All the naughtiness while you're young is great, ideal, perfect. I'd do most of it again. Most of it. It opens one's eyes to the infinite possibilities, to real joy and real pain. By forty I hope I've learned enough about my limits, my tastes, my natural energy. Sex isn't always better with the best looking girl, reality can be truly romantic and cool, music isn't always better louder.
I always thought I'd dread the day I felt this way but I don't, I really don't. I'm still a subscriber the school of hope I die before I get old, but young is in my head, in creating, in feeling and thinking, not in excess and dubious exploits.
William Blake said that the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. I'm not claiming wisdom, but I think I can see it down the road a piece.
Parkstreet
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the rest.
The Life Sentence Game.
There is a game called Life Sentence. The aim is to sum up your own essence in one sentence. It doesn't have to describe everything about you, just capture what genuinely makes you tick. You can use any device, simile, metaphor, analogy, joke, shock.
Two come up for me.
Drifting like the dachsund of an absent minded balloon artist.
A monk with a redneck trying to get out.
I'm never sure which one works best. It raises the question of how we perceive ourselves, if we can ever perceive ourselves accurately. Of course the other question we all struggle with is how others perceive us. Asking someone else to play the life sentence game on your behalf is a dangerous idea, one for the thick skinned.
Like when you hear your own voice recorded for the first time, you might be in for a shock when you ask someone else how they perceive you. Best to play it safe and write your own life sentence, here in my blog comments. Go on, you know you want to.
Parkstreet.
Two come up for me.
Drifting like the dachsund of an absent minded balloon artist.
A monk with a redneck trying to get out.
I'm never sure which one works best. It raises the question of how we perceive ourselves, if we can ever perceive ourselves accurately. Of course the other question we all struggle with is how others perceive us. Asking someone else to play the life sentence game on your behalf is a dangerous idea, one for the thick skinned.
Like when you hear your own voice recorded for the first time, you might be in for a shock when you ask someone else how they perceive you. Best to play it safe and write your own life sentence, here in my blog comments. Go on, you know you want to.
Parkstreet.
Role Play
I dimly recall a line from an old rock song, I'll be your daddy, your brother, your lover and your little boy.
It's a funny song, but there is some truth in it. A man is all these things to his lover. He has to be a lover first, and all these things, not one of them. When a man takes on one of these roles, or is pushed into one of them, romance dies. Of course he has to be her friend too.
Role play in the bedroom can be a hoot. I dig it. Again, when those roles become all you are, when the dog collar stops being a costume and becomes one's daily attire, that's when one stops being a lover and becomes an actor.
All the world is a stage but a relationship is the dressing room, where the make up comes off, the costume hung up, the actor returns to being a naked human being. There is plenty of time to recite the lines written by others every day, lovers should be writing their own script.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby and all the rest.
It's a funny song, but there is some truth in it. A man is all these things to his lover. He has to be a lover first, and all these things, not one of them. When a man takes on one of these roles, or is pushed into one of them, romance dies. Of course he has to be her friend too.
Role play in the bedroom can be a hoot. I dig it. Again, when those roles become all you are, when the dog collar stops being a costume and becomes one's daily attire, that's when one stops being a lover and becomes an actor.
All the world is a stage but a relationship is the dressing room, where the make up comes off, the costume hung up, the actor returns to being a naked human being. There is plenty of time to recite the lines written by others every day, lovers should be writing their own script.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby and all the rest.
Strength/Weakness
I haven't survived twenty years in the music business without a thick skin.
Criticism is accepted or refuted easily enough. Indifference is heartbreaking. Australian audiences are tough to impress, tough to win over, they'll often come up after the gig and tell me how much they liked it but they aren't enthusiatic or responsive like American crowds.
I've had to fight for every dollar. Everyone wants me to play for love, when they've agreed to pay me I still have to hassle for the cash in my hand.
Relationships wither and die, she is home alone every night I work, or if I'm home I'm not earning. I've watched the best people I've known fall to drugs and alcohol, dead or living with their mum, brain dead and fucked up.
I'm not complaining, I chose this life and wouldn't have any other. I've grown tougher over the years, but like all the male musicians I know I have one weakness that kills me every time. Women. I've thrown away everything for women, over and over again. Women who loved me, women who didn't. Women who loved the image of a musician boyfriend but not the reality.
I'm so weak in the face of a disappointed woman, would do anything to save her from crying. Nearly all my songs have come from a woman, nearly every mistake I've made was down to a woman.
It always comes down to a decision between the music and the girl. i've always chosen the music. Sometimes I've tried to choose the girl but it was just a lie to myself and her.
I don't mind that I'm weak. It's a glorious weakness. Like my choice of career, i wouldn't change it for any other.
Parkstrhttp://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030055174 eet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all therest.
http://clihttp://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030045478
ckserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030058798
http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000029972873
Criticism is accepted or refuted easily enough. Indifference is heartbreaking. Australian audiences are tough to impress, tough to win over, they'll often come up after the gig and tell me how much they liked it but they aren't enthusiatic or responsive like American crowds.
I've had to fight for every dollar. Everyone wants me to play for love, when they've agreed to pay me I still have to hassle for the cash in my hand.
Relationships wither and die, she is home alone every night I work, or if I'm home I'm not earning. I've watched the best people I've known fall to drugs and alcohol, dead or living with their mum, brain dead and fucked up.
I'm not complaining, I chose this life and wouldn't have any other. I've grown tougher over the years, but like all the male musicians I know I have one weakness that kills me every time. Women. I've thrown away everything for women, over and over again. Women who loved me, women who didn't. Women who loved the image of a musician boyfriend but not the reality.
I'm so weak in the face of a disappointed woman, would do anything to save her from crying. Nearly all my songs have come from a woman, nearly every mistake I've made was down to a woman.
It always comes down to a decision between the music and the girl. i've always chosen the music. Sometimes I've tried to choose the girl but it was just a lie to myself and her.
I don't mind that I'm weak. It's a glorious weakness. Like my choice of career, i wouldn't change it for any other.
Parkstrhttp://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030055174 eet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all therest.
http://clihttp://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030045478
ckserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030058798
http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000029972873
Sexual Healing.
It is about three in the morning here in Sydney. I've just walked home from a gig in Darling Harbour, an entertainment area, through the city and up to where I live in Kings Cross, the red light district.
On the Saturday night before Christmas it seemed like the whole city was out, drunk and looking for sex. the girls are half naked and the boys have the battle fury up. I wonder how anyone meets anyone else in the chaos.
I've been getting it on with my saxophone all night, can't be bothered with madness out there. My instrument has luscious curves, a sweet voice, and she always responds to my touch, my lips, my tongue. My back and stomach muscles are sore, my lips puffy and red, I may as well have been shagging like a rodent.
Sexual healing is something that's good for me, but it comes in so many other ways. The sticking it in and jiggling it about a bit part of sex is great, I'm for it, but for me music can be lust, passion, fire, touch, delicacy, grunt, blissful exhaustion.
And my saxophone doesn't get jealous when I fall in love with a woman.
Parkstreet.
Warm Up, solo improvised flute track, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the other sites.
On the Saturday night before Christmas it seemed like the whole city was out, drunk and looking for sex. the girls are half naked and the boys have the battle fury up. I wonder how anyone meets anyone else in the chaos.
I've been getting it on with my saxophone all night, can't be bothered with madness out there. My instrument has luscious curves, a sweet voice, and she always responds to my touch, my lips, my tongue. My back and stomach muscles are sore, my lips puffy and red, I may as well have been shagging like a rodent.
Sexual healing is something that's good for me, but it comes in so many other ways. The sticking it in and jiggling it about a bit part of sex is great, I'm for it, but for me music can be lust, passion, fire, touch, delicacy, grunt, blissful exhaustion.
And my saxophone doesn't get jealous when I fall in love with a woman.
Parkstreet.
Warm Up, solo improvised flute track, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the other sites.
Caramel
When foods rich in sugar are burned gently they caramelize, the rich, nutty sweet flavours come to the fore.
Burning and removing the skin of capsicum (bell peppers) achieves this, caramelized onions make an onion tart dance on your tongue without the nasty onion after effects.
Burning sugar brings out the richest sweetest flavours of something that is already the definition of sweetness. This is the sort of relationship I want.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., available on itunes, cdbaby, allthe rest
Burning and removing the skin of capsicum (bell peppers) achieves this, caramelized onions make an onion tart dance on your tongue without the nasty onion after effects.
Burning sugar brings out the richest sweetest flavours of something that is already the definition of sweetness. This is the sort of relationship I want.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., available on itunes, cdbaby, allthe rest
Portland Oregon, as published in Reviewer Magazine.
Not An Englishman In New York, An Australian In Portland.
By Kent Parkstreet.
About seventeen years ago I was at a soundcheck at The Punter's Club, a groovy inner city music pub in Melbourne Australia. To get away from the noise I slipped next door to the public bar. It was unusually quiet. I looked up to see The Simpsons was on the television. The cult was just taking on, but the debate as to which U.S. state Springfield is in had started. Someone suggested that the show's creator, Matt someoneorother, was from Portland Oregon, so it must be there.
Portland Oregon. Something in my imagination told me I'd go there some day. It took sixteen years, but last Spring I made it, and returned this summer. I figure that if Matt Groening spent an entire episode taking the piss out of my country I have the right to jot down a few of my impressions of his hometown.
I'm in a seedy late night bar, the kind where dreams go to die. On one side is a young, pale skinny celery stalk of a guy, on the other a truly vast bearded fellow. One has hitchhiked from his priviliged east coast home to live an alternative lifestyle, the other has taken a few days off from cutting down trees for a living to go on a bender. I feel like the filling in a collateral damage sandwich. They are drinking in rounds, the greeny manfully matching the logger beer for beer, chaser for chaser. Their differences are ignored as they share their love of drinking heavily and singing along with Springsteen.
I'm at Tiny's Coffeehouse. Twenty people inside, a dozen bicycles parked outside. It's April but there is late snow. The discussion is of how snow makes it difficult to see when riding, the physics of prisms and how they distort light. No one mentions that snow is cold and wet and a fine reason to take the car. Pushbikes are a cult. I see a cyclist moving a small wardrobe on a front end trailer. Old enough to walk is old enough to ride on the road. I hear a band made up of upturned bikes fitted with contact microphones, the wheels are spun and the spokes feathered with found objects, creating dinosaur moans of music. Many things that are accepted as art in Portland may not be accepted as art in other towns.
The well oiled pushbike and the electric car are the enemy of the blind man who wants to cross the road.
There is a pair of dainty red pumps on the side walk, one in front of the other, as if the owner simply walked out of them. The next day the shoes are neatly paired together, a tiny silk dress folded perfectly beside them. The day after a vintage mirror and comb join the impromptu pretty girl installation. Then it is gone.
A dozen pairs of old sneakers suspended from a power line. I take eight attempts to add my walked out Converse to the collection. It's harder than it looks.
Crossing the road a car on a sidestreet pulls back a yard or so to give me room. I'm utterly freaked out and wave a thank you. Motorists in Sydney will run you down rather than give an inch. This yard of grace is offered every time I cross a road, every time. All day I'm blessed with thank you, you're welcome, wishes for a good day. A fellow down on his luck is unsure of the time, he lost track after what he describes as a black scorpion blackout due to whisky. his cigarettes disappeared in the overnight cell. For two cigarettes he wishes me a great day and night.
A local newspaper bemoans the lack of extravagant civic architecture. I walk through Ladd's Addition, possibly the posh part of town when it was built. The homes, the gardens are perfect. There are no driveways or garages to distract the eye. Take away the power lines, add a horse or two and it could be 1909. Who needs pointy needles or scarlett bridges, the definition of civic is "of the people", and the people live in timber castles with floral moats.
An elegant slender arm delivers my steelhead trout. A velvet bell of a voice announces it. The voice doesn't match the tattoo sleeves on the young waitress. When I was growing up criminals and bikers wore tattoos. Tattoos were to be feared because of the fearsome men they appeared on. My brain has trouble interpreting them as sexy, but the evidence is all around. Pretty young girls in sundresses and dragons. I show my age by worrying what monsters will be born when that svelte figured lass is the size of her mother. I'm the only person I know here without a tattoo. I hope it somehow makes me interesting.
The Lloyd Center Mall is a time machine. I'm returned to suburban Melbourne in the 1970's. I shudder at the thought. Two generous contributors to the obesity cause sneak out of Victoria's Secret. I shudder at the thought. Two ladieswholunch stand in front of the mall map. They've run out of ideas on where to spend their money and it will be hours before they can ask a television. Shudder like Sideshow Bob. The Church's "Under The Milky Way" comes on the Sear's sound system just as the clerk asks me about Australian music. He doesn't believe that song is from Australia because he has heard it before.
So I say tomarto instead of tomayto, is it that amusing? Just make the sandwich. No, I won't say "crikey", not even for money.
He's wearing jeans, braces and a checked shirt, the classic logger's outfit from the movies. I've never seen it in real life so I'm checking it out. Next thing I'm being hit on by a gay logger. I feel I have a certain Oregon cred now.
I've never seen snow falling before so I'm in the back yard trying to catch it on my tongue. The fellows fixing the roof across the road are cursing the sudden drop. One of them says,"it's like that dude has never seen snow before."
A park? This isn't a park it's a bloody forest. For sins in a past life I am the son of a property developer. All this land, so close to downtown, potential profit, potential profit, potential profit. Washington Park is just a beautiful, green, not for profit gem.
I'm crossing N.E. Flanders St. Simpsons reminders wherever I go, I'm taken back seventeen years. I'm taken back to the airport on the lightrail for two bucks, not the usual tourist fine for coming and going. The flight home is too damn long, I won't be back soon, but I'll be back.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the other sites.
By Kent Parkstreet.
About seventeen years ago I was at a soundcheck at The Punter's Club, a groovy inner city music pub in Melbourne Australia. To get away from the noise I slipped next door to the public bar. It was unusually quiet. I looked up to see The Simpsons was on the television. The cult was just taking on, but the debate as to which U.S. state Springfield is in had started. Someone suggested that the show's creator, Matt someoneorother, was from Portland Oregon, so it must be there.
Portland Oregon. Something in my imagination told me I'd go there some day. It took sixteen years, but last Spring I made it, and returned this summer. I figure that if Matt Groening spent an entire episode taking the piss out of my country I have the right to jot down a few of my impressions of his hometown.
I'm in a seedy late night bar, the kind where dreams go to die. On one side is a young, pale skinny celery stalk of a guy, on the other a truly vast bearded fellow. One has hitchhiked from his priviliged east coast home to live an alternative lifestyle, the other has taken a few days off from cutting down trees for a living to go on a bender. I feel like the filling in a collateral damage sandwich. They are drinking in rounds, the greeny manfully matching the logger beer for beer, chaser for chaser. Their differences are ignored as they share their love of drinking heavily and singing along with Springsteen.
I'm at Tiny's Coffeehouse. Twenty people inside, a dozen bicycles parked outside. It's April but there is late snow. The discussion is of how snow makes it difficult to see when riding, the physics of prisms and how they distort light. No one mentions that snow is cold and wet and a fine reason to take the car. Pushbikes are a cult. I see a cyclist moving a small wardrobe on a front end trailer. Old enough to walk is old enough to ride on the road. I hear a band made up of upturned bikes fitted with contact microphones, the wheels are spun and the spokes feathered with found objects, creating dinosaur moans of music. Many things that are accepted as art in Portland may not be accepted as art in other towns.
The well oiled pushbike and the electric car are the enemy of the blind man who wants to cross the road.
There is a pair of dainty red pumps on the side walk, one in front of the other, as if the owner simply walked out of them. The next day the shoes are neatly paired together, a tiny silk dress folded perfectly beside them. The day after a vintage mirror and comb join the impromptu pretty girl installation. Then it is gone.
A dozen pairs of old sneakers suspended from a power line. I take eight attempts to add my walked out Converse to the collection. It's harder than it looks.
Crossing the road a car on a sidestreet pulls back a yard or so to give me room. I'm utterly freaked out and wave a thank you. Motorists in Sydney will run you down rather than give an inch. This yard of grace is offered every time I cross a road, every time. All day I'm blessed with thank you, you're welcome, wishes for a good day. A fellow down on his luck is unsure of the time, he lost track after what he describes as a black scorpion blackout due to whisky. his cigarettes disappeared in the overnight cell. For two cigarettes he wishes me a great day and night.
A local newspaper bemoans the lack of extravagant civic architecture. I walk through Ladd's Addition, possibly the posh part of town when it was built. The homes, the gardens are perfect. There are no driveways or garages to distract the eye. Take away the power lines, add a horse or two and it could be 1909. Who needs pointy needles or scarlett bridges, the definition of civic is "of the people", and the people live in timber castles with floral moats.
An elegant slender arm delivers my steelhead trout. A velvet bell of a voice announces it. The voice doesn't match the tattoo sleeves on the young waitress. When I was growing up criminals and bikers wore tattoos. Tattoos were to be feared because of the fearsome men they appeared on. My brain has trouble interpreting them as sexy, but the evidence is all around. Pretty young girls in sundresses and dragons. I show my age by worrying what monsters will be born when that svelte figured lass is the size of her mother. I'm the only person I know here without a tattoo. I hope it somehow makes me interesting.
The Lloyd Center Mall is a time machine. I'm returned to suburban Melbourne in the 1970's. I shudder at the thought. Two generous contributors to the obesity cause sneak out of Victoria's Secret. I shudder at the thought. Two ladieswholunch stand in front of the mall map. They've run out of ideas on where to spend their money and it will be hours before they can ask a television. Shudder like Sideshow Bob. The Church's "Under The Milky Way" comes on the Sear's sound system just as the clerk asks me about Australian music. He doesn't believe that song is from Australia because he has heard it before.
So I say tomarto instead of tomayto, is it that amusing? Just make the sandwich. No, I won't say "crikey", not even for money.
He's wearing jeans, braces and a checked shirt, the classic logger's outfit from the movies. I've never seen it in real life so I'm checking it out. Next thing I'm being hit on by a gay logger. I feel I have a certain Oregon cred now.
I've never seen snow falling before so I'm in the back yard trying to catch it on my tongue. The fellows fixing the roof across the road are cursing the sudden drop. One of them says,"it's like that dude has never seen snow before."
A park? This isn't a park it's a bloody forest. For sins in a past life I am the son of a property developer. All this land, so close to downtown, potential profit, potential profit, potential profit. Washington Park is just a beautiful, green, not for profit gem.
I'm crossing N.E. Flanders St. Simpsons reminders wherever I go, I'm taken back seventeen years. I'm taken back to the airport on the lightrail for two bucks, not the usual tourist fine for coming and going. The flight home is too damn long, I won't be back soon, but I'll be back.
Parkstreet.
the naive e.p., live, solo, available on itunes, cdbaby, all the other sites.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
A Sexual Experience So Intense . . .
In the film The Sure Thing John Cusack got to speak the line,"how would you like a sexual experience so intense it could conceivably change your political views?"
I'm no Kinsey, I can't speak for you out there, but I'm pretty sure most sexual experiences don't match up to this. A huge percentage involve a man with one too many beers on board sticking it in, jiggling it about a bit, falling asleep. I've done it, I'm sure you know what I mean. It is a long way from an experience that changes the way we see our partner, ourselves, the world around us.
Even in hot and strong sexual relationships the kinky and adventurous can become mundane. "Sorry honey, I know it is Friday night, but I forgot to pick up the Batman suit from the drycleaner."
Most often the truly intense occurs when people of a similar mind meet. Love, anger, pain, need, joy, vulnerability, chemical enhancement, risk, breaking social taboo, openness, there are many paths to this meeting. We'd all like to have this connection with the one we love, maybe true love is made up of many emotions.
A few months ago I took a leap of faith and tried something outside my usual sexual genre. No, no and no again, I won't tell you what it was, my Mum might read this! The point is that I took a chance, took on a role, saw the world through the eyes of another for a few hours. I will tell you it was fucking wild. Intense at the time and the after affects are still in play. I believe since then I'm seeing myself more clearly, others more clearly, the nature of life more clearly.
Intense experiences that change you don't have to be sexual. Of course they don't. For some it is physical danger, others a religious event. There is something about sharing an experience with another human, and maybe because I'm conservative, repressed, prudish, the vulnerability of sex is my path to freedom.
Sex isn't always going to be this way. It shouldn't be. it would be exhausting. The rare is often the most valuable, but I certainly want it again.
Parkstreet.
http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030003118
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http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000029892009
http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000029886513
1
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I'm no Kinsey, I can't speak for you out there, but I'm pretty sure most sexual experiences don't match up to this. A huge percentage involve a man with one too many beers on board sticking it in, jiggling it about a bit, falling asleep. I've done it, I'm sure you know what I mean. It is a long way from an experience that changes the way we see our partner, ourselves, the world around us.
Even in hot and strong sexual relationships the kinky and adventurous can become mundane. "Sorry honey, I know it is Friday night, but I forgot to pick up the Batman suit from the drycleaner."
Most often the truly intense occurs when people of a similar mind meet. Love, anger, pain, need, joy, vulnerability, chemical enhancement, risk, breaking social taboo, openness, there are many paths to this meeting. We'd all like to have this connection with the one we love, maybe true love is made up of many emotions.
A few months ago I took a leap of faith and tried something outside my usual sexual genre. No, no and no again, I won't tell you what it was, my Mum might read this! The point is that I took a chance, took on a role, saw the world through the eyes of another for a few hours. I will tell you it was fucking wild. Intense at the time and the after affects are still in play. I believe since then I'm seeing myself more clearly, others more clearly, the nature of life more clearly.
Intense experiences that change you don't have to be sexual. Of course they don't. For some it is physical danger, others a religious event. There is something about sharing an experience with another human, and maybe because I'm conservative, repressed, prudish, the vulnerability of sex is my path to freedom.
Sex isn't always going to be this way. It shouldn't be. it would be exhausting. The rare is often the most valuable, but I certainly want it again.
Parkstreet.
http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000030003118
http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=4100000002998666http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=4100000002998666http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=410000000299728http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000029914758 72
http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000029892009
http://clickserve.cc-dt.com/link/click?lid=41000000029886513
1
1
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