The Virgin Whore Complex.

A man writing about feminine sexuality? Can the ice be any thinner? I'm going to strap on my skates, you can watch me fall on my arse, maybe crash through the ice and drown.

Many men see their wife, mother, daughter as pure and sweet, and other women as less than human. Why? I guess a lot of it goes back to pre feminist morality, religious idiocy, the idea that sex is an asset that women should sell dearly. Until men get over this nonsense women can't be free to express their sexual nature freely. Both genders lose from this way of thinking.

One of the primary ideals of the feminist fight was the right of women to express themselves in every way. Feminine desire is different to the masculine, it is expressed differently, I hope. We are all a blend of masculine and feminine but it does seem that many confused young women have imitated the male approach to sex. It never sits naturally. As long as men force women into choosing a role, virgin or whore, they will never be free to express themselves naturally.

Feminine sexuality, desire, can be so beautiful. When a woman trusts a man and feels free to say, show what she likes sex is just better. Better for both parties. It is complete, both genders are more satisfied. The act itself is better, but the feminine aspect extends the buzz to everything beyond the sticking it in and jiggling it about bit. If we don't view women as a binary system, on/off, virgin/whore, sexuality becomes a continuum, holding hands becomes foreplay, brushing her hair from her eyes, physical presence, honesty, humour, silence, everything becomes fore and after play.

Look at me! I'm gliding gracefully across this wafer thin trap. I look forward to the day when the ice is thick and safe, when we can skate together, hand in hand.

Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download on iTunes and all the other sites.

The Little Plastic Spoon That Comes With Colonel Sanders' Coleslaw.

Imagine, if you will, a massive pile of shit. Imagine it is at the bottom of a mountain, that it is your self appointed task to transport it to the top of that mountain. Now imagine that you are armed with nothing but the little plastic spoon that comes with a side from Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Now imagine the handle of that little plastic spoon has snapped off.

We all have moments like this. I'm told they are a test of character, that with persistence we can achieve what we set out to achieve. Many of our myths and legends are based on this plot. Triumph over the odds is what creates a hero.

There is a possibility that giving up is a smart option. Giving up is frowned upon, but sometimes it can be a path to happiness.

This week I could have easily dropped all my instruments down an elevator shaft, sent the car down to crush them, walked away without looking back. There are plenty of other things to do with a life, aren't there?

For me the smart option is to take a few days, try to find a new angle. I'll never stop playing music, I just need a new format, a new plan. Maybe a bulldozer, something blunt and powerful to move that pile of shit up the hill? Maybe a shovel, make a few trips, move it in my own sweet time?

Maybe I'll see that pile of shit for what it is, wander up that mountain on my own, armed with a guitar, see who and what I meet at the top.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Fish And Cats And Shame.

Yesterday there was an accident in Tasmania, a truck load of fresh, farmed salmon was spilled everywhere. Farmed fish is all the same size and shape, the image of a street full of identical fish was bizarre. You'll be glad to know the driver was fine.

The moment the salmon hit the tarmac it was useless, the producer couldn't be seen to pick it up and wash it down. News footage showed a small tractor pushing thousands of perfectly good fish into land fill. All this prime protein wasn't even considered good enough to feed our cats.

On supermarket shelves in any developed nation you will find tiny tins that look like they should contain caviar or truffles. The beautifully designed packaging claims it contains "gourmet" and "luxury" food for cats, specially created for your fussy eater. One has to suspend disbelief to purchase this nonsense. We all know that a hungry cat will happily kill and eat a sewer rat, contentedly lick rat's blood from it's fur afterwards.

Our cats live better lives than most of the humans on the planet. An Australian kitten is as likely to reach the age of twelve as a Congolese baby. Historical despots and tyrants are noted for this kind of callousness towards their fellow humans.

Are we so conceited?

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Love Is Jazz, reposted because I'm playing some jazz flute this week.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Love Is Jazz.

Love is jazz. It is improvization in it's purest form.

Some choose to play over standard themes, others play freely, without rules, but there is always a rhythmic pulse, a common beat. Tone, colour, intensity, passion, pain, joy, love is jazz.

Love is busking under a convenient streetlight, jamming alone until the groove begins again, it is touring with the same act until you die.

Jazz can't be played without love.

Love is jazz, love is all.

Parkstreet.

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download on iTunes, all the other sites.

Truth And Beauty.

Beauty in humans is largely down to genetics and health. We are born with positive traits, talent, intelligence, strength, courage, nurtured and trained they can be wondrous. Beauty is no different.

We can all spot a fake, someone using big words to appear smart, a cut body that has obviously never done any real work. We can also spot fake beauty, real boobs don't sit up like that, eye lashes aren't that long, real smiles cause wrinkles.

Tonight all the young ladies are attending halloween parties, sexy schoolgirls and nurses abound. Tonight the girls can express themselves sexually without being called names. They are allowed to be beautiful tonight, show off their physical beauty, strut their stuff. It's honest and fun and I'm loving it. They are honouring their natural beauty, letting it shine.

Of course we are all beautiful in our own way, but some are more beautiful than others. Style and confidence, other traits are just as attractive as beauty, beauty isn't everything, but it is wonderful.

When it is natural and honest beauty reminds us how gorgeous humanity can be. It reminds us to recognize and nurture what is beautiful in ourselves.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

The Hitch Hiker's Guide To Product Placement.

As a teenage fan of Douglas Adams' Hitch Hiker's radio serial, then books, I naturally grabbed the Dirk Gently books as they hit the shelves. I was awfully disappointed to find blatant product placement in the text, it just didn't seem proper for an English gentleman writer.

Adams used the words Apple and Mac a few times throughout the books, gratuitously. In retrospect I've realized that Apple does make the coolest products on the planet but at the time it was just a sneaky advertisement for a computer.

I can see that a professional writer has to make hay while the sun shines on his work. Why shouldn't someone who has struggled for decades cash in on success? If I were offered large amounts of money to plug a product I'd probably do it. Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't.

In the past I was sponsored to play a particular brand of flute, Kent Parkstreet chooses to play flutes by Temby Australia, http://www.temby.com/ , but it seemed reasonable because I liked the instruments, felt I was telling the truth. I believe Adams was telling the truth when he said Apple was cool. The prime directive for an artist is to tell the truth.

All these years later I've forgiven Douglas Adams. Now I need to find a product that I can tell the truth about in exchange for money.

Maybe I would.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Sydney Summer Fantasy Girls.

Today is the first true summer day in Sydney, blue skies and girls in bikinis. Backpackers are heading off to famous Bondi beach to get their boobs out in the sun, everyone is just a little excited.

There are so many beautiful girls in Sydney, one of every type that works for you. As they pass by I imagine what they are really like, what they do, what makes them happy.

One girl I know looks like she was drawn by a sixteen year old boy. She is physically perfect, it is almost impossible to concentrate on what she is saying when we chat. Recently I was telling her of a friend who is in a spot of trouble. She suggested a book for him to read, told me of her own experience with a similar problem, she really wanted to help. Suddenly she went from being a fantasy to being a real life human. I could see the little girl inside the woman, her awareness of her own beauty and what that cost her.

There is nothing wrong with beauty, I'm for it, but it can distract us from the essence of life. Shallow pleasures are pleasures too, I guess there is room for some eye candy as well as soul deep understanding. I'm a little disappointed in myself for not seeing more in this girl before, but if you saw her I think you'd forgive me.

She invited me to join her at the beach this afternoon. As much as I like and respect her I wasn't up for that kind of torture. Some girls are best left in the realm of fantasy.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

We Are The Product.

If you write, play and record your own music never forget that you are the product.

The rock and roll accountants would have us believe that we work for them, that their control of publicity, image is the real business. Don't believe them. We pay them, they work for us, without the product of our music they are nothing, they are selling real estate or spanners.

Our music is the product that they sell, and sell advertising around. Our stage presence is the product. Our chat and our lives, all day every day, are the product.

Never forget what you put into it, your life, and never let anyone tell you that you work for them. They work for us.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Passion And Discipline.

Years ago I lived in a small coastal town. The local kids had terrible truancy records, surfing always came before school. A clever headmaster rounded up his teachers, worked out an arrangement to make school hours flexible around the waves, so kids could surf when it was up and study when it wasn't.

There was much debate around town, should teenagers be learning discipline or free to follow their passions? Was school a time to learn that some joys have to be passed up for future gain, or was a balance possible?

Chances are none of these kids became professional surfers, not many do. I can guarantee they all look back on their school days, their surfing days, with joy. Their teenage years will be a fond memory that will carry them through life. Many of us don't ever think about school, it was left behind the moment we walked out the gate.

Not every passion has to be a profession. Choosing how we spend our time is one of the few choices left in this modern world. I won't spend all my time working. If I love hanging around cafes, drinking coffee and talking crap then I will, I'll fit work around it. If you don't see me up at dawn don't think I'm not working, I won't see you tinkering with a guitar at two in the mroning either.

If you have a passion that makes you feel like a teenager don't let work get you down. Make time people, make time.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

A Spice Girl.

One of the Spice Girls attended a club across the road from my local cafe tonight. There were giant cars and a gaggle of men who believe that taking photographs of pop stars is a way for a man to spend a life.

That a manufactured nobody who mimed inane ditties for nine year old girls to gyrate to is feted like a diva is pathetic. That genuine divas, the great artists this country produces, aren't recognized in their own country is pathetic. That the woman at the table next to mine knows every detail of this stranger's love life is pathetic.

I'm a live and let live kind of guy, each to their own passions, but I draw the line at Spice Girls. Ego inflated muppets all of them.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Advice.

Excerpt from a radio interview.

Int: So, Kent Parkstreet, that's an interesting name?

KP: Thank you, I made it up myself.

Int: Your song, The Advice Blues, where did it come from?

KP: I noticed that most people who offer advice are really trying to sell something, sell a product, sell their god, even sell the impression that they are magnificent people. Advice is mostly useless, as are the people who try to force it on me.

Int: Your vocal has an angry edge to it?

KP: I reckon the problem with all this faux advice is that when you actually receive solid, well intentioned, useful advice you aren't listening because you've switched off. I also get pretty irritated when folks try to sell me stuff surreptiously, instead of just being up front.

End excerpt. Occasionally I say something sensible, even through a three minute pop song.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreet.blogspot.com/

Dignity.

Today I had to get up early, a friend is recording an album and took some free studio time in the morning. In the morning people, do you understand the horror of that idea? I've worked nights for over twenty years, I don't do mornings, let alone try to be creative and beautiful in the morning.

While I was waiting for the studio to be prepared I scampered off to find coffee, the only place was the hospital next door, the foyer coffee shop. I sat in the window and watched the pedestrian traffic.

This hospital pays a man to stand in the driveway and open car doors, help the elderly out of taxis, reassure people they are at the correct entrance. A very civilized thing to do. I watched stunning young professional women, all tight skirts and jackets and business and yum.

There was one lady who fascinated me. She wore a scarf over her bald head, I can only guess she was undergoing cancer treatment. She was all style and dignity. We smiled at each other. I don't know why. There I was suffering from a little sleep deprivation, who knows how tough her path has been, will be. She was so beautiful I wanted to cry. I don't know how she made pyjamas elegant, but she did.

I finished my coffee and went to work. I was different. One smile had changed my whole day. This stranger's dignity was inspiring. I can still see her smile, I hope to keep that memory, a moment like that can change a man for more than one day, get him over steeper hills than a hard morning.

Parkstreet.
My live, acoustic single, Red Brown Dust, now on cdbaby.com, should be on iTunes any day now.

Five Reasons I Need A Girlfriend.

Five reasons I need a girlfriend.

1. I quite clearly can't pick my own shirts.

2. When I'm travelling my old fashioned letters of yearning are masterpieces.

3. Every three months or so one very fine blonde hair grows on the outside of my nose. It's so very difficult to pluck it myself.

4. Lying in on Sunday mornings becomes a thing of beauty when I have someone to make tea for.

5. I haven't written a song for three months.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Dangerous Men And Women.

"If you are going to keep seeing this guy it might be considerate to hand over your dental records to the police in advance."

So last night at two in the morning she calls, afraid to go home. I start making a bed from the cushions from my couch, wrapping them tight in a sheet so they'll be comfortable, get the spare towels out. She is limping, it seems he kicked her.

"I could sleep in your bed?"

The tumblers all fall into place. I recall that she's involved all her other friends in this debacle, it seems it is now my turn.

"Does he know where you are?"

"I'm sorry, it slipped out."

"I'll be going out early tomorrow, be gone when I get back."

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Where I Live, reposted because the prophecy has come true.

Friday, February 19, 2010


Where I Live.

Sydney, you glamorous, vacuous, sexy bitch of a city, I love you despite myself.



You are the dyed blonde boy or girl on the dance floor, you've taken a pill and just want to dance then fuck, in that order. Conversation is pointless, just dance then fuck.



Your art is a marketing opportunity, corruption your lifeblood. Settled by cops and robbers, your philosophy will never change. You strip us all back to our pimp, hooker, John nature, there is no point lying to you. We buy and sell ourselves to be with you, we buy and sell our art when we've been here long enough.



Everyone is from somewhere else, been here ten years and don't know why. We all want to live with another city, one that will love us back, but we come back to you.



Soon I'll leave you, this time for the last time, but I see you smile, you think I'll be back.



Parkstreet.

Apparently God Likes Hats.

Modern humans are aware, on some level, of the vastness of the universe and the wonders it contains, yet many are still certain that the god they believe created all of it is obsessed by human headwear.

Just about every faith has some sort of hat rules, what sort must be worn, which gender should wear them, when and where they should be worn. In itself this fetish doesn't seem important, but it is an example of the confusion between cultural and spiritual beliefs that leads to tribal brutality. Tribal brutality in the name of any god is abhorrent. Religion appeals to the best in humans and shouldn't be the cause of the worst in humans.

The division of church and state was a great step forward for human civilization. The division of church and human cultures is the next step.

Parkstreet.

A solo, acoustic version of Red Brown Dust now available for download at iTunes and all the other sites.

Internal Monologue.

Today I'm going to live as if there is a documentary film crew following me around, filming and recording everything I do.

I've noticed lots of other people living this way and it seems to work for them. They laugh a lot and are very popular with other people who live the same way.

Or maybe I'll just spend today living as if no one is watching?

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Musician Or Performer?

The balance between form and substance is always a battle for serious musicians. After the solitary hours of writing and practise it's easy to forget that the audience has been at work all week, they've been taking care of their families and doing the hard yards, those people want a show.

Years ago I was playing in a small bar in Melbourne. I earned fifty bucks for playing flute and singing all night. At the time my rent was forty five dollars a week so I was happy. I met up with a couple of friends later, they'd both come from their own gigs. One guy was a model, he'd been paid two hundred dollars to mime playing bass in a flash club up the road. The other guy was in a sham cabaret rock act called Cow's Muff, he'd stood on the stage at the coolest rock and roll pub in town wearing a cow hide and banging a stick on the stage. That night I realized that performance and image has to be part of a musician's trade to some degree.

Of course many successful acts are selling sizzle, not steak. Of course they are, and they have nothing to do with the music business, music is just the medium for their continuation of the freak show tradition. Serious musicians should never confuse what these fools do with what musicians do. While the audience turns up these acts will thrive, but the money can never replace the elation one feels after playing real music.

I admire stand up comedians. Armed with only a microphone they can entertain an audience. Their skill is in timing and delivery. They walk a very high rope, with no net, and do it successfully more often than not. The material they deliver is often no better than the jokes my friends tell around a cafe table, but they are performers, they can take a decent steak and make it sizzle irresistably.

For musicians I believe it is important to find one's own style. Sharing the joy in what you do doesn't have to mean wearing stupid clothes and telling bad jokes. For me it changes with the style of music I'm playing. Singing my own songs I have a dry humour, set up the songs with funny patter, a warm up act, the song is always the star. Playing saxophone in a reggae band I just smile and bounce around a lot, it feels natural. The important thing is to take a moment to think about how you want to present yourself and your music, not to throw it away too lightly, not to oversell it. Performance should be part of the writing and practise we do at home.

Performance equals energy. Give the audience energy and they will love you. Energy takes many forms, it is the stuff of the universe, it might even be called love.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Thunderstorms Make Me Horny.

A gentle, flatulent thunderstorm has just passed through Sydney. Something about the warmth, humidity and electricity in the air makes me dangerously horny.

Sadly the only thing in my lap right now is my computer. If anyone is in the Kings Cross area of Sydney feel free to come on over. Anyone?

Most human sexuality is based around the need to procreate and survive, yet we all have some stimulus that sets us off without the presence of another human. Objects, sounds, smells, weather, reminders of past lovers and encounters, sometimes things that have nothing to do with the past, we all have something. This sexual imagination is so human that we hardly notice how strange it is.

Someone long ago set up rules about which stimulus is socially acceptable and which isn't. A thunderstorm fetish is within the rules, possibly even romantic, yet if I had a similar involuntary reaction to smelly socks I'd be considered weird. I once knew a girl who was turned on by smelly socks, I don't know why, she didn't know why. She was a nice girl, not so weird.

Finding another human who shares your weirdness is difficult. That all our imaginatios wander in different directions is one of the wonders of humanity, and one of the reasons sexual relationships are so complicated. I guess finding men with odourous socks can't be that hard, maybe my friend was lucky.

Tuna sashimi is another trigger for me. I warn you ladies, don't go out for Japanese food with me unless you mean business. I wonder if anyone out there will share their secret trigger with me?

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

America And Romance And Crazy Fuckers.

From the outside it appears that the United States Of America is driven by economics. It isn't. America is driven by romantics and crazy fuckers with big ideas.

People are telling me that Detroit is a city on life support, that it will soon be dead. With automobile manufacturers departing the population and wealth are slipping away. I have faith that something new will rise. It won't be the same, but something new and great will appear.

Today I heard that some crazy fucker is buying up cheap housing with the aim of creating the world's largest urban farm. The idea of a farm in the suburbs is silly, but I like it. Why not? This farm would have much better infrastructure than most, an urban population to process and package and sell value added produce, it just might work. Keep an eye out for Motown Berry Conserves, or Motown Chevre Aux Fine Herbs. It might happen, it might not. If this idea fails another will take it's place. America is overflowing with crazy fuckers with big ideas.

The romance of an automobile built in Detroit won't be lost on marketing types. Eventually manufacturers will want small, flagship plants there. Detroit won't ever be the heart of the business again, but some manufacturing will return, once the old ways of doing things has been cleared out. Any town with it's own soundtrack will always have a romantic air, Americans are attracted to romance.

In a decade or so you will think back to this blog, wonder how I knew Detroit would be hip again. Americans are able to take chances and live with the consequences, they know they are alive. America isn't the Roman Empire, doomed to fall apart. America is The Phoenix, what we are being blinded by right now is the fire.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Drug Mythology.

Every recreational drug swallowed, smoked, snorted, injected, alters the chemistry of your body, particularly your brain. Your state of mind after ingesting a drug will be altered. Social mythology tells you that this altered state of mind will be better than your state of mind before you altered it. Better by whose definition?

What makes one state of mind better than any other? Most drugs are aimed at providing feelings of elation, power or oblivion. They tap into the chemicals the body naturally produces, they are a short cut to these feelings without the requirement of thought or action. They are false feelings. When our bodies produce these chemicals after thought and action they are the result of a process, they have context, they provide the reward for work, and contentment. The drug sensation feels similar, not the same.

Some drugs reduce social inhibitions. Social inhibitions are just another state of mind, easily adjusted, hangover free, by identifying your own repression and simply getting over it. Acting without inhibition when you are sobre is truly liberating, doing it with the assistance of a drug is lame.

Those who claim that drugs open their minds to new realities which help them to be more creative will have to produce some work that doesn't suck before I will believe them. Even Keith Richards says that the belief that drugs make you a better musician is crap.

In the past my drug of choice was alcohol. I wasn't cool when I was drinking. Being uncool isn't good enough. I tried enough excess, and for over seven years I've tried sobriety. Social mythology would say that I had more fun when I was in bars every night, but I didn't. It was just a different state of mind, altered by an addictive chemical.

My mind is now my own.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

A Better Man.

A better man than me would care where the beans that make his morning coffee come from. He would care if they are fair trade and organic. That better man would care and care and care. I'd like to care but when I'm approaching my first coffee of the day I only care about flavour and caffiene, if I find out later that it is morally sound coffee that is a bonus.

When the organic, fair trade coffee tastes as good as my regular coffee I'll buy it happily, but only then. I know this makes me shallow, a lesser man, but I can accept this weakness.  I do receive a pleasant buzz from doing the right thing, but not as pleasant as really good coffee in the morning.

Desire and morality are often in conflict. I've never fallen in love with a married woman so I'm not certain how I'd react to that situation. History has proven that desire prevails more often than not, I have no reason to suspect that I'm more principled than all the other lovers over the years, but I'd like to think I'd walk away. Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't.

We all have to make judgement calls every day. A cup of coffee seems a small matter but it extends to saving rain forests and providing a dignified living to fellow humans. This is probably much more important than breaking another man's heart, at least equally important.

I feel that life has become very complicated, that something as simple as a cup of coffee has become a moral quandary.

Allright, allright, I'll choose the better coffee, I'll try to be a better man. I can say that because my local cafe serves it and it tastes great, it's an easy decision. I think it is making hard decisions, choosing to serve morality over desire, that makes a better man.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

I Didn't Die Today.

Every day we don't die is a sweet day.

Today I was leaving my local cafe when I heard glass breaking above me. My choices were to step back into the cafe or forward under a canvass umbrella. I had a saxophone on my back, couldn't see what was behind me, so I stepped forward, hugged tight under the umbrella with the waiter and another customer. The glass only fell three stories but it seemed I had time to make a decision, and more time to wonder if I'd made the correct decision, would the glass cut through that umbrella?

We stood and waited until the crashing noises ceased. It was thick, 1950's glass, punched a few holes in the umbrella, bounced off and onto a fortunately empty pavement. If the larger pieces had hit any one of us it would have sliced bits off us. We were lucky, the other customer very lucky that the waiter thought fast and pulled her under cover.

I never expected to live past forty, I've had over a thousand bonus days. I'm not so afraid of dying, but it is nice to be reminded how sweet each day is every now and again.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

The Wrong Parkstreet.

This blog has a "stats" feature, I can see what key words people are googling to find me. It seems there is a trend in pornography called "street and park". Apparently creepy voyeurs look up photographs taken by creeps, girls sunbaking in parks and the like, trying to capture moments when a stray boob falls out of a top or the like.

I can imagine a sad masturbator being very disappointed by finding my blog.

I don't understand this vicarious living via computer. I can't see the excitement in it. Looking at someone else's photos of boobs is as dull as their vacation snaps, without having lived the experience myself I can't see the fun in it.

I remember travelling on the Manly ferry across Sydney harbour a few years ago. I noticed a very pretty girl in a flouncy little skirt as I boarded, lost sight of her as I took up a bench seat on the outside of the craft. A little later she came down the stairs from the front of the boat. It was a very windy day, her skirt was blowing around. I recall thinking,"if there were truly a god her skirt would blow up now". And verily did her skirt blow up, her white panties flashing me a quick wink then disappearing again. The girl was charmingly embarrassed, play acted the whole skirt holding down routine, laughing. She smiled at me, I at her, I never saw her again.

I remember it mostly for her reaction. She was so damned cute! She knew she was taking a risk, riding a ferry on a windy day in a skirt like that. I believe she even enjoyed the moment of attention. It was funny and fun. If I'd taken a photograph of that moment it would have turned creepy.

I wonder if she remembers it too?

A while ago I wrote a piece called Post Feminist Boobs, about breast enlargement. I believe this is the post these guys are finding accidentally. Happily the most read post on this blog is called Food Clothing Shelter Art Love. It isn't my best work, a throwaway piece, but I'm thrilled that there are many more people searching for these ideas than park and street porn.

Someone even googled Kent Parkstreet yesterday. I thought I was the only one who did that!

Parkstreet.
My first single, Drum, available for download at itunes, all the other sites.

Good Company.

Last night I cooked chicken legs, roasted on a bed of diced carrot, celery, onion, apple and bacon, all doused generously with olive oil. To blow my own culinary trumpet, they were delicious.

Tonight I decided to eat one cold for supper. Leaving the kitchen I noticed the empty box from a new appliance on the floor at the last second, dodged it successfully but watched my beloved chicken leg sliding slowly off the plate. I stuck out my other hand and pulled off the miracle catch. For any cricket fans out there, this catch was indeed a pearler.

I placed the plate on my coffee table, performed a lap of that coffee table exclaiming "victory is mine, victory is mine!' Gravity? Defeated!

I sat down, placed my feet on that coffee table, ate my chicken leg smugly.

Some nights I love living alone.

Parkstreet.
New song, The Advice Blues, out this week.

As You Wish.

So I'm in a flash Italian restaurant with a flash Italian girl. Life's good.

"I don't like those red onions. I really don't, so don't eat it."

My natural reaction is to fling those rings of red onion up in the air and catch them in my mouth like a dolphin. I restrain myself, take it as a compliment, the girl must want to kiss me.

I smile and say,"as you wish".

She doesn't register the Princess Bride reference, for me the affair is over.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

It Takes A Man.

According to Sting, "it takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile". Some days it is easier than others.

Ignorance takes a couple of forms. There is the fact that one has never encountered something, heard of it. I'm ignorant of more things than I'm aware of, there is no shame in that. It's a blessing that we don't know things, learning is fun. Imagine how boring life would be if we were born knowing everything?

The other form is a chosen path, deciding that one knows everything one needs to know and that all further information is of no interest. Unless new ideas fit a familiar pattern they are dismissed, as foolishness, witchcraft, irreligious, treasonous, corrupting, pornographic, any number of name tags. Dressed up as "standards" or "morals" they sound like a good thing.

Most of us get stuck in some ways of thinking as we get older. This explains why children are so delightful, their minds haven't been set yet. I've found myself struggling to lose old ways of thinking recently and it is a tough habit to break.

There are two very funny men who work in my local tobacconist, they remind of the old boys who sat in the balcony box on The Muppet Show. One loves music in all it's forms, plays something different every night. The other hates anything that isn't familiar. He really hates it. I've tried explaining to him that musical taste is just a cultural thing, what you are brought up with sounds right, unfamiliar sounds are disturbing. His eyes glaze over. It's not a big deal, he doesn't have to listen to music he doesn't want to listen to, it doesn't matter in the overall scheme of things. It is him who misses the opportunity to hear something new, to open new aspects of his own mind.

I smile, tell him I disagree, keep my cool. Every day I feel blessed that I am open to the new, and striving to be more so. That's enough. I can smile at ignorance and hope it makes me a better man.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Help Me Understand.

We all have romantic disasters. Not you? Bullshit! You've had at least one, or you haven't ever taken a chance, haven't lived.

After time most break ups are funny. We can laugh at how distraught we were, how drunk we got, what terrible decisions we made. For me the only ones that hurt later were the ones I didn't understand. Confusion, never knowing what really went down, men don't deal with these things well.

It seems to me that if we have any feeling for someone the least we can do is leave them with the truth. I cheated. Your man boobs disgust me. You spend too much time at work. Whatever it is, however hard it is to say, it is always better for the other person to know.

The old cliche about the truth being a bitter pill is true, and it does heal. Helping another human to understand is a gift you can give them. They can take it away and feel better, eventually laugh. They can also learn, improve their nest relationship.

If someone asks you to help them understand curl your toes up inside your shoes and come out with it.

Obviously I'm thinking about one relationship in my past. It haunts me. I'll never know what prevented something that could have been truly beautiful. The sweet baroque counterpoint was never written, never played, even though the two instruments were perfectly in tune.

It was a waste and I'll never understand.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Sex Robots.

So there is an electriciam here in my apartment, fixing a dodgy light switch. I so admire men who know how things work.

High tech electricians are currently trying to perfect the life like sex robot. If there is a product with a guaranteed return it is the life like sex robot. Society will fall apart when it finally becomes available, but it will sell just the same.

If he owned a sex robot the electrician who is sweating and swearing in my hall wouldn't be here, he'd be at home sweating and sweating with Lara Croft, or Marilyn Monroe. All the tough dirty jobs that men do would go undone, most men would never leave home.

How men will react to this product is fairly predictable, how women will react is a mystery to me. I can't predict how women will react to anything, let alone how they'll react to being replaced by electronics. Who knows, maybe women will have to learn the art of seduction from their mothers, go back to the old skills of charm and conversation. If they want male company women will have to offer more than sex to attract it.

There will be an adjustment period, men will eventually have to venture out to earn a living again, go back to work. They will return with a new approach to women, they will be seeking something other than sex from them. Who knows, maybe sex robots will end the gender war, herald a new era of peace and love.

I think I'll go for a young Bridgette Bardot.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Chicken Suit Gigs.

Every actor I know has done at least one chicken suit gig. One friend was dressed up as the mascot for a tequila manufacturer, a bull suit gig. He had to go around to pubs with a gaggle of models in what they call a promotional team. In a padded suit he was fair game for every drunk who thought it would be funny to punch him. Acting is such a dignified career.

For me the chicken suit gig is playing background jazz for cocktail parties. The actual suit is a double breasted Italian number, but it may as well be a chicken suit. They pay me to make inoffensive noise and look right. Jobs like this aren't about being a musician, they are about making enough money to continue being a musician.

Dignity is important. There comes a point when a man has to wear his own clothes. I want to see the world through my blues coloured glasses, not through a plastic beak.

I publicly declare that I'll no longer play chicken suit gigs. From now on I'll play my music, improvised music, only the coolest covers with my own twist, and I'll play this music to audiences, not to cocktail party chatterers.

No more chicken suit gigs. I invite any fellow performers to choose dignity too.

Parkstreet.
New single, The Advice Blues, out this week.

Distraction.

If the world weren't round, if there were no horizon, the Australian outback could quite possibly drive humans mad. Being able to see how far nothing can go might freak some folks out. It would freak me out.

I see the outback through city trained eyes. To me there is nothing happening. To anyone outback born and bred there is plenty going on. Without city distractions they have the time, and the eye, to notice subtleties, nuances. They can see weather without turning on the television. If you have half a million hectares of cattle grazing land you need to be able to read patterns, you can't walk around it. You certainly can't give every bovine meat maker a name, you have to know animals and land and sky and water in a way that I will never know.

When outback folks come to the city they can find the millions of distractions difficult to deal with. Some find it overwhelming, return home, others become slaves to the distractions, the girls, boys, drugs, pace, money. Born and bred city folks learn to filter the jazz cacophony, hear all the parts but focus on the essential. The action and noise is background, You can't know millions of people by name, every square centimetre of the city, but you can know it's nuances, see the patterns.

Distraction is the opposite of action. Finding a way to create an outback emptiness in my own mind is the only way I know to avoid being pushed and pulled between a million different ideas. I just have to remember to create an horizon so I don't get myself lost out there, in there.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Pointy Bits, reposted following a near umbrella experience yesterday.

Pointy Bits.


Close your umbrella,

It's just a sunshower.

Let the blessed rain fall on your blessed head.



The umbrella

Lowers your horizon,

You can't see the rainbow.



I can't see your eyes.



And when you wave those pointy bits at the edges near my face it freaks me out.



Parkstreet.

Soup For One Isn't Soup.

A cold snap hit Sydney today so I headed down to my favourite fruit and vegetable store, left with a paper sack crammed full of fresh vegetables and spent the afternoon cooking soup and playing guitar.

I love any dish that starts with carrot, celery and onion being fried in olive oil, just until they're soft. The rest of the soup cooks itself, all I had to do was put my guitar down occasionally to stir and taste. I don't like to brag, but it tasted damned good. The chill wind outside was no concern of mine, my universe was limited to nylon strings and a wooden spoon.

It sounds idyllic but there was something missing. Making soup for one person doesn't feel right. Soup should be shared, bread broken, conversation punctuated by slurps. It should be followed by warm cuddles, the dishes left in the sink to be washed after a couple of hours in bed.

Soup for one isn't soup.

Parkstreet.
My single, Drum, now available for download on itunes, all the other sites.

AbeBooks - Books on Sale

Blog International.

I'm really excited that this blog is being read by people all over the world. Right now I'm kind of stuck here in Sydney Australia so international readers make me feel like I'm out there in the real world.

Most of my readers are American, partly because of my love affair with Portland Oregon. Hardly anyone in Australia reads me. Don't know why. This week I've had hits from Russia, Slovenia, Lithuania, Denmark, Austria, Spain, the Netherlands, the U.K., they're the ones I remember in Europe. There's been a few from Brazil and Colombia, from China, Vietnam, Malaysia and South Korea. And just one reader from Burundi.

I do wish folks would leave comments. I'm always interested in opinions and ideas from others, especially others from other cultures. When I read a blog I find the comments entertaining, often illuminating.

I'm hoping to keep travelling for the next few years. As I add new songs to my iTunes site I'm hoping to support them by playing anywhere and everywhere. Eventually I'll end up living in Portland, but for now my old duffle bag and guitar case are home, so every city I visit, maybe yours, will be as much a home as Sydney.

Until I jump onto a plane again I'm honoured to be visiting you through this blog.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

The Little People.

Tongue in cheek, maybe.

Fuck The Little People.

I will forget the little people,
When I'm rich and famous,
What have they done for me?
I will violate my groupies,
I'll be a bitch, act nouveau riche,
Behave appallingly.

I will get me some big people,
To wear black suits and sunglasses,
And take good care of me.
I will keep up with the Hiltons,
The blonde leading the bland,
I'll live in high society.

So fuck the little people,
What have they done for me?

I will pretend as if I like you,
But when I make the big time,
You'll be history.
You won't find me here in Portland,
There'll be swimming pools and movie stars,
In a place called Beverly.

(spoken) Hills that is. I won't forget the little people. I'll remember each and every one of you, your names and faces, so if I see you coming down the street, I'll be able to cross the road and avoid you.

I will forget the little people,
When I'm rich and famous,
What have they done for me?

I'm pretty happy about getting a quote from both Noel Coward and The Beverly Hillbillies into the same song.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Arts Degree.

If the aliens landed tomorrow and removed all the policemen from our society life would change, wouldn't it? Or if the same aliens removed all the criminals the whole law and order industry would collapse, one in every two hundred and fifty Americans would be suddenly unemployed.

Remove the plumbers, the doctors, the truck drivers, the world would change.

If the aliens, despite their superior intelligence, were to take all the people with Arts Degrees off the planet I wonder what would happen? I don't think anyone would notice.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Peace Method.

Last night I met a fellow who was attempting to find inner peace by drinking bourbon, smoking pot and verbally antagonizing strangers. I've witnessed others pursuing this method, I even tried it myself for nearly two decades.

It doesn't work very well.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

The Bloomsday Girl.

This song is kind of a spoken thing, not certain it makes sense in print but here it is.

The Bloomsday Girl.

When I asked if you liked Miles Davis,
You said yes.
Have you read J.D. Salinger?
You said all nine short stories, For Esme With Love and Squalor and all the rest, yes.
Will you join me for coffee?
You said you don't get out of bed for a day that doesn't promise good coffee, yes.
Japanese food?
You asked if tuna sashimi makes me horny too, we both laughed yes yes yes.

And you said yes,
Every time I posed a question.
And you said yes,
And it opened up my eyes,
To the possibilities.

When I asked, do you like it that way?
You said yes yes yes, halleluljah you said yes.
Will you come walkabout with me?
You said hand in hand we'll wander 'round this planet together, yes.
Can I pick you up, when you're down, can I carry you, will you let me be your man?
You said yes please.
When I got down on one knee, when I got down on one knee,
You said yes, glory be you said yes.

And you said yes,
Every time I posed a question.
Yeah you said yes,
And it opened up my eyes,
To the possibilities.

If I gave up playing music, if I had a day job, would you still love me?
You said yes.
That's never going to happen, I'm doomed to being a drifting bum forever,
You still said yes.
When it gets too hard, will you hold me?
Of course yes.
Every day, when I look into your eyes i see just one word.

Cos' you said yes,
Every time I posed a question.
And you said yes,
And it opened up my eyes,
To the possibilities.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet.

Erotic Toothbrush.

He awoke before her, arose to put the kettle on. He didn't actually own a kettle, he usually went out for coffee, a pot on the stove would do. And jasmine tea, that would be kind of cool.

His morning breath was bad enough to notice it himself, dashed off to the bathroom to clean his teeth while the water boiled. He realized he really liked the brunette who was asleep in the next room. He cared what she thought of him, was hoping she might be up for more love making this morning, not hoping she'd leave quietly.

He relaxed into reverie, enjoying the soft small brush massaging his gums, preparing his mouth for love. He wondered if he should offer her the spare new toothbrush he always kept in the drawer or see if she wanted to use his. It took him a minute to realize that the hissing sound was the pot boiling over. He spat, rinsed and ran.

By the time the tea had brewed she was awake, grateful.

"Oooh, jasmine, you arty wanker."

He couldn't argue, kissed her instead.

She smiled the smile that had snared him the night before, "you've brushed your teeth", she said.

Parkstreet.

www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

A Brand New Pair Of Corneas.

Some cunning Swedish scientists have finally perfected the biosynthetic cornea. The cornea is the clear film across the front of your eye. Basically they mix up your own DNA with some collegen, grow it in some yeast, teach it to be a cornea then stitch it into the front of your eye. There is no risk of rejection and it grows into your own cells much more quickly than a donor cornea.

I already have a couple of other people's corneas. The people I received them from aren't doing the living thing any more. I'll always be grateful to the families who made the decision to hand over body parts while they were still in shock and grieving for a loved one. Those families are heroes to me, grace and generosity under pressure are qualities I admire. They helped me dodge blindness for twenty years.

My second hand corneas are just about past their use by date, in fact they have almost ceased functioning as corneas. The Swedish scientists have run human tests, the surgery should be available to me here in Australia in a couple of years. I can't wait.

When I can see again the first thing I'll do is buy a big old Dodge and drive it across the United States of America, hopefully I'll be ready before the oil is all used up. My retirement from music plan of opening a cafe will suddenly be possible when I'm able to recognize my regular customers.

Philosophically I believe my outlook will open out to the world, it has been fairly introverted for a long time. I'll be able to see emotion on other people's faces. I've been guessing, often inaccurately, for far too long. My relationships with women can only improve, don't you think?

I'm pretty excited, but also unsure what to do for the next two or three years? Waiting doesn't have to mean doing nothing. I think this waiting gives me a fine excuse to throw myself head first into music, two years to play my nuts off amd write and record, see where it takes me.

Here's a toast to those brilliant Swedish dudes. If I ever get to meet one of them I'll be able to see them. I hope I can find a way to tell them how cool that is.

Parkstreet.
My first single, Drum, now available for download on itunes and all the other sites.

I Am So Great.

There is a scene from The Simpsons where a younger Bart marches up and down the kitchen banging a saucepan and singing, "I am so great, I am so great". Whomever wrote this scene accurately predicted the future of western culture.

Last night an international football (soccer) game was called off because the supporters of one nation's team decided that singing  we are so great should involve setting off marine flares and breaking stuff. Whenever someone sings we are so great they are really saying I am so great, whether they are singing about their nation, sports club, political party, religion, rock band, it is all I am so great.

Humility lives right next door to holiness. Holy went out of fashion a while back. Arrogance is a belief that how people perceive me right now, at this moment, is important. Arrogance has no perspective and is eventually a denial of death, like every other form of vanity.

Children can't be expected to see beyond their own ego, adults can. A cancelled football match is no big deal but for me it is symbolic of every conflict, from domestic to war. Bart Simpson is a charicature of the self obsessed child. He is remarkably like most of our leaders and role models.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Hungry Jazz Cats.

Today a band I play in was booked to play in one of Sydney's premier venues. The guy who runs the band put in the hard yards, made the phone calls, wore out the shoe leather, after a series of disappointments he landed a great gig. The folks who book this room also book most of the other good rooms in Sydney, the rooms that give publicity, that put bands in the public eye.

Suddenly a band that hasn't worked in months, mainly because I've been out of town, has a sniff of success. All we have to do is find around one hundred people out of the five million who live in this city to turn up and make us appear popular for one night. I reckon we can manage that.

The music business is rife with these turning point moments. The secret is to be ready for them, to be prepared so when they pop up they don't go begging. At least one million things can go wrong. All it takes is one band member to be sick on that particular night and the band is down the snake to the start again. On the other hand we can go into that room and tear it up, fill it up, send the band up the ladder to a new level.

Being prepared means having one's shit together, body and soul, able to play at one's best. When you think about it this is the difference between a professional and amateur musician. The pro has to be a patient, humble hunter, able to wait out the lean times and strike when the prey appears. The amateur is a much better fed creature, but less likely to ever be the king of the jungle.

So if you are in Sydney on November 24th come down to the Vanguard in Newtown, help a band of hungry jazz cats survive, thrive for another day.

Machiniso, www.myspace.com/machiniso

Parkstreet.

Two Boys Kissing.

There is a new elevator in my building. The doors open more swiftly than the old ones. This morning when the doors opened I caught two boys, well, young men, sharing a kiss.

They were a little embarrassed, but not really, they enjoyed someone witnessing their romance. Cute as buttons in their fashionable stripey shirts and designer jeans they held hands as they entered the elevator and disappeared.

Even the world's most cynical man, and that could well be me, can't help but feel a little mooshy when faced with new love. I love that the two people involved feel like they invented the feeling. That showing off a public kiss is displaying their relationship to the world, and it needs to be displayed because it is important.

It is important. The excitement of new love is the reason we get out of bed in the morning. Even with an old lover the memory of that first flush lingers and sustains the difficult times. Us single folk look forward to having that feeling again, even better if it is returned by the object of our affection. The very moment two people, via words or any other method, say out loud that they are completely smitten is a golden moment. Spoken honestly it is truly beautiful.

Whenever romance doesn't go the way we'd prefer, like most of my love life, we swear off love then butter up again when a stranger stirs us. I had no desire to kiss either of the two boys in my foyer this morning, but I want to thank them for reminding me how sweet life can be.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

The Mother Mary McKillop Blog.

So I've just broken the law here in Australia. The title of this blog is illegal according to the trade practises act. So I'm waiting to be charged. Come and get me, nanny state, come and get me.

So there is an affluent and influential Catholic population in Australia, but numbers have been dwindling for a while so Rome has been throwing a few bones to this antipodean part of the church to raise interest. Here in Sydney we copped the incorrectly named World Youth Day, now we have the first Australian cannonized, nearly a saint.

They chose well with Mother Mary McKillop, she was a legend. She was also a rebel who resisted authority, characteristics that play well with the Australian public. Mary started an order of nuns that is well loved for helping people who needed help in a time when the state wasn't organized or wealthy enough to take that role. There can be no doubt of her qualities as a human being, one of the best.

To protect folks from their own stupidity the name Mother Mary McKillop is now treated as a brand name. I can't sell a breakfast cereal that comes with a miracle in every box. Can you believe it? I'm hoping that anyone named Mary McKillop will write to me, we can go into business together, Mary McKillop Brand Contraceptive Company.

Apparently some brilliant politician was concerned that innocent people would be conned by products that use the name of a saint, perhaps expect that it was approved by a woman who is no longer living. My question is, "why just Mary McKillop?". There are plenty of big names in Australia, people loved and respected by many, is it just the stamp of the church that makes Mary McKillop more important, more prone to misuse? Bullshit. It is pious tosh, and pious tosh has no place in a secular nation's laws.

I wouldn't mind so much if the name of Errol Flynn were protected in the same way. He is a man I look up to, a confirmed member of the holy rollers, bon vivant and all 'round good egg. How can the big names of one section of a society be treated differently to others? Pious tosh I say.

So here is the Mother Mary McKillop Blog. Charge me. I dare you.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Dream Sex With The Prime Minister.

Last night I dreamed I had sex with the Prime Minister of Australia. She came to my place, I was holding an official looking envelope, she told me she'd do anything to get it back, anything.

The Prime Minister has a hairdresser boyfriend. Her hair colour and shape changes regularly. I wasn't planning on exploiting the situation, but I had to know if the Prime Ministerial pubic hair matched the Prime Ministerial head. Once she'd proved that it did we'd past the point of no return, the Prime Ministerial suit trousers were removed, the Prime Ministerial panties lowered, I found myself licking the ginger crowned Prime Ministerial pussy.

It was my dream, the next two hours my performance was remarkable, masterful. It was my dream. The Prime Minister fell asleep in my arms, so satisfied she was. I woke her so she wouldn't be late for her next important appointment, kissed the Prime Ministerial  neck as I washed the Prime Ministerial body in my shower.

The Prime Minister of Australia is a very attractive woman, but the real excitement was her job. Now I understand why women like having sex with idiot musicians. If they find my job exciting who am I to question their decision?

The Prime Minister snuck out of my apartment, accidentally leaving that official looking envelope so she'd have to come back for it another time.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Portland Happy Rain.

I was reliably informed, by a sweet hippy girl, that the rain in Portland Oregon is happy rain. And why not? If we can have happy tears why not happy rain?

Attaching an emotion to weather is a remarkably human habit. Other animals don't do it. Other animals may moderate their behaviour to suit the conditions but their mood isn't affected. It seems that human memory relies on emotion, the experiences we have an emotional reaction to are stored attached to those emotions. We remember the weather when something deeply emotional occurs, it is part of the mood, the feeling.

I'm in the odd situation of not having many memories about my past, I wasn't emotionally attached to most of it. I know stuff happened but I can't recall any emotional detail, how I felt, not even the weather. There is no denying it is a loss, memory is definitely part of being human. We all have to accept loss in our lives, in all it's forms.

So as I learn to feel, you know, like a human does, I'm discovering memory at the same time. Recalling an atmosphere, a mood, whether it was sunny or raining, these things are a joy to me because they are new. In some ways I'm a child in a man's body.

I wonder how many take their memory for granted? I can only suggest you don't.

I'm going out to smile up at the rain.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

She Has No Idea.

She has no idea the affect she has on me. Both my hearts, physical and metaphorical, beat faster, skip, pound. Her intensity and sensitivity sing to me, her face is joy, her body invites my arms to wrap her up and love her. Her musician's lips and hands excite me, her delight in the everyday brings her down to my earth. She is real and whole and desirable and desired.

She has no idea.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Yuppies And Locusts.

A series of circumstances have conspired to make this a perfect season for locusts to thrive in Australia. The plan is to try to kill the locusts while they are still larvae, once they have spread and bred they will consume entire crops across millions of hectares.

About thrity years ago I witnessed the spread of yuppies in Australia. I wish we'd had the foresight to quell the outbreak before they spawned their awful yuppie offspring. It is too late, they are consuming the sweetest parts of our culture and moving on to the next, as their nature insists they should. At least when locusts are blown out to sea they provide nourishment for fish, yuppies don't create anything.

What yuppies call gentrified I call soulless, what they call hip is just faddish and lame. They figure that the more they spend on their statue of the Buddha the luckier it will make them. They don't think about the fact that an Indonesian kiddie was paid seventy cents for the privilige of carving it.

 There is a television advertisement for a suburban hatchback that features the rap classic The Message by Grand Master Flash. A gormless wanker imagines he has two gangsters in the car with him. He doesn't have two gangsters in the car with him, just a sad exploitation of a great work that cheapens it in the name of selling and consumption.

Yuppie children turn their noses up at inferior sushi by the time they are five years old. They've never caught a fish and seen it die. They are expert consumers with no concept of culture or nature. There is no wind that can blow them out to sea to become fish food, we are stuck with these locusts for at least one generation.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Femme Banal.

In Paris ten years ago there were moving billboards on the street, about two yards tall, one wide. Different advertisements would scroll up or down every thirty seconds or so.

One advertisement featured a perfect female bottom, dressed in a perfect lace g string, with a perfect white butterfly perched on one perfect cheek. No one seemed to notice. So sexy, so beautiful, so boring.

I'm so bombarded by images of feminine beauty in every form of media that I don't know what beautiful is any more, I really don't. I think it may be a good thing. Hopefully I'm learning to look past exterior beauty? Maybe I'm just bored by it.

Tushies and lingerie are still attractive to me, but I find I have to approach them via a woman's mind. Goddamn I'm getting old!

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Back To Portland Oregon.

Everything I do now is aimed at returning to Portland Oregon. I've found a home and it makes sense to go and live in it.

My only problem is obtaining a working visa, bureaucracy, my heart and mind are settled. I feel strange about leaving Australia behind, this country has been very kind to me in so many ways. I feel disloyal, unpatriotic, but if home is elsewhere I have to go.

Apart from loving Portland I also have to take care of business, and America is where the music business is. It certainly ain't here. Australia is a safe haven from the rest of the world but the rest of the world is where it all happens. It is also where it all happens for me. I learn, think, write, create when I'm in America, the country has breadth and imagination that rubs off on me.

Back to Portland Oregon, via paperwork.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

From The Bedroom To The Studio.

Taking a song from an idea in the head to strumming it out in the bedroom then to creating a recording of it is a weird process. It is something created from nothing that becomes a part of you then becomes a product.

I recorded my first proper studio recording earlier this year. It never would have happened without the help and insistence of my friend Jim Downey at Approximate Dog, www.myspace.com/jimdowneyapproximatedog. He believed in the song and came around to my place and made me record the vocal. Oh yeah, and he played the drums, bass, guitar and keyboard parts, the multitalented bastard.

Suddenly I had a real live single, like they have on the radio. It has my name on it. Of course it is a partnership deal, but it has my name on it. It feels weird. I've recorded flute parts on everyone else's stuff for years, but this one has my name on it.

So now I'm in the business of selling it. This is a completely different job to writing and playing it live. I can sell a live performance, but how to sell a product? For the creative type this is a whole new world, quite possibly the real world. I'm not precious, I have no problem with making money out of a song I wrote, artists have been known to sell their work before, it doesn't cheapen it.

The main thing for me is not to get lost in it, to make time for sitting on my bed and strumming out ideas, not just becoming a salesman. The ideal is that one will make the money that allows time for the other. Why not aim for the ideal, eh? Why not?

Tomorrow morning I'm going to pull my guitar up onto my bed and tinker with a couple of songs that have been on the backburner for a while now, think about moving units some other time.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Francis The Existentialist Mouse.

Someone named him Francis, I don't know why. Why would anyone name a mouse? Isn't giving an animal a name a sign of affection?

Francis did all the normal mouse stuff at first, leaving little mouse footprints in the spilled grease on the top of the stove, keeping a low profile. He became more familiar with us as he realized that we were not only messy but harmless.

As if overnight Francis became completely unafraid of us. We'd find him napping on the beanbag in the lounge room, on his back, tiny paws folded behind his head, as if he were waiting for a blowjob. When we entered the room he'd look up at us wearily, "I suppose you expect me to perform the whole scurrying around in a panic and hiding behind the skirting board routine now?", then wander off to his gap in the floorboards in his own sweet time.

I began seeing Francis as a worldweary old existentialist, going through the motions of being a mouse, understanding the futility of everything. I imagined him sitting at outdoor cafes, drinking short, strong coffees, staring blankly ar all the other beings passing him by.

I loved that mouse. We were brothers.

Parkstreet.
My first single, Drum, available for download on itunes and all the other sites.

The Manly Ferry.

For anyone who hasn't been to Sydney the Manly Ferry is not a butch water craft, it's a passenger service between the city centre and the outer suburb of Manly, the outer edge of the harbour.

Sydney Harbour is magnificent. For a few bucks you can ride across it. I'm doing it at sunset. It's one of those simple pleasures that you forget about in your own town.

I wonder what cool things you take for granted where you live?

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Van Gogh's Pipe, another repost for a lazy day.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Van Gogh's Pipe.

I'm in a cafe furnished with rustic old chairs and tables, my chair is rustic to the point I am dubious about it's safety. It creaks when I move forward and again when I move back, the legs shift in sympathy, the back reclines a couple of inches when I lean on it.



I can think of three responses to this chair. The first, and most natural to me, is to accept it as it comes. It has lasted this long, show some faith in the old dog, enjoy the conversation with it's quirks, think of it as interactive rather than broken. What's the worst thing that can happen? It might break eventually. I won't plummet to my death, just drop a foot and a half onto my arse and look a little foolish for a moment or two. I'm willing to wear this fate if it means sparing the feelings of an old servant.



The correct male response is to fix the chair. Bolts, glue, action, hand written sign saying not to use it for twenty four hours. Why not tweny five hours? What is so magical about one day exactly?



The modern response is to throw the chair out. Of course it is. Why not? The hour I spend fixing it I could spend working, make enough money to buy a new chair. I can't see what is wrong with this but I know it is wrong. I feel it is wrong. It is wrong.



In the last hour my arse and this old chair have become mates. This will be my table from now on. One day I'll come in, find the chair missing, find it back in twenty four hours, fixed, not quite the same. Until then I'll sit here feeling like Van Gogh's pipe.



Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Rupert Bear's Trousers.

Rupert Bear's trousers are cooler than penguin piss.

Parkstreet.

Relative Morality Primate.

Imagine, if you will, a monkey. A monkey in a far away land. Imagine him as cute as, well, a monkey. Give him a name.

Now imagine that monkey has a pelt that is desirable for clothing for society ladies.

So, as you can imagine our monkey friend is one of the last of his kind. The first men with firearms who hunted him were hailed as intrepid adventurers, were paid well for their cargo of exotic animal pelts. The value of the pelt, and the men who hunted them, decreased as technology and infrastructure made them easier to obtain. Now the monkeys themselves are rare the pelts are valuable, the hunter despised.

Our imaginary monkey friend,mine is named Rex, hasn't changed, he is still living and generally being a monkey. His view of morality is simple and honest. The primates who hunt him have a relative sense of morality.

I'd rather be friends with my imaginary monkey friend. His nam is Rex.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Id Objects.

I was one of the little guys at high school. When I played Australian Rules football, a full body contact sport, I used to run straight at the biggest guy on the field, knock him down, establish my presence. It wasn't the animal aggression of a teenager, it was a calculated decision, a forward defensive strike, an action designed to establish a dominant physical position in the minds of my opposition.

A football is usually an object that brings out the id, the animal, the caveman in a young man. It was never so for me. Not many objecys or stimulus ever have. I started playing saxophone a couple years ago, the combination of my state of mind and the object itself have finally put me in touch with that side of my personality, and I'm pretty certain that I like it.

There is something raw and horny about making a loud noise through a big shiny, possibly phallic piece of metal. It's sexual, sensual, essential. For a while I thought it was the opposite that attracted me, I've since realized the horn is a medium that brings out another part of me. I am certain that I like it.

Of course I must have been attracted to the instrument, I laid down a wad of cash for it and spent my time learning to play it, I must have been craving something. At the time I was, and still am, learning a lot about myself, hopefully becoming a more complete human being. I'm probably still learning how to be a man. The saxophone is part of that. I'm so damn sure I like it that I'm going to keep doing it.

At some point the big guys at high school became so big that I started bouncing off them, providing them with great mirth. A man completely driven by his id would insist at running straight at guys bigger than himself no matter what the result. I never want to get to that point, but I'm so glad the key of the saxophone opened one of the doors to my soul.

I like it.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Under A Bridge Downtown.

Springtime in Sydney, between sunny, blissful days cold fronts come through, a grey, showery day today.

All I want to do is hide under a railway bridge, play my saxophone and watch the rain come down around me. In the city all the railway lines are fenced off, anything even remotely dangerous is fenced off by those who know what is good for us. It's like some bureaucrat stuck a straw into life and sucked all the romance out of it.

All I want is to turn my collar up, hear my horn resounding off the old brickwork of the inner suburban bridge, play for myself and any other brave soul walking in the rain above.

I know what is good for my soul, but someone put a fence around it.

Parkstreet.
My first single, Drum, available on itunes, all the other sites.

Marketing.

Hi, my name is John L. Smarmyfuck, I'd like to thank all you lovely people here at Shampoo Company X for inviting me here today.

Most of you will be familiar with my work for Mustard Company X. The old joke in the mustard business was that the profit was in what was left on the plate. People would take a glob of mustard from the jar, use two thirds of it and rinse the other third down the sink. When the jar was empty a new one had to be purchased even though only two thirds of the product had been consumed. It was my job to improve those fractions, improve the wastage, if you will.

I noticed that hot dog stand operators had their own mix of mustard that could be squeezed from a bottle. I decided to sell mustard in the same manner, but with design improvements. I commissioned an engineer to ensure the squeeze bottle pushed out one third more than the usual desired dose, so half the product was wasted. I thickened the mix so one third of the product remained stuck to the inside of the bottle.

So, how does this apply to the shampoo business? Let's say you thicken your product so most of it stays in the bottle, call it rich and luscious, call it anything that sounds better than the old. Write on the bottle, say to wash your hair twice, who knows who will fall for that? Add harsher chemicals and sell them another chemical, let's call it conditioner, to wash out the shampoo.

The Smarmyfuck method is proven, I look forward to working with you.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

What, And Give Up Show Business?

Tomorrow afternnon my mate Jim will be appearing on the ground at the Australian Rugby League grand final. No, he isn't playing football, he is part of the pre game entertainment.

The event is sponsored by a car manufacturer, Jim will drive one of their vans onto the field in choreographed formation with a bunch of other guys driving vans. Some entertainers will then leap athletically out of the vans and entertain people.

We all need to make a dollar. My friend has already earned a good wage in rehearsal, driving a van from one spot on a football field to another. Weird, huh? How people make money, what people will pay money for?

Jim is a superbly funky bass player, this weekend he's driving a van around a football field.

He thinks it is funny, I think it is funny, yet somehow it is disturbingly normal.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

Alberto, You've Broken My Heart.

When winning is more important than honour there is no point being a man any more. Last year's winner of Le Tour De France has been suspended for drug cheating, another event that has the potential to be the best of humanity has joined so many others in the mire of dishonesty.

I love Le Tour, watch it overnight in Australia every year, but after so many final straw moments I'm through with it. It's not just Le Tour, I see this means justifying ends attitude in every field of human endeavour, sport, politics, business, everywhere.

I don't know if there ever was a time when honour was more important than profit. I'd like to think there was. What are status and wealth worth if we know we haven't earned them? If pumping one's blood stream full of illegal chemicals is the method to success then what is that success for?

Time and again we see successful people who've cheated unravel, either by being caught and disgraced or by personal breakdown. Alberto Contador is making a bigger fool of himself by claiming tainted meat caused the drug test to go wrong. Idiot, treating us like idiots. If he had any character he'd admit his crime and disappear, take his millions of dollars and try to make amends for his crap behaviour. Of course he has no character, he wouldn't have cheated in the first place if he did.

When a man dies alone he must look back and wonder about his own life, did he live it right? All his money and fame will seem unimportant, foolish. His own sense of honour will feel essential.

Alberto Contador will never know that he broke my heart, but he will die knowing what he did and be ashamed.

Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet