The Shagger.

A couple of decades ago I knew a bloke who had sex with nearly every woman I knew. I'm not exaggerating, just about every chick I knew bedded or was bedded by this one dude. For a guy like that the Australian term is "root rat", in England he'd be called a "shagger", maybe a "ladies man" in the U.S., I'm not sure.

Curly haired, bright eyed, but not anything special to look at, he just had a reputation for being a great lay. Every woman who slept with him displayed the same quirky smile when they talked about him. Whatever he was doing was working, and working and working.

Even now I sometimes wonder what he used to do? I know there are certain qualities that make a man a better lover, stamina, generousity, the ability to appear completely in control but pick up on quiet signals at the same time, but what else did he do? Let's face it, the actual physical options aren't too many to number. There must have been something else.

I think his secret was pretty simple. I think he just loved women. A lot of men love being seen with women, love talking about women, love the general idea of women, but they don't love real women. He genuinely loved their company, loved their bodies, loved having sex with them. It's an old fashioned notion, but he showed real interest in the women he slept with. He  made them feel confident that his only aim was a seriously good time with them. He wasn't into controlling them, hurting them, displaying power over them, he just wanted to shag with them.

With all the politically correct nonsense going on men have lost touch with their masculinity and it's relationship with femininity. Men have lost touch with simple desire. They are so brow beaten, hen pecked and frustrated by women they've ceased enjoying their company, sex is something they have despite the neccesity of a female presence.

Bring back the root rat, the shagger, the ladies man, the man who makes women smile that quirky smile when they think about him years later. He'll never marry, settle down, his path in life is to leave a trail of joy behind him, a fantasy for women to think back on when the solid man they married is pumping away on top of them.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

The Newsreader Is Crying.

The newsreader is crying. Nothing on his autocue says anything about crying but here he is, weeping, his body jerking with the sobs he can't control.

No one knows what to do. The director is in two minds, should he cut to an advertisement or let this extraordinary scene run, knowing it will be on youtube within the hour, make his news service the most famous on earth for a few days? He can't decide, the cameras roll on, like everyone else he is stunned by the depth of the pain the newsreader is releasing, he knows there is more to this moment than a highlight for a bloopers show.

At home the people in their loungerooms know what is happening. They've all felt the same way at least once. The news, so much news, the weight of all that information feels too heavy some days. It's not just the content of the news, the disasters, violence and horror, it's the constant avalanche, storm after storm, landslide after landslide of news, more and more news. It's not that it is the common man like themselves who is always wearing the bullets and bombs and famine and torture, it's that someone is shouting it in their ear, poking them in the chest and making them listen like a mass media drunk.

The newsreader has simply had enough. His stiff upper lip wobbled, his authoritative stare lost it's nerve, glanced sideways, accidentally saw what his fellow man does to other fellow men. He just couldn't read another word. So here he is, head on the newsreader's desk, wailing, keening for humanity, a tear for every news story he has read every night for years.

Everyone feels the load lifted. The newsreader is speaking for us all, giving us redemption, offering his own tears for all the world. We can all go on now, the newsreader has sacrificed himself, his all important career, shown us the way. The news will go on, and on, we know we can't change that, but now we know that how we feel is normal.

The newsreader is crying so we don't have to.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

All Beauty Passes.

Tiny black shorts, she leans over the gelato fridge, flawless thighs, pert tush, I wonder if her nipples are reacting to the chilled glass she is leaning on, try to catch a glimpse as she turns around. She sits at the table beside me, drinks her coffee short and black. I find this even sexier than her nipples which have indeed reacted to the chilled glass she was leaning on.

Her purple dress flaps in the breeze, the colour is perfect for her black hair, pale complexion. Her flowers are orange, vivid, she carries them proudly, a man who wasn't me has made her happy. She bounces away down the laneway, who knows where?

She is with her workmates, suited detectives, her hair tied back, masculine shirt and suit trousers doing nothing to hide her femininity. Even the gun on her belt doesn't distract from her walk, her strut. Elegantly powerful, every head, male and female, turns as she departs.

I wish my friend Malcolm were here. He knew how to appreciate beauty without sounding tawdry, his sense of fun made all things seem possible. His company made beauty feel more beautiful.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Heroin Or Ego.

So I'm walking up a lane between two old red brick apartment buildings, leafy, quiet, cool. I pop out onto a large pedestrian laneway, cafe tables and umbrellas, sunshine. A woman coming the other way, she's obviously just taken a large dose of heroin. Her brain is processing information slowly, to her I must appear suddenly, from nowhere, not there one second then there. Her zombie eyes stare at me, her body walks in the direction she is looking. I step out of her way, by the time she fills the space where I was I'm gone, there one second then not there. This woman is accustomed to apparitions, staggers on her way without looking back.

After coffee, half an hour later, I'm walking past the posh shops around the corner. A shiny happy girl steps out of a shop right in front of me. She moves faster than a heroin addict, my arm collects hers as I side step her. She shouts abuse at me, an ugly mouth on a pretty girl. Her sense of entitlement, her belief that the rest of the world should step out of her way, it disgusts me.

I should go back but what can I say? Should I have to explain manners to a grown up? She'll be shocked if I tell her she has less class than a street junky.

Addicted to heroin or ego, the result is the same.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Beautiful Drifters.

There are two different pods of whales of the same species that travel north up the Australian coast each year, one up the east coast, the other the west. Occasionally a rogue male will go adventuring, some make contact with the pod from the other coast. They'll hang out with them for a year or two then return to their original pod, bringing with them the songs of the other.

So the songs of one coast become mingled with the songs of the other, a culture grows.

The rogue male who goes adventuring is often maligned as a drifter. He is really a cultural ambassador. He transports beauty in his bag.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

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

Weeing In A Jar.

Tomorrow I will wee into a small jar and take it to my doctor. I don't think he is some kind of weird collector, I'm pretty sure he will send it to a lab for diagnostic testing. Maybe he is searching for the genius gene, the big dick gene, but more likely he will just send my sample for tests.

I live in the red light district of Sydney, there are often police sniffer dogs searching for drugs, I hope I get stopped on my way to the surgery so I can fumble through my bag, hand an officer cell phone, iPod, jar of warm urine. I don't know why but bodily fluids are just funny.

Monty Python made blood funny, a brave knight, all four limbs cut off, crazy spurts of blood, shouting, "a mere flesh wound, come back and fight". If you've ever seen monkeys throwing their own shit at each other you just know that's funny. The combination of snow and urine is always a giggle and the male fascination with what their semen lands in or on is hilarious.

Of course bodily fluid gags rely on context. There is nothing funny about a human throwing poo about and cum in the eye is only funny for one of the two people involved. Busting for a piss is a little bit funny, a knight struggling to get his armour off because he is busting for a piss is more funny. I don't know why.

Exchanging bodily fluids with a lover is fun, if not funny.

I'm searching for funny. A modern miracle will take place tomorrow, a few small containers of my blood and urine will be tested and within a day I'll know what is wrong with my body, what is not wrong with my body. I'm lucky to live in a time and place that makes this possible. Until the results come back I'll be making dumb teenage jokes about bodily fluids.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Get It On With Soul.

Humans perform sex acts for reasons of procreation, recreation and for the less tangible reason of spiritual union. Different cultures have stressed the importance of one of those three reasons, diminished the importance of the other two. My culture is obsessed with the recreational angle.

A generation familiar with computer porn knows that pregnancy is a possible outcome of the sex act but they seem unaware that it can be more than just fun. The same generation attends church for the jolly tunes, purchases framed prints that suit the decor of their magazine homes.

That sex can alter the consciousness of a human is a truly remarkable concept. That it can alter two people at the same time and alter their perception of each other is one of the freakiest aspects of the human. That we don't really know how or why it happens is fantastic, a gorgeous mystery. That it takes two people feeling the same joy in each other, that one person can't take another person there without that shared joy makes it a rare and beautiful bird indeed.

Seeking another human to share this experience with doesn't mean ignoring the other aspects of sexuality, sometimes one comes from the other. Once discovered it doesn't have to be exclusive, one can still fuck for fun with one's soul mate. It seems a shame to me, that an entire culture is losing the desire for one of the great joys of life, possibly the greatest.

Get it on people, get it on with all your soul.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Musical Tradition.

The other night I sat up watching an overnight music video show dedicated to Aussie rock from the 1970's. Some faces were familiar, I played with some of the guys from that era in the late 80's and early 90's when they were the same age I am now. By then they were considered the gentry of rock and roll, I was honoured to play with them, learn from them.

This tradition of passing on musical knowledge and spirit is a beautiful thing. It is present in every form of music. It takes two to make it work, the experienced musician with a love for his craft and the patience to teach, the novice with the humility and desire to learn. Like any other creative pursuit becoming a good musician requires self knowledge, without it one is just playing party tricks one after the other. Humility is the first step to self knowledge. Humility is way out of fashion, an almost forgotten word.

Wherever I go I hear young musicians who don't understand their craft. They are clowns or actors or freak shows, many entertaining things but not musicians. They use music to serve their own purpose instead of using their talent to serve the music. This is the one lesson I heard from older musicians from every field, jazz to punk, that our job is to serve the music.

These old masters knew humility. They'd gone from national fame and fortune to playing with me, a massive fall. The ones who had kept playing, who came to a small gig and cheerfully nursed me along were the true players, the men who lived by a code of honour when it came to music. Most of them had suffered for it, their ex wives couldn't understand, most people they met couldn't understand, maybe I gave them something back by understanding what they were trying to tell me.

All the guys I saw on television had much more commercial success than I've ever had. Because of what they taught me I've never needed to strive for fame, they freed me to pursue my own musical desires. Seeing them as slender young men full of energy and power, strutting peacocks under lights, filled me with joy. I felt like I shared their night in the sun, that I'm part of their tradition.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Serenity.

I've decided that serenity is as simple as being in the groove with change, feeling life as a continuum instead of a series of expectations and results.

It's been a long day, that's all I've got.

Parkstreet.

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Smiling Allies Of Our Own Assassin.

I've been writing a lot of positive and hopeful stuff recently. I can only apologize and hope that this little rant makes everyone feel that normal programming has resumed.

On Australia Day, January 26th, each year Australia Post issues a series of Australian Legends stamps. You know the sort of thing, artists one year, athletes the next, scientists perhaps. This year, under duress from The Prime Minister's Office Of Women's Issues, the legends are four women who have raised the status of women in Australia. One of those women is Germaine Greer.

Anyone outside Australia or the United Kingdom probably won't have heard of Ms. Greer, and good luck to you. She wrote a famous feminist tract, The Female Eunuch, in the 1960's. She's done nothing of value since. Resident in the U.K. she has spent her time sniping at her home land from distance. The women who said that women shouldn't be whores for men became a media whore, a purveyor of shock stunts, anything to sell her less and less interesting books. She is the unfinished ring road of society, her ideas start nowhere, go nowhere, but you just know someone is reaping cash from the deal.

Milan Kundera warned against being "the smiling ally of our own assassin". His character was overwhelmed by the desire to be one of those in the know. It seems my whole nation is smiling and nodding at someone who has done nothing but shit on us for forty years. We are afraid to call her a fraud out loud because she is famous. It's pathetic and I'm ashamed of us for allowing it.

This woman will be honoured by us on our national day. I'm ashamed of our collective idiocy. Germaine Greer never grew up out of the naivete of the Melbourne University Women's Room half a century ago. It seems we are so afraid to appear sexist that we are kissing her ignoble arse, dragging the country and feminism back to her way of thinking.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

On Forgiveness, from www.parkstreetquotes.blogspot.com

Friday, January 21, 2011

On Forgiveness, lifted from Tolstoy.


"Forgive me not according to my unworthiness but according to thy loving kindness."

Russian prayer, lifted from Tolstoy.

Back in the day I was a waiter of tables. If I'd served a table flawlessly all night I wouldn't be noticed and therefore tipped so I'd deliberately make one small mistake then amend it gracefully.

People are more fond of you after they have forgiven you for something. There is affection in forgiveness.

Parkstreet.

http://www.parkstreetquotes.blogspot.com/

A Glimpse Of The Seedy.

As a teenager I cleaned a bakery for cash after school. The handful of dollars it paid me was plenty for all a schoolboy requires, cigarettes, six packs.

I also cleaned the toilets out the back, they were shared by a whole row of shops and backed onto a mechanics workshop next door. After cleaning those loos night after night I noticed a crack in the wall gave me a glimpse into the mechanic's tea room and their posters of young ladies with their boobs out performing simulated sex acts on various parts of automobiles.

If you'd shown me such a  poster under normal circumstances I would have commented on the embarrassing custom of Australian men turning their cars into fetish objects, I was a precocious little prick. Somehow peeking at those images through a crack in a toilet wall, when I should have been working, made it exciting. It was a glimpse into another world that I never knew existed. The girls in my upper middle class life didn't look like that. Their hair was never teased that way and they certainly didn't possess such enormous breasts.

I occasionally take coffee with a couple of working girls. They carry bags on their shoulders on their way home from work. I always wonder what's in those bags? Of course I've seen lingerie and sex toys before, but in the context of coming straight from a day at the brothel they seem more interesting than usual. Working nights I've always known a few strippers. Hearing their stories over a beer early in the morning is always fun. They are just work tales to them but to me they come from an exotic place I'll never know.

These working girls and strippers find their work pretty awful most of the time. It's a world driven by male ego, drugs, exploitation of the desperate. They treat it like work, they talk about most of their clients as if they had come in on the bottom of their shoe.

Chances are that the same guys who hang saucy posters in their tea room are the customers of hookers and strippers. In real life I find it sad and pathetic. I'm certain their wives and girlfriends do too. No one is ever going to offer me money to pose naked or have sex with them, I'll never pay for those services, it's all a fantasy world to me.

Glimpsed through a crack in the wall of the everyday the seedy appears exciting. I wonder if the people on the other side of the wall, those who live in that seedy world, ever sneak a look back at me?

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

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

What Is Genius?

Probably inspired by a broken kettle, the ancient Greek dramatists devised a steam driven device that produced eerie noises. It was generally used to signal the arrival of the gods, a ghost, anything supernatural. While this may be of interest to students of the theatre the interesting thing to me is that this machine was the distance of half a bee's gonad fom being a steam engine.

Can you imagine if those ancient Greeks had the power of steam engines at their disposal? Chances are we would have developed the technological wonders we possess today thousands of years ago. Who knows where we'd be by now? Not only would the Greeks have taken over the world, they would have spread their love of knowledge and civilization wherever they went.

For the sake of one leap of imagination we have struggled through millenia and still more than half the world lives without the intellectual freedom those Greeks took for granted. The guy who invented a steam driven spooky machine wasn't aiming to change the world, he was probably just having fun, finding new ways to entertain people. It wasn't his fault, but I so wish I could slap him and say, "can't you think of another way of using this thing?"

I wonder how many times humans have come close to history changing moments? We are relentlessly inventive but often limited in our scope, our ability to see what is beyond our past experieence, what is right in front of us. Maybe this is what genius is? Maybe genius is the ability to see the world for what it is and what it could be at the same time?

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

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

Don't Miss.

The settlers have set up an ambush, they have just enough ammunition, one bullet for each bad guy. John Wayne gives them one piece of advice.

"Don't miss."

For most people these crucial moments in life come up rarely. The Duke's character has spent his life preparing physically, mentally, emotionally for this moment of crisis, he won't miss. The settlers are civillians, they will have to rise to the occasion, if they can.

The improvising musician puts himself in this situation all the time. Of course if it goes horribly wrong nobody dies, the bad guys don't wheel around and wipe them out. Just the same they prepare, physically, mentally, emotionally so when the lights are on and the band is cooking they won't miss.

Liza Minnelli has one piece of advice for performing artists. She says to be ready, when the opportunity breaks you have to be ready, you won't have time to get ready.

 In other words, don't miss.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Place My Willy In A Shoe Box.

"When you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody."

J.D. Salinger, The Catcher In The Rye.

So my glands are swollen, my body hurts all over. There is a small chance that I have a cold or flu coming on but I think it's more likely that I'm dying. Either way at my age it's probably time I thought about what I want to happen after I'm dead.

First things first, someone will have to do something with my body. I suggest sending it to a university, partly so students can use it to study anatomy but mainly so students can place my willy in a shoe box and produce it at parties for laughs. I like the idea that others will gain some pleasure from that organ long after I can't. In fact the whole dissection process will be a barrell of chuckles, "how did this dude keep walking around for so long, he must have enjoyed himself with all this damage."

Of course the next thing that comes up after death is the question of what to do with stuff? My stuff won't cause too many arguments. My mate Jim will give away my instruments to deserving youngsters, or undeserving youngsters, however he feels on the day. My kitchen batterie? I guess whomever places the first bid on here can have my collection of German forged steel and French enamel. If everything else is auctioned off I'm hoping it will come to enough money to talk Tom Waits into recording one of my songs.

It appears folks enjoy some sort of memorial service after a guy dies. I don't know why. If folks want to sit in a cafe and drink strong coffee until their blood pressure peaks that will do for me. The one rule I have is no religious ceremony. Those fuckers always try to claim you after you're dead. I won't have it. I've lived without the crutch of a culturally based deity and the judgemental nonsense that goes with it, I plan to reap my rewards in rationalist heaven, the freedom to die just once, and never know another moment of life.

Pass on my laptop to Andrea, there's one.

If there is anything I've forgotten let me know. My head hurts, hazy and distracted. I'm almost certain I'm dying. At least I'll die peacefully knowing my affairs are in order.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Post script. My friend Andrea is trying to find a way to get a dozen laptop computers to a school in Nepal. If anyone knows someone who works for a manufacturer who might donate them, or a method to deliver them, please e mail me, my address is at the top of the page.

Control Freakiness.

Orwell suggested that the ultimate expression of power is the infliction of pain on another, the ability and willingness to inflict pain without fear of consequences. Anyone who desires control over another will end up expressing their power by inflicting pain on them.

Most control freaks try to control the person they say they love. The thing control freaks have in common is a lack of control over themselves. When the person they are supposed to love departs because they are tired of being controlled the control freak tries to hurt them in any way they can, the illusion of care or respect disappears.

Nearly every one of my female friends has been through this process with a boyfriend or husband. I can't tell you how bored I am with it. I'm bored with hearing about it, with watching those female friends go back for more with the same man or a different man of the same type.

I can only believe that they enjoy pain.

Parkstreet.

http://www.parkstreetquotes.blogspot.com/

Small Blessings.

Today I did a lot of things I like to do.

Today I played saxophone, drank some coffee with friends, farted in an elevator just before I got out, enjoyed the sensory pleasure of a new toothbrush. I helped a drunk and unhappy friend feel better about his day, listened to a friend who had to say some stuff out loud, hugged a beautiful girl, was hugged back. I received a compliment, had more than one laugh, put a rude, arrogant, self obsessed man back in his box.

So many small blessings in one day.

We are encouraged to seek the big pay off, to sacrifice daily in order to reach the pot of gold. The pot of gold is in every day, in every moment. The big pay off is an illusion.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

She's Been Sent To Remind Me.

So I'm sitting on a rooftop that looks over Sydney harbour. The clouds are low, the beam of a searchlight from a concert in the park below seems close enough to grab, everything is compressed, the Opera House, the bridge, the navigation lights of boats reflecting off the still water. Oh yeah, and there is an angel sitting beside me.

The angel has been sent to remind me of all that is real and true. She is fulfilling this task without effort, just being herself tells me all I need to know. We are sharing a meal, we are talking about our lives, anyone listening in would never know that a miracle is being performed.

She has been sent from the past. She was always an angel but when I knew her before I was too young to understand. The friendship is pure, just a couple of souls hanging out on a rooftop. Maybe some day in the future she'll be a woman again, right now she is an angel, sent to remind me that I'm a man and free to choose my own path just as she always has.

So we've eaten, we've talked, her presence has filled me with hope. She hasn't healed me, that's my own task to complete, but she has reminded me of the serenity and joy in company. I've walked her back to her hotel. Tomorrow I can start a new day with new hope and new knowledge. I've been reminded to seek the angelic in the female company I keep, for too long I've been seeking the opposite.

Can you believe I dined with an angel? I did.

Parkstreet.

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Reasons To Be Cheerful Pt. 3.

Ian Dury's Reasons To Be Cheerful Pt. 3 is on high rotation on my iPod right now. Not surprisingly this song makes me cheerful, sends me off in search of other reasons to be cheerful.

The first one that comes to mind is in Tolstoy's War And Peace. There is a scene where the young aristocracy are riding in sleighs through the perfect snow, in fancy dress on their way to a traditional festival. The girls are wearing men's suits, charcoal moustaches, hair tied up under hats, they are free to act outside the usual constraints of their polite society, they seem more vivacious and exciting than ever before. The whole passage is stoked with desire and joy, a celebration of youth before youth became a buzz word or a demographic. You know that all the participants will remember this night their whole lives, the feeling spreads to the reader.

Another is a simple drum beat. It occurs twice in James Brown's (Get Up I feel Like Being A) Sex Machine. The horns play seven perfect hits, the drummer cracks the eighth and kicks the whole band back into the groove. I've listened to this song over seven million times and this drum beat still hits me in the guts every time.

My mind wanders to Kerouac, On The Road. Kerouac is looking through the rear window of the car that is driving him away from Cassady. Cassady has a sad, beat bandage hanging off his sad, beat thumb, the thumb that hitched them both across America. Kerouac has been forced to choose between doing the right thing by one friend or leaping back into wildness and freedom with Cassady. The sheer bloody awfulness of this moment, the humanity, the honesty, that someone wrote this and I got to read it makes me feel ecstatic.

My friend paints. He paints real good. Once he painted a large abstract, cloudy greys that dragged the eye deep into the canvass. It takes a while to notice the life sized dog, a black and brown boxer, in the bottom right hand corner. The dog is almost photographic, real real real, so damned doggy. The abstract becomes even more beautiful for the presence of that dog. Nick's excellent technique and sense of humour thrill me.

That's plenty of reasons to be cheerful for now.

Parkstreet.

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Awful But Satisfying.

The audience were imbeciles before they got drunk. The sound system was designed to announce bistro meals, "number forty seven your entrees are ready". The gig is long, the money average, the night looks bleak. To play a gig like this, work hard and pull it off, this is the work of a pro player.

Last night was one of those nights. I can't say I enjoyed it but I woke up feeling satisfied today. Hard gigs are the weight room of the musical life, they make you strong and confident that you can do the business no matter what.

I guess this is the test of whether you love your job or not. If you can step back from it, see yourself learning and improving, serving the music rather than having the music serve you, then you are in the right job. Just the same I hope the next job is easier.

Parkstreet.

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

The Essay Is The New Black.

When printing became easily and cheaply available the essay was quite the fashionable entertainment. Short enough to fit on a four page newspaper, long enough to raise interesting arguments. Now that online publishing is replacing printing the essay is back, again it's size and format suits the blogger and other online publications.

I recall the instructions for high school essay writing. The introduction should simply state one's case in as few sentences as possible. The next three paragraphs should expand the case, one idea per paragraph. The final stanza should sum up the case, referring back to the introduction like the echo of a bell. Of course words like humour and charm were never mentioned. They should have been. The formal style of essay writing is a perfect vehicle for both.

Most shy away from writing essays as soon as they leave school, would never consider voluntarily reading one. Yet suddenly people are reading them without knowing it, on wikipedia, in blogs, on any online newspaper or magazine. No one has time to read long stories, the essay fits the schedule of the cult of busy.

I love the essay. People with something to say can say it, people with curiousity can learn a lot in a short time. Combined with the search engine the essay is a wealth of information easily discovered.

Somehow I've leapt frrom old fashioned to hip without trying.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Fart Euphamisms.

One of the first blogs I ever wrote requested readers to comment their favourite euphamism for a fart. It was inspired, if that's the word, by a kid's cartoon wherein one of the characters asked, "who let Fluffy off the chain?" For mine that's a classic.

I recall playing at a birthday party for four and five year olds. I wrote a song, aptly named The Fart Song. I invited all the kids to stick their tongues out and make a funny fart noise, in unison, in the chorus. I hadn't counted on being so close to the audience and found myself covered in four and five year old's spit, but the kids loved it. So much so that in the next song when I asked them dance like monkeys they decided to stick their tongues out and make the funny fart noise again, and again, and again. I departed damp but well paid, there's gold in them there kids, I was told later that the fart joke went on long after I left. Some parents hated me.

Fart jokes were probably the first jokes. Soon after man mastered fire he started lighting his own farts. As we became civilized, then sophisticated we continued to make fart jokes, now we make sopisticated fart jokes, light them with gold Cartier cigarette lighters. An old music teacher told me about farting on live television in the 1950's, loud enough for the usually cool compere to spin around in surprise. A golden moment in any musician's career. Now animated television shows fill up their twenty two minutes with fart gags when they are short of material.

Dear reader, you let me down when I last requested you to comment your favourite fart euphamism. Fart jokes are the funniest jokes, don't be shy, this time I'm hoping for at least a dozen classics.

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

When You Know You Can't Go Home Again.

Like most people I've heard the phrase "you can't go home again" all my life. I guess all of us who haven't read the novel it came from have our own interpretation of this phrase. I think there is one moment when we suddenly feel like adults, recognize that we have been adults for some time, know that home is now our own home, not our parent's. For me it happened in a dodgy boarding house room in Auckland New Zealand.

The death of a loved one under awful circumstances lead me to leave home and land on some mates in Auckland. Bless you my friends for inviting me and saving my life. Within a few days of arriving there I knew I needed my own space, went for the only place I could afford that was close to where I'd landed a kitchenhand job.

 A small room with a single bed, the boarding house owner shut the door behind him and I was more alone than I've been before or since. So alone. That was the moment the word "you can't go home again" spoke to me. I dashed downstairs, found the owner, asked him if I could change my mind and move to the bigger room with a double bed. It was a little more expensive, I'd have to work a few more hours each week but having a double bed seemed important. I wasn't ruling out the possibility of someone sharing my bed, I was worth the better room, it was my home even if only for a few months.

I think that moment, that realization, really did save my life. That tiny voice shouting "you're better than this" was the only connection I had with hope, with my own future. I can look back on it now and feel what I was feeling then, it fills me with energy and desire to succeed. It reminds me that I can't go home to when I had love in my life, that home is here and now.

Thomas Wolfe, by the way.

ABBA And Hitler.

I sometimes joke that if I were permitted just one trip in a time machine I wouldn't go back and kill Hitler, I'd go back and kill ABBA. I was recently informed that making jokes about Hitler was in poor taste. I tried to explain that I was joking about ABBA not Hitler but met deaf ears.

Of course I know that ABBA can't be compared to Hitler. Of course I do. They are loathesome but not mass killer loathesome. My politically correct culture has trouble discerning the difference between the subject and the joke comparison. Key words have been implanted in tiny minds, the reaction is Pavlovian.

Political correctness was useful for a time, bringing attention to the way some words are used derisively often by habit not intent, explaining that these words can be hurtful no matter how they are used. Like most fashions it went too far. Just like a glimpse of g string became low cut jeans that exhibited all, so political correctness has become blunt and overbearing.

There is talk of ABBA reforming. I'll continue to compare this event to Hitler putting the party back together again. Like any fashion PC will go by the wayside, people look back and wonder what made them show off their knickers, what made them lose their ability to see a joke for what it is.

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

Call It What It Is.

As a kid a series of lefty school teachers insisted on the terms Soviet Union or U.S.S.R. Had we called it Russian Empire, as it will be named by history, we may have learned something.

An effette inner city wanker shot a soft melodrama in the outback and named it Australia. He took the name of a whole nation to market his film. He should have named it B Grade Gone With The Wind or, more simply, Dog. Everyone I knew who saw it called it a dog.

Of course Orwell made all this clear years ago, what you call something affects the way it is viewed, but not for long. We, the people, see through this shit soon enough. I wonder what my socialist inspired teachers thought in 1989 when they saw the people of the Russian Empire tearing down a wall with their hands? I already know what Australians thought when they saw the movie named Australia.

Calling stuff what it is displays respect for the people, propaganda dismisses the people as some teachers look down on their students. I'd like to think that most folks are aware of marketing now, maybe they are, maybe they aren't. Marketers don't believe we are.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

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

Old Rock Dogs.

We've had our nights in the sun, we were young and pretty and strode around stages and beieved, oh how we believed.

We met women who seemed more important than the music but turned out not to be. After we'd given them all we had they took more, leaving us to start again, start again with the skills of a young man and no idea what to do next.

We meet up at the Piccolo Cafe, taking breaks from taxi shifts or writing songs that no one will ever record, take time to share tales of the big nights, all the big nights. We laugh at all our failed attempts at romance, really laugh because our attempts are really funny. We are dreamers and the women we meet aren't, or if they are we don't have the money to buy their dreams.

We play occasionally, some are surprised that we can still do it. Of course we can, we're middle aged not dead. But middle aged is dead in rock and roll unless you really made it when you were young and can live on nostalgia and royalties.

So here we are, the old rock dogs, invisible to most but still here. We share tales, we laugh, we wouldn't change any of it.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

I've Been Syndicated.

When I grew up in Melbourne there was a classic independant newspaper called The Toorak Times. Published by a rabble rouser named Jack Pacholli, now revived as an online newspaper by his son Mick. Mick has kindly offered to publish some of my pieces.

Soon the paper will be at http://www.tooraktimes.com.au/, right now it is at http://www.tooraktimes.blogspot.com/ .

If you are in Melbourne check it out for music and other news, especially all you St. Kilda types. For anyone who doesn't know Melbourne the name Toorak Times is kind of funny. Toorak is the poshest suburb in Australia, The Toorak Times is not the pshest newspaper in Australia.

I'm pretty excited about this step, hopefully the first of many sites I'll be published on as I pursue a new career in the writing game. It's always the way, just when I feel like giving up on a venture something or someone gives me just enough hope to continue.

Thanks Mick.

Kent Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreet.blogspot.com/
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Why Porn Is Dull.

So I'm going to take a giant leap and assume that all you readers out there have had sex and that you've witnessed porn in one form or another. Deny it all you like but I know you are all dirty minded weirdos.

For me sex is a classic example of getting there is half the fun. Sex is nothing without anticipation, the mutual pursuit, even the nervousness. Porn steps over all the getting there stuff and jumps right into the handful of activities that make up most of sex. Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of all those activities, but watching them repeated by bad actors is just dull.

The current generation has been exposed to computer porn most of their lives but never exposed to the idea of seduction. They know every possible position for oral sex and the name of each but nothing about desire and anticipation. They have so much to live up to, their image of sex is so overblown and ridiculous that normal sex must seem dull.

I'm surprised the porn business never evolved. The movie business rapidly grew from low quality melodrama to the major art form of a century but porn remained in it's original form. The market for porn is huge, as are the profits, so maybe the public is getting what it wants? Or maybe the public wants porn but is just taking what it can get? Would anyone watch porn that involved slow tease and seduction? Surely the hot bits would be all the hotter if the audience had some sympathy or involvement with the characters?

I'm genuinely interested in your opinions on this. Maybe people like porn to raw and simple, different from real life? Maybe I'm living in the past, in a romantic era that doesn't exist? Maybe nobody has time to give up for seduction? Maybe I'm the only one who finds all the sticking it in and jiggling it about a bit completely boring?

Talk to me all you sex maniacs.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

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

Musician Or Beer Salesman?

I remember playing an acoustic gig in Melbourne years ago, I played a nylon string guitar with no amplifier, no microphone, acoustic as nature intended. The gig went really well, the blokes in the pub talked quietly while I played, some of the girls sang along, it was a sweet, mellow night.

I'll never forget the words of the publican afterwards.

"It was great but next time you'll have to amplify because tonight people were . . . listening."

I saw a sweet mellow evening of music and conversation, the publican saw an atmosphere that wasn't condusive to heavy drinking. He believed that loud music and people shouting over the top of it lead to an edginess that made people more free with their money.

The sad fact is that he was correct. Volume equals beer sales.

Morons.

Parkstreet.

http://www.parkstreetquotes.blogspot.com/

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

Coffee With Beautiful Young Women.

There is something encouraging and life affirming about the company of beautiful young women. Yesterday I was fortunate enough to take coffee with a beautiful young woman on two occasions.

Both girls are around half my age, both have boyfriends, both treat me with a genuine respect that any old musician would find endearing. We talk about work, art, future plans, travel, burlesque, all the usual stuff. They both have styles and smiles that make me happy. Hopefully we give each other something.

They are both incredibly positive without being naive, they restore my sense of hope and possibility. They remind me why I like women, what makes them charming and wonderful. They haven't grown bitter or narrow yet, I hope they don't.

Most of the posts on this blog try to make some sort of philosophical point, serious or not. This one doesn't. The company of beautiful young women doesn't require philosophy, the sweet reality is plenty.

And I'm making sure you all know that Parkstreet's still got it, still hangs out with hot young chicks.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

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

What Is Jazz? A repost because I'm in a jazz mood.

What is jazz?

Scantily clad lovelies singing "all that jazz" is as much jazz as a sterilized safety pin is punk.

Jazz is punker than punk. It isn't rebellious for the sake of it, it is ignoring any rule that stands between the musician and the music.

Jazz is surfing the seventh wave, improvising on a surge of nature that supports me but will feel nothing if it spits me off it's face. It is surfing at dawn, no competition, the audience that can take the cold is welcome, and welcome to join me on the wave.

Jazz is the Tao, dharma, the spirit of the day, it is style but not fashion. It is the roar of the sports crowd, the silence of the night, the rhythm of sex, the groove of the city. Jazz is the fearless life, the fearless death. Jazz will go wrong on occasion, depending on the definition of wrong.

Jazz is a harsh mistress but in the mutually consented fun way. Jazz is being truly alive for one moment so I know what it feels like, so my daily life can strive for the same reality. Timeless, ageless, flowing with the universe.

I hope that clears it up.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Climbing Musical Mountains.

Success in an artistic endeavour is tough to quantify, we resort to describing it in metaphor. Often we see ourselves climbing a mountain, battling the ice and danger to reach a summit that no one else will ever know we reached.

Trying to build a musical career is cold, lonely work. You'll need technical skill, guts, love, a dream. On your way up you might have to cut loose those who expect you to pull them up and those who just don't have the right stuff to make it. These people are often friends, it is an imaginary mountain so they won't plummet to their deaths but it's always a tough decision to keep climbing and leave them behind.

Looking down you can see grass covered meadows, fattened lambs frolicking among the flowers. You can't help wondering why you didn't choose a metaphor that involved a warm cottage and a loving wife and children, but the mountain is there and that is reason is enough for you to look up again. What do you expect ti find up there?

One of the most dire moments of my life was when I realized the mountain climbing metaphor was flawed. People, there is no summit. You can climb and climb, learn the lessons that hardship teaches, but you'll never reach any summit. If you are truly following a path of creative excellence, leaving real life behind to pursue a dream, there is no apex, no tipping point where you can start descending again. As you get higher you will see the whole world below you, your heart will sing with the beauty of it all, the mountain will become your home.

There is no summit, just more mountain.

The true beauty of this metaphoric mountain is that you can step off it whenever you need to. The mountain is imaginary, there is a day job and the rent paid waiting if the climbing gets too hard. Once you step off it the mountain is gone, you'll never have the nerve to approach it again.

There is no measure for artistic success, only the metaphor you choose for yourself. One day I'll choose the cosy cottage but for now I have mountains to climb.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Resolution.

My resolution for this year is to, as the kids say, harden the fuck up.

I refer back to my old theory. If one is an arsehole ninety nine times in a row the one time one is nice will be remembered. If one is nice ninety nine times the one time one screws up is remembered. My women friends tell me of all the awful things their men do, the same things over and over again. After they've told me they go home and screw him. From now on they can tell someone else.

"Tell the bloke you are screwing, or screw me then tell me."

I'm going to harden up at work, put a price on my talent and experience. I'm going to harden up socially, not be the guy who nurses the lame duck and therefore be associated with him by others.

An old friend once told me,"some musicians are real dogs, others aren't doggy enough" when he was worried I wasn't tough enough for the music business. I'm belatedly taking his advice.

Woof.

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

Blind Dignity.

Have you noticed that blind people often possess a quiet cool? There are a few reasons for this.

The most important reason is that blind people give up the expectation that they'll know what is going on. Freedom from expectation means nothing is a surprise or disappointment.

Blind people tend to feel the essence of people rather than asessing the blunt information that vision provides. A voice says so much more than words when you are really listening. If someone steps into an elevator so heavily that the car shakes you know that person is an imbecile who has to stamp on this earth to remember they exist. The guy wearing too much aftershave is worried about the size of his cock.

Blind people face fear every day, then overcome fear every day. Every day. Conquering fear is the definition of quiet cool.

Don't ever feel sorry for physically blind people, feel sorry for those who are emotionally blind.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

The French.

So I'm sitting at the bar of Cafe Oz, Rue St. Denis, Paris. On the wall beside me is a giant map of Australia, someone has sketched an outline of France, roughly to scale, it takes up a tiny corner of the state I live in.

The guy beside me, a local, asks,"it has been painted too small, no?"

So he's in an Australian bar, talking with an Australian, looking at a map of Australia, and he sees . . . France. It's typically French, seeking insult so he can shake his fist, then . . . surrender. I explain to him that it isn't quite to scale, that to make it accurate we'd need a bigger wall to paint Australia on.

The same guy tries to justify French nuclear testing in the Pacific. He can't understand why I'd prefer they did it in the Mediterranean. He explains that France has been invaded twice in a century, She needs to appear strong. Parisians forget that French crops are fertilized with Australian blood, flesh and bone. There is no point reminding him.

I love France and the French, some days I just have to I have to bite my tongue and accept le difference.

Parkstreet.

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

The Driven, from www.parkstreetfluteblog.blogspot.com

Saturday, March 27, 2010

The Driven.

I admire musicians who are driven by public success. Somehow they make it with or without talent. They are willing and able to put there name "out there", wherever out there actually is. They can hustle, bluster, schmooze, kiss arse, generally say all the things that need to be said.

In most professions it would be considered kind of uncool to go around telling everyone how fucking good you are. Can you imagine a plumber sitting at a groovy cafe with his good looking friends, talking really loudly about how he handles a wrench better than anyone? I can't. Plumbers get called back because they get the job done, in a quiet moment they might tell you of their pride in their work, but they don't generally brag. Musicians simply have to brag to get ahead. They have to talk about inspiration, passion, connection with something higher, nothing original, just the same words that have been spoken by admired greats.

I reckon all these words take their toll. Musicians, like other huimans, have to mature at some stage. They take stock, look back on the work they've actually produced, realize that while they were bullshitting the public they were also bullshitting themselves. All the time and energy that could have been put into the actual music was blown on the media. Instead of making love with the music they were jerking off in front of groupies who eventually found real lovers and moved on themselves.

I admire the driven but can't be one of them. I just want to put my flute together, love the music and the audience, hope to be called back if I get the job done.

Parkstreet.

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