soloburn

[soloburn]

BOURNE AGAIN? TRAINSPOTTING 2? WHY SEQUELS ARE A BAD IDEA

Sunday mornings are the most vivid in memory. ‘Breakfast is ready,’ would echo through the house. We’d scramble down the stairs excitedly to the dining room table and take our seats, which were arranged oldest to youngest – my father at one end, my mother at the other. Across the table lay a delectable feast of pastries, cereals, fruits, eggs, bacon, the works. My father would enter the room, and the chatter would dim to an audible hush. He’d take his seat and mother would hand him the Sunday newspaper, and freshly brewed coffee. “Milk dear?” he’d nod in approval. He’d hold his mug up to his nose taking in the fresh morning brew, surveying his children like a General surveying his troops before battle.

He took his first sip, but on this particular morning something was off. Immediately he spat it out causing a collective gasp. “This milk is sour!” he said. “It can’t be dear,” said mother, “I bought it just yesterday?” “I don’t care if it was milked this morning. It’s sour. Who is responsible for this?” I hoped that my elder siblings, who knew of my late night weakness for dairy, would protect me. I was wrong. “It was Neil! He left it out overnight.” said Paul my eldest brother grinning sardonically. “Well, boy, speak up, was it you?” said father. I quivered unable to look up. “Yes but I -- ” “Yes, what?” “Yes Sir.” “Look at me when I speak to you.” I raised my head to meet his terrifying gaze. “You were a mistake. Lower than a mistake.” He growled. “I’ll check the fridge for a fresh bottle,” said my mother scurrying out of the dining room. “Stop crying, you sniveling ass, stop your nonsense.” He continued. “You’re just an afterbirth Neil. They should have put you in a glass jar, on a mantle piece. Where were you when Paul was suckling at his mother’s teat? Where were you? Not even born yet were you? A mistake waiting to happen.” “I can run down to the store and buy another bottle Papa? said Mary, my sister. “Hush child. The coffee is ruined. There’s nothing that can be done about it. It’s had. Draaaaainage. Drainage Neil, you boy. Here, if you have milk, and I have milk, and I have a straw, there it is, that’s a straw see, watch it. My straw reaches across the room and starts to drink your milk. I drink your milk,” he said, slurping from my bowl of sour cornflakes, milk dripping from his square jaw. “I drink it up.”*

My mother returned not having witnessed the theatrics with another bottle. “Here’s the fresh milk I bought yesterday dear” she said smiling. “Found it in the back of the fridge. That must have been an old bottle. Shall I make you a fresh cup?” “I’ll take it in my study” he said, exiting the dining room. “Harsh but fair” mumbled Paul through his bloated, confectionary stuffed mouth.

Although it’s painful for me to admit, sequels are a bad idea. Particularly when there’s been a significant gap between the original and its ill-conceived sibling - ten years younger, ten times the cost, the same DNA yet a poor reflection on the original and all who were involved in making it happen. Don’t get me wrong, I’m rooting for the sequel. I want it to be as good if not better than the original. But every time I see one before me, I’m filled with the same contempt that my father must have felt every time I committed some minor indiscretion.

Naturally I approached Trainspotting 2 with a mixture of hope and trepidation. The original movie holds a special place in my heart. Exposed to the film at a young age I could barely make sense of what I was witnessing, but I knew it was brilliant. Parents and schoolteachers alike squirmed as they read the reviews. It was vile, rotten, shocking - “ALL RESPONSIBLE PARENTS MUST WATCH THIS FILM!” But all of those who dared would have sleepless nights, worried that their little Johnny or Janey were only a puff away from ending up in a scag den in some long forgotten council estate in Edinburgh.

The T2 trailer depicted of a group of middle aged, ex-drug addicts who through an unlikely set of circumstances meet again to take care of some unsettled business– in other words, the plot for every band reunion documentary film ever. And just like a reunion concert, this film never should have happened. Watching a group of withered looking men desperately trying to recapture a spirit that could only make sense during a specific time and place was a sad affair. While the original Trainspotting perfectly captured the zeitgeist of the time, the latest film felt about as relevant as a Dad joke albeit a very violent and crude one. The original story felt believable, the sequel seemed inconceivable.

Before you accuse me of being an ageist, I’m not arguing that Danny Boyle, Ewan McGregor or Robert Carlyle should give up making films. I’m arguing that they didn’t need to make this film. The same way Matt Damon and Paul Greengrass didn’t need to make another Bourne film or Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson didn’t need to do sully the image of Zoolander.

Hollywood keep green lighting these films in search of the almighty dollar and suddenly you get this:

“What kind of people are we dealing with here?” “I believe that like me, the people behind these robberies are extreme athletes, using their skills to disrupt the international financial markets.”

That’s not a quote from a Sean Spicer press conference but rather from the trailer of Point Break 2. Keanu Reeves must be glad he chose to star in John Wick 2 instead.

So why do we keep doing it? Making sequels when we know it’s a bad idea? I guess it’s because we’re all addicts, chasing that original high that’ll never be captured again. As Bonehead, ex-guitarist of Oasis puts in the documentary Supersonic, reflecting on their historic Knebworth gig in 1996:

“My attitude then was - give me more, give me more. Now, looking back, I honestly think we should have just went, ‘thank you, every one of you, for getting us here. We were Oasis, and good night, and walked off.”

“We should have,” Noel Gallagher added, “We should have disappeared into a puff of smoke. But you know, it was my idea to keep going, because I keep on fishing for it, d’you know what I mean? I’m an addict. That’s what shit-kickers do. They ride it until the wheels come off.”

In the end we’re all complicit. The only reason Hollywood keep rehashing perfectly good films is because we, the audience, keep paying the price of admission. You could choose to see an original film. You could choose Moonlight, Fences, Manchester by the Sea, The Salesman, or Arrival, or you can choose to be an addict.

*Dialogue paraphrased from There Will Be Blood: --Paul Thomas Anderson. The There Will Be Blood Screenplay. 2006.

[soloburn]

A Serious Man In A Silly World - Spectre Review

“Daniel Craig is the kind of guy you just want to fuck,” she remarked, as we watched Bond stride out of the turquoise coloured ocean in Casino Royale. I choked on a serving of spinach quiche, which she had lovingly prepared for herself.“What’s wrong honey, are you okay?” she asked. I regained enough oxygen to conjure up a look of distain. “I’m sorry but if he’s the kind of guy you want to fuck then what does that make me?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I suppose I’m the other guy.”

“You’re my boyfriend. It’s different.”

“I’d rather be the guy you wanted to fuck.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Neil!” Neil? She never calls me Neil.

“There’s nothing ridiculous about it--”

“Neil, you’ve got a lot of good qualities. You’re sweet and caring, and funny (sometimes –).”

“Sweet? Caring? I’d rather be an asshole and fuckable.” 

“Well you’re doing a pretty good job of becoming at least one of those things!”

Suffice to say this particular relationship didn’t last much longer. And as an unfortunate consequence of this Sunday night spat I will forever associate Daniel Craig and his unrealistic physique with the bitter taste of spinach quiche and torso inadequacy, which I’d imagine is not the first thought Sam Mendes (Director of Spectre) would want his audience to think when confronted with his steely eyed protagonist in the latest rendition of Bond.

Still, best not to carry emotional baggage into a film that apparently contains no baggage of its own. I mean this in an entirely literal sense. This might just be the best dressed Bond we’ve encountered in its 24 film history, with more outfit changes than Lady Gaga at a Grammy’s and yet remarkably not so much as a carry on bag. Where does this international man of sartorial mystery keep all his fabulously appropriate outfits? Maybe this is Q’s real job (played by Ben Whishaw), to make sure that 007 looks the part no matter what location he’s in. I’d imagine this would require some sort of quasi-Amazon drone style delivery system that would magically deliver outfits to his door, or boat, or plane or ski resort, or train. But if indeed this were a part of Q’s job description, perhaps it would be more appropriate to name him ‘the new Emily’, and replace super villain Ernst Stavro Blofeld, (played by Christoph Waltz) with Miranda Priestly (reprised by Meryl Streep). But that would all be a bit too Zoolanderesque, which is not to say any less convincing than the current Bond.

Frankly I’m not surprised that there are those in British Intelligence seeking to disband the 00 program, which forms a significant part of the Spectre plot. The wardrobe costs alone must be astronomical, all being paid by the taxpayer no doubt. Such costs to the man would invariably cause the likes of Jeremy Corbyn who seems more comfortable in an off green parka, socks and sandals than a suit, to call for an emergency parliamentary vote on the feasibility of the 00 program. Although one would suspect that if this were to be debated in the House of Commons, Hilary Benn’s speech would be adjusted slightly to fall more along traditional party lines:

“And we are here faced by Fashionists. Not just their calculated brutality, but their belief that they are superior to every single one of us here tonight, and all of the people that we represent. They hold us in contempt. They hold our values in contempt. They hold our cardigans, our corduroys, our faded mustard coloured button-downs in content. They hold the right honourable gentlemen’s to my right’s tie and scraggly beard in contempt. They hold our democracy, the means by which we will make our decision to wear whatever we chose tonight, in contempt. And what we know about Fashionists is that they need to be defeated. And it is why, as we have heard tonight, socialists and trade unionists and others joined the International Brigade throughout history to fight against the sleek, strict lines of Hugo Boss, the crisp, alluring scent of Channel, the Hello Sailor hats of Galliano, to stand in unity, and clothe ourselves in garments so droll, so uninspired, that their very ideals will crumble under the pressure of the giant, drab ball of yarn that we’ve helped collectively create. Join me in voting NO on 00.”

Met with cheers from Labour, and scornful looks from cross-armed Tories accused of being Fashionist sympathisers.

But of course, that’s not the point of Bond. Everything is to be taken tongue-in-cheek. We’re supposed to accept the implausibility of a plane fuselage skiing down the mountain reminiscent of a Inception dream, (incidentally Mendes used the same cinematographer), or a helicopter corkscrewing above a crowded square, as though a paper airplane fluttering about in a gust of wind. We are to ignore the unlikelihood of a luxury train that travels between Tangier and Marrakesh with pit stops at Fes and “the middle of nowhere,” - 5 miles South of GIANT EVIL LAIR and sometimes luxury desert Spa. More impressive still is that the train’s conductor continued to make all the stops even after Bond and an unhinged henchman have a rather violent and calamitous scuffle, destroying the interior of half the train.

Which would all be fine. Pure entertainment. Not to be taken seriously, except that Daniel Craig’s Bond does take himself rather seriously. So seriously in fact that we’re supposed to believe that his reality might have some possible connection to the real world. He is of all the Bonds in history certainly the most deadly serious. No winks to camera. Limited banter. He wants us to buy into his dark, convoluted past, and care about his fleeting on screen relationships that get less screen time than his latest Tag Heuer. There’s an obvious disconnect here. It’s like Taylor Swift’s publicity team asking us to look at her as the down to Earth, girl next-door type, strumming along with integrity, who just happen to be BFF’s with only supermodels and celebrity endorser, who she parades around at her concerts night after night. I’m not buying it.

About a week before seeing Spectre, I watched Sicario, Denis Villeneuve action thriller, about an idealistic FBI agent (Emily Blunt) thrust into the complex, murky battle with Mexican drug cartels. There is little room for humour in her world either. It’s a dark, highly-strung, extremely tense thriller, driven along by an amazing foreboding soundtrack (scored by Jóhann Jóhannsson), and ambiguous, sinister characters (Josh Brolin and Benicio Del Toro). The villain’s in this story do not exist in evil lairs, and sit around giant boardroom tables in dramatically lit rooms, conjuring up ridiculous plots to rule the world with twelve angry men at their whim. Sicario’s threats seem more relevant than that. Its characters are confronted with problems that can’t be solved by pushing one man off his ivory tower. The threat is far more insidious. And while I would not dispute that an Orwellian type government, in which citizens are being monitored and to some extent controlled by their elected officials is not relevant, (you’d only have to look as far as the NSA or watch Citizen Four to see that), I don’t believe this evil is the result of a cheesy angry cat loving German man with a Daddy complex.

It all feels a bit like Jeremy Corbyn’s dress sense “Old hat.” which in a political context might seem refreshing to some, but for a film that costs $245 million to produce, its all a bit dull and predictable.

[soloburn]

20 000 Days On Earth - Review

I’ve been on Earth 10 264 days. My dream of becoming a world famous rock star has all but died. There was no one definitive moment when this realization occurred. Just a series of minor incidents that chiseled away at my character, leaving a figure sooner resembling a masturbating chimp hunched over at a desk, than a pelvic thrusting sex God.

The temptation to ignore my limitations on any given Friday night is still strong though. After a couple of post work drinks at my cubicle, I’ll add the finishing touches to an all too pithy status update, garnering 5 ‘likes’ in just 10 minutes. Just the kind of social validation I’ve been looking for all week. After 15 minutes - 6 ‘likes’. The 7th ‘liker’ to the slaughter is a female colleague who sits three cubicles down. I knew it. She’s always had a thing for me. This like confirms it. We exchange a knowing look. She packs up and heads off to meet her boyfriend. I pack up and head to the bar.

Its 10pm and I’m drunk. I should probably eat something but this is my jam. I’ll worry about food later. Engage white boy overbite, I’m going in. By 11pm I’ve managed to alienate my co-workers. Where did everyone go? Fuck it, who needs them? Guess I’ll be flying solo. By 12:30 the epiphany hits: ‘I am a fucking rock star.’ Wait, did I just say that out loud or think it? Did they hear me? Why am I at McDonalds? Who are these people? 

It’s Saturday morning and I wake up in bed fully clothed. Chicken Mcnuggets crumbs are strewn across the sheets and my head throbs with the consistency of a Buddy Rich drum solo. I am not a rock star. I never want to be a rock star. Someone please bring me some Advil, a cup of tea, and a slice of Bovril toast. I’m getting too old for this shit.

Tea and toast, 'OH the mundanity!' Keith Moon would never settle for tea and toast. The rock star feeds on bat heads and chicken blood. They get their morning kick from cocaine sprinkled on cornflakes. This is what the legend tells us.

Of course it’s all bollocks. As Chris Rock put it to Jerry Seinfeld, “even Prince has to ‘check in’ with the wife."

But I’m not particularly interested in the reality. As Noel Gallagher once said (and I’m paraphrasing horribly), ‘the last thing an aspiring musician needs to see when he ventures backstage is his idol sipping on mineral water and nibbling on a bag of crisps.’ I tend to agree. It’s all a bit too literal. Where's the hedonism in that? The rock star is not supposed to occupy the same space, as you and I, have quaint Sunday lunches, discussing the pros and cons of the 'Banting diet.' Fuck off! They should exist is some kind of 5th realm where it makes total sense to see Bowie and Elvis playing poker with those five pipe-smoking dogs from that C.M. Coolidge painting, while at the table next door Jimmy Hendrix and Groucho Marx discuss vibrato techniques.

(A Waterloo Dogs Playing Poker. C.M. Coolidge. 1906)

But every time I see a musician sit passively on the edge of Graham Norton’s couch, sipping on wine with their hands on that fucking red chair lever, a piece of my childish fantasy dies. When did it become ok to watch former Prince Of Darkness be reduced to a mumbling buffoon tottering around his house, followed by five shivering, shitting, Chihuahua pets, and a cute jingle more befitting of an Omo commercial than a cultural icon? Probably about five years ago when that show was still on. Sigh.

Thankfully there are musicians out there like Nick Cave, who have not given into temptation,  and continue to perpetuate the myth. 20 000 Days On Earth, a documentary directed by Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard and starring Nick Cave, does just that. The first words we hear from Cave are, “at the end of the twentieth century I ceased to be a human being.” I never thought he was one to begin with. Cave looks like a character out of a Tim Burton film - a ghoulish, lanky, walking enigma. A character more suited to a shadowy alcove of some musty smelling, garishly decorated, eastern European dance hall, than his current home, Brighton.

The documentary spends 24 hours with a version of Cave as he goes about his day, talking to a psychologist, fellow band members, Ray Winstone and Kylie Minogue. He muses over the creative process and what it means to be human. “We all want to be someone else,” Cave reflects, “and we look for that transformative thing.” For his father, it was reading Lolita. For him, its found through performance and song, ‘this shimmering space where imagination and reality intersect,’ which just about sums up the documentary. A creative combination of real insight and fictitious conversation. 

In the end we all need escape, if only for a couple of hours.  For a few brief moments we can forget about the reality of life and become someone else. As Lester Bangs (or rather Cameron Crowe) said in Almost Famous:

“Music, you know, true music, not just rock ‘n’ roll, it chooses you. It lives in your car, or alone, listening to your headphones –  with the vast, scenic bridges and angelic choirs in your brain.  It’s a  place apart from the vast, benign lap of America”

A place apart from the water cooler, the copy machine, chicken Mcnuggets. A place where you can be Nick Cave for a while. Maybe you won't succeed but you might as well try. You only have your dignity to lose.

20 000 Hours On Earth. Watch it. It’s great. 5 out of 5 pelvic thrusts to the sky!

[soloburn]

WE ARE FOOLISHLY AMBITIOUS

[soloburn]

It's The End Of The World As We Know It: Part 6

I never did hear from Sabine again nor for that matter anyone else I’d met during those testing hours. I managed to hitch my way to Port Elizabeth after hours of desperate wondering trying to figure out where I was. Naturally most cars wisely drove on having witnessed my disheveled state close up – a half naked, blood stained figure, limping along the road. A Xhosa truck driver took pity on me, finding my outfit more amusing than anything else – he’d say, “Mlungu, you get initiation? You become a man?” followed by much laughter. Fortunately his english was limited so there was little conversation from there on.  

Once in P.E. I managed to track down an old friend from university days who wasn’t the kind to ask questions having lived something of an obscure existence himself. He said that I could crash for a couple of days but would have to leave once his girlfriend was back in town. I spent most of the time trying to sleep but the grips of anxiety kept me awake as I suspected Officer Louwe or worse Seb to come bashing down my door, looking for answers. I sat with the curtains drawn in a dark living room, peering out the window frequently, until my host returned from work.

I did read an article in the Herald a couple of days later which described a flooding that took place on Loerie Damn, located near a small town called Loerieheuwel not far from Humansdorp. There was no mention of Jack, Sabine or Seb but casualties were reported, though no names were listed in the paper. An investigation had been conducted into the potential causes of the flooding which they suspect was a result of a sabotage explosion.

A sabotage explosion? It must have been Jack or a combined effort. But why would he do it? Perhaps its because he couldn’t afford to be wrong. He’d committed himself so whole-heartedly to this cause that there was no going back. How do you re-enter society when your worldview and system of beliefs are crushed? When the world discovers you for the fraud you are? This sounds like the workings of a malignant narcissist whom I believe Jack was – an individual so corrupted by his own grandiose thoughts and self-serving prophecies that even when confronted with his own, imminent failing, he’d do anything in his power to see his plans come to fruition, even if that meant the death and destruction of those closest to him. It’s the same reason Hitler and Eva Braun were never coming out of the bunker and why leaders of the Khmer Rouge have still never apologised or confessed to the atrocities they committed, and why, to a lesser extent Nixon struggled to apologise to the American people. Because any form of confession itself would be the equivalent of a death sentence in one-way or another. There’s no coming back after drinking the proverbial kool-aid, as Jim Jones would have attested. How Sabine planned on re-entering the world I’m not sure. Perhaps she’ll find another cause or system of beliefs to latch on to? I do hope she finds a way.

As for me, well, if this ordeal has taught me one thing its that I have to make some drastic changes to my life. I can’t afford to find myself being roasted alive above a fire of my own making again because I’m too frightened to make a change or too high up a ladder I’d rather not climb. Until then… 

[soloburn]

It's The End Of The World As We Know It: Part 5

I woke up blindfolded - spread-eagled above the fire. My legs, arms and torso were bound by string wire, attached to the large grill leaving me little room to move. My captors had at least done me the courtesy of wrapping my lower half in a silk sheet covering my genitalia. The grill wasn’t big enough to support me entirely leaving my neck and head dangling off the edge, blood dripping from the gash to the back of my skull. I heard a woman’s voice below me but it wasn’t Sabine, “He’s perfect don’t you think? Just like the book said he’d be. It’s all so perfect. I hope we’re together in the next life. Me and him, he and I. That would be perfect.”

“Hey lady, miss. Do us a favour and untie me here. This whole cannibalism thing is overrated. I barely have enough meat to serve self conscious teenage girl never mind satisfy hoards of malnourished zombies.” She ignored me. Smoke plumed into my face and I could barely breath to the extent that I lost consciousness again.

When I came to Jack was breathing into my ear. He’d obviously been speaking to me for sometime and was unaware I’d been unconscious for most it, “…you said you wanted to find meaning in this world?”

“I did?”

“But I have found a purpose for you even when you could not. You are a part of something bigger now,” he said. “Something bigger than your petty squabbles at work, your short sighted anxieties, your Monday morning blues. You believe naively that this life was it. You’ve let yourself be overcome by existential dread and instead of offering solution or seeking meaning you have succumbed. Given up. Taken comfort in your wrongly perceived meaninglessness of life and all of existence.”

“I’m not sure I’d call myself comfortable right now.”

“Well I’m here to tell you that your empty concerns are over. The Mayan calendar has come to an end and in a few hours the world, as we know it will come crashing down. The apocalypse has arrived and no one will be safe from judgment. You should consider yourself fortunate that your life, your body and flesh should be sacrificed to the Gods. To Bolon Yokte . May he have mercy on your soul. May he have mercy on all our souls.”

Jack removed the blindfold. Initially I struggled to focus as my eyes adjusted for the harsh light. He turned to face the chanting masses. “Friends, brothers, sisters. Welcome. Welcome.” From my elevated, albeit awkward position it was a spectacular sight. A swarm of people, gathered below Jack jumping up and down in unison like a sea of Meer cats leaping for a better view. Their eyelids hung lazily indicating a hypnotic state. They chanted ‘Yaka, yaka, yaka,’ though it could have quite easily been ‘Jack, Jack, Jack.’

“Welcome all, to the end.” The hoards continued to hum and dance, but now focused their attention solely on Jack, “Yes friends our day of judgment has arrived.  We have come to the eleventh hour. We have all toiled and despaired at the state of our world. Our so-called friends and families denounced us. The press spat in the face of beliefs. They called me a psycho, a lunatic, a heretic. The authorities labeled us a cult and tried to have me locked up. And for what? For enlightening you all to the truth? For lifting the veil? Is this my friends a crime?

“No!” sounded the crowd resolutely. This was accompanied by much gnashing of teeth, as each word seemed to incite more anger. “Yes,” I screeched in vain.

“For if it is, then I am guilty as charged. Guilty of imparting the truth as was told to me in a vision by Yakish – Yakish The Spirit Bovine, beloved companion of Bolon Yotke and protector of the 5th realm.��

“Yaka , Yaka, Yaka.” The crowds chanted.

“Yakish has grazed the grass in preparation of our coming friends. Oh, yes he has. Weeded out all that poisonous elements that might prohibit our safe path towards enlightenment. Stomped out any thorns that have us treading with uncertainty as we dance in celebration of our arrival. Oh friends I have seen it myself. Mile upon mile of freshly grazed, green hills. The grass so soft, so heavenly, so supple and inviting, that its very caress upon thyne feet is akin to burring ones head between the most perfectly formed pair of breasts. There are rivers there that flow with an intoxicating nectar, a sip of which will have you perfectly drunk, in a perpetual state of euphoria without fear of hangover or regret in the morning. And the whole world will echo of laughter and joyous song.”

The crowd groaned in wonder. His words were all too much for one overlyeager buxom breasted woman who rushed toward Jack forcing his head into her bosom as if taking the rhetoric quite literally. “Oh take me Jack. Take me now.” The delirious fan was carried off stage rather aggressively as Jack regained his composure. “Now, now friends, we must be patient. There is plenty of time to celebrate in Yakish’s wonder. But lest we forget that we are here to ask for mercy from Bolon. Ask that he may have mercy on our souls and safely transfer us to the next world.

We ask for forgiveness in the form of a sacrifice. We offer him this embodiment of all that we have lost along the way” He gestured toward me. “A heathen who has succumb to disappear. When I first met him he was like many of you– disillusioned by the state of world. Angry, lost and cynical, and who could blame him in this goddess society that we are expected to live.

“You’re fucking crazy Jack. Can’t you all see? He’s a loony. He’s making it all up as he goes!” I shrieked to the skies.

“And yet he does not want saving. Even when confronted with all this wonderful energy he continues to struggle - he fights in vain to escape his fate. He mocks me and judges you, as society has done, because this is all he has left -his only defense against the truth. When will he learn that it is not what the world can offer him but what he can offer the world and by definition offer God? We are all a part of his plan and no man, woman or living creature is exempt.And believe me my friends when the flood comes it will be the heathens who quickly find religion. It will be the once proud skeptic who will drop at the feet of Bolon begging for forgiveness, denouncing their friends and families and all their prior certainty in a pathetic attempt to evade punishment. I have seen and met these hypocrites before, for they walk among us every day. They would toss their own sons and daughters to the lions if they thought if might save them. But Bolon sees all. He is not easily fooled. 

And thus we sacrifice this heathen to you Bolon. We shall consume his flesh as if we were consuming the very worst of what the world has become. Conscious of the bitter taste of sin, so that we may know and remember never to fall so far again. But I have spoken too much already. Let us commence with the proceedings. Take up your cups and join me in a toast.”

The rain was bludgeoning down now but the fire continued to burn without relent. Red plastic cups were handed out to the crowd and their cups filled with the red liquid. Jesus, was this the proverbial Kool-Aid? “Where’d you get the novel idea to feed everyone cyanide ey Jack?” I shouted hoarsely,  “Cults for dummies? Foreword by Jim Jones and edited by Charlie Manson.”

“Maybe we should kill him now. What’s the point in waiting,” Seb said out of my sight. “Patience Seb. Patience.” Jack responded. “Gladstone, would you like some kool-aid as you call it. It’s no cyanide but it will help distract from the burning.”

“Oh how very thoughtful of you Jack! But no. I’d prefer to be conscious of my last few moments on Earth.” With that I spat in his face. He forced a smile, and whipped away the spit.

“Very well heathen. Suit yourself. Seb, bring me my axe!” He said with a wicked grin.  

“It’s not here!” Seb said angrily. “Did you bring the axe heathen?!”

“Axe?” I mumbled.

“Yes. The axe in the boot of the car. Did you bring it?”

“I must have forgotten it. Sorry about that.” I said sarcastically.

“Do I have to do everything here. Jan, run up to the car and get the axe.” At that moment the rain stopped and skies seemed to clear up. Jack looked up with concern. “And quickly Jan! We don’t have much time.”

“Keep turning him,” instructed Seb, “I like my meat well cooked on all sides!” My skin was beginning to sear intensely. The pain was excruciating. “Please, just let me go. Please I beg you.” I began to cry.

“Someone tape his mouth. I’m tired of his whining.” I could barely breathe as Tsepo secured the masking tape over my mouth.

Suddenly I felt a jolt. Someone was trying to knock the beam off the posts.

“Somebody stop her!” yelled Seb. It was Sabine. Seb tackled her to ground and held her down. “Let him go!” she screamed. “Deal with her” said Jack angrily. “No problem,” Seb said dragging her away. “I’m sorry Gladstone. I didn’t know. I didn’t know,” Sabine screamed as Seb dragged her off. I wanted to respond, but the duck tape prevented me. It was helpless. Sabine was now in the hands of the psycho Seb. All hope was lost.

Seb returned after a few minutes without Sabine and a couple of apples in his hands. He gave one to Jack, who went about ripping the tape off my mouth and shoving the apple in my mouth. “More appropriate” said Jack vindictively. Seb pressed his thumb up against the tip of my nose, mockingly snorting like a pig, cackling hysterically at the resemblance. I spat the apple out. “Where’s Sabine?” “I dealt with her” he replied, grinning wickedly. “What did you do with her? Leave her alone you fucking coward!” “Or what? Ey heathen? What are you going to do about it?” There was nothing I could do. He continued to laugh and then joined the crowd bouncing around hysterically at the prospect of my imminent beheading. I hung my head in resignation.

Jan returned hurriedly wielding a rather small axe. More like a hatchet. “What’s this?” Asked Jack bemused. “This isn’t what I asked for. No, no. The axe. It’s in the tire compartment. Oh never mind. This will have to do.  Jack climbed back up on to his makeshift pedestal.

“Friends, friends, the time has come. Bactum 13 is upon us. He held up the hatchet as though a trophy.” The crowd roared with approval Tsepo stopped rotating me. I was facing the night sky, but managed to tilt my head enough so I could see the back of Jack and some of the crowd before him.

He turned to face me. “Any last words Gladstone?”

“Remember my face.”

“That it?”

“Remember my face when you wake up in a few hours and you realize that you’re a fucking lunatic.  Remember these words when you’re locked in a prison cell with all the time in the world to reflect on how very wrong you were. How many people’s lives you have destroyed. When all your beliefs come crashing down and your climbing up the walls remember my face!”

“I do admire your defiance Gladstone. I’ll give you that. May Bolon have mercy on your soul.”

He raised the axe as the chanting reached a peak. Suddenly the ground started to shake. It sounded like a giant wave was approaching. Jack dropped the axe and turned to face the crowd. “It has come” he said smiling and raised his arms to embrace the wall of water before it smashed into him. I looked to my right and briefly caught a glimpse of what a giant wave before it crashed into us clearing everything in its wake.

The next few moments only makes sense in fragments. I was tossed around under the water like a rag doll in a giant washing machine. I’d be under water for what felt like a few minutes and suddenly brought to the surface catching a gulp of oxygen before being pulled under again. My head crashed into a tree trunk and I lost consciousness.

When I woke up I found myself sprawled out on a rocky embankment. The large grill dangled loosely from my bloody wrist, and had wedged itself in amongst some gathered debris. I struggled my hand out of the wire and collapsed back onto the shore. Where was I? What just happened? Had I survived the apocalypse? The sun was just peaking over the horizon blocked off by a series of trees. I saw a crouched over figure some fifty yards upstream on the same side of the river. Struggling to my feet I approached with caution. “Hey. Who is that? Sabine? Is that you?” She turned to face me. Her face was a pale as a ghost. Tears filled her eyes and she whore a defeated expression. As I came closer I saw that Jack’s lifeless body was lying in his arms.

“He’s dead.” She said defeated.

“Sabine are you ok?” She didn’t respond. “Sabine,” I grabbed at her shoulder but shedidn’t budge. “The flood killed him.” 

“Sabine. Where’s Seb? Where’s everyone else.”

“It killed them all. It killed me.”

“Sabine. Hey. Look at me.” Sabine. I shook her by the shoulders. “Hey, look at me. You’re not dead ok. Now listen, we’ve got to get out of here. She shivered uncontrollably but pushed me away. “Leave me alone.” “Sabine. Come to your senses. We have to get out of here before the cops find us!”

“I’m not leaving him.”

“Sabine. Jacks dead. Alright. It’s over. He’s gone. We have to leave.”

“We were meant to be together. In a new life. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

I stood up and tried to pull Sabine away but she started to scream. “Let go of me. Leave me alone. Leave me alone!” I let go and backed away. She collapsed to the floor again and took up Jacks lifeless body in her arms. “I love you Jack.” She said. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to defy you.”

“Sabine, I hate to be insensitive but Jack was a psycho. You’re better off without him. If he had his way you’d be dead too.”

“At least I’d be with him then.”

“You don’t mean that Sabine.”

“Don’t act like you know me. You don’t know what I mean. Who the fuck are you anyway? Don’t act like you know me. What we had….you’ll never understand. Nobody will ever understand that. Please just leave me the fuck alone. I’m not leaving him here.”

“Fine. Jesus!” I scratched my head. There was nothing I could do other then drag her away kicking and screaming which would prove problematic for a number of very reasons.

“Look would you at least,” I dug my hands into Jack’s pockets. “Don’t fucking touch him.” “Ok, ok. Look I’m just trying to find the car keys. Here, you take them. I dropped the keys next to Sabine. “Look. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now and I’m not going to pretend to understand either. Just…look if you make it back to civilisation just call me ok. Or let me know that you’re ok, alright?” I took a card out of Jack’s wallet and scribbled my number on it with a small stone. It was barely visible. “My number’s there ok? Look me up. Please Sabine, if only for peace of mind.” She wasn’t listening. “Good bye Sabine.” She did not respond. I left her there with Jack and made my way along the rivers edge in search of civilisation.

[soloburn]

It’s The End OF The World As We Know It: Part 4

We came into a clearing to reveal lines of cars parked haphazardly on an open field. Groups of people walking roadside shrieked with delight having witnessed our arrival. The setting and crowd all felt rather primal like the arrival of Colonel Kurtz to his native stronghold. Jack acknowledged the crowds with a single raised hand, eventually stopping the car out of necessity. He got out and was instantly swarmed by his adoring fans, all hugging and kissing the beloved protagonist. He returned their affection, taking time to greet each and everyone individually. Of the limited time I’d known Jack he had the uncanny ability of making everyone he met feel special, as if each interaction was of equal significance. He had time for everyone and as a result people gravitated towards him.

He greeted one individual in particular with added affection, repeating the haunting ritual I’d seen him act out earlier with Sabine. This, I would later learn, was Seb - Seb was a muscular looking individual. Prisonesque tattoos covered his upper back, neck and forearms. His hair was short and his eyes were dark and unforgiving. The pair gestured towards me but I couldn’t hear what was being said. After a couple of minutes Jack came over and said I should unload some of the stuff in the back while he and Seb attended to some urgent affairs. Sabine had skipped off into the distance to greet friends leaving me alone in the car.

I opened the trunk to reveal an enormous iron grill wedged into the boot underneath which lay some thick string wire, rope, a toolbox and two large buckets filled with saturated red liquid. I heaved it all out of the boot and waited. I wasn’t alone. Onlookers surrounding the car looked on talking amongst themselves. It felt like I was being observed by young school children on a field trip to the local zoo. It was now mostly dark and I couldn’t make out any faces but only shiny teeth and eyes that peered at me devilishly. I tried to make niceties to ease the tension but nobody seemed interested in giving me any information. “How you guys doing?” I said, “Pity about the rain… Can anybody tell me what’s going on here? This some kind of party?” Either they couldn’t hear me or were surprised by my apparent ignorance.

I decided to return to the safety of the car, which provided respite from wondering eyes but also from the rain, which had started to come down harder now. And so Officer Louwe’s suspicions had proven correct. A gathering had occurred and from initial observations there was no authorities in sight. No sense of organisation or control. Just a mass of bodies milling about aimlessly most of whom I guessed were high on a variety of mind-altering substances. I’d always championed the spirit of the sixties - Jefferson’s Airplane, The Grateful Dead, Ken Kesey, and all that went with it. The ‘love generation’ and their free spirited worldview took upon romantic notions during my student years. But the illusion soon waned when I was confronted with these same people in the flesh in Haight Ashbury a couple of years ago, who only came across as strung out degenerates looking for a handout. The documentary Gimme Shelter which documented a free Rolling Stones concert held at Altamont Raceway in 1969 only confirmed my disenchantment. What was depicted there was something of a horror show - hundreds of thousands of youths, many out of their heads, descending on an open field to watch the Rolling Stones and Jefferson’s Airplane perform. The concert took upon tragic proportions when The Hells Angels killed a member of the audience in the relative chaos. Additionally, three other accidental deaths occurred, scores of attendees were injured, four births took place and a number of cars were reported stolen. Watching the events unfold I remember feeling deeply disconcerted by the whole scene. Perhaps I have become more conservative over the years but the idea of thousands stoned youths with only a vague concept of peace and happiness to hold things together created anxiety even from the comfort of an armchair some forty-three years later. I even found myself empathising with Nixon momentarily, which created deeper anxiety still. 

Of more immediate concern was Jack. Was that a gun against my back earlier or had I imagined it. It could have been any piece of steel really? Or was it steel at all? As I reflected a half naked couple slammed into the passenger door of the vehicle, groping each other grotesquely evidently indifferent to my presence. I banged my fist against the windshield in protest but it only worked to encourage them. “Yeah fuck you too buddy!” I yelled.  These goddamn people were out of control.

Seb came walking back up the hill alone.  “Out.” He said sternly.

“Hi, I’m Gladstone. Nice to meet you too.”

“Grab the iron grill and follow me.”

“Not until someone tells me what is going on! What are the grills for? Why are we here? Where are Jack and Sabine?”

“We’re having a little celebration young heathen. Now grab the grill and stop asking questions. It’ll all be over soon” A party? But of course! What was all the panic about? Once again I’d managed to blow my paranoia all out of proportion - perhaps aided by the little orange pill I took a few hours ago? We’re just here for a good old-fashioned hedonistic get together. Embrace the weird Gladstone. I wouldn’t want to give off any bad vibes. In my experience regulars of such events had an acute awareness of all ‘vibes’ good or bad and didn’t take kindly to the presence of the latter.   

I picked up the grill, heaving it onto my back. “This thing is damn heavy. Can’t one of your friends help me out?” He starred at me blankly and instructed me to move. The group of onlookers followed us from a safe distance behind. We came to a high point to review the epicentre of the gathering in a valley below. Swarms of people were gathered around a growing fire dressed in a sea of bright colours. “Down there. Lets go,” instructed Seb.

When we arrived at the bottom I was instructed to help assemble the grill mechanism, which would be placed high above the fire. They refused to tell me what we were cooking. Seb and I, along with a guy called Tsepo - a gangly twenty something, with hollow eyes and bad teeth - made about attaching the large grill to a central wooden beam that would rest on top of two makeshift goal posts on either side of the fire. Each set of posts wedged at the top, on which the central beam would presumably lie. This shape of the wedges allowed the central beam to roll and thus the grill, once attached, could be rotated like a spit. I wasn’t sure what we were going to cook exactly but it was sure to be one hell of an animal to necessitate such an elaborate mechanism.

Seb became increasingly frustrated at my lack of know how eventually commissioning a couple of the onlookers to help me out. “Son of Bolon,” he’d say,  “have you ever used a drill before?!” “Put your back into it. No, no, no. Not like that!”

“You don’t get hands like these doing manual labour” I joked. Seb was not amused. After much hard toiling the grill seemed firmly attached. I whipped the sweat off my brow and admired my handiwork. “So,” I said, “What are we cooking - a pig or something? Where is the great beast?” Yet again I got the silent treatment. “You lot don’t say much do you?”

“Where’s Jack?” Seb asked agitated. “No time to waste. I guess we should get started without him. Ok heathen – get undressed and hop on.”

“Undressed? What? What kind of party is this? I mean I’m okay with my body and all. I’ve just never been comfortable with the idea of making casual conversation naked - unless the curtains are drawn. Though even at the gym. Talking around the lockers. It’s not for me-”

“Would you shut your mouth! He said. “Get undressed and lie flat on the grill.”

 “What you mean? Why would I lie on the grill? You must be joking. You are joking right?”

“No. I’m not joking. You’re going to undress right now. You aint going to taste good seared in jeans and t-shirt.”

“Taste good? What? No seriously now. You got me. Ha, ha. I’m that gullible.”

“Tsepo help our friend out there would you.”

“You must be out of your mind. I’m not getting on that grill. Come on now. Let’s be reasonable fellas. Where, where is…” I stuttered, as my mouth dried searching for words of reason, “where’s Jack? Where’s Sabine?”

“There’s no one to save you now heathen. Your time has come!”  

Jesus. Was he for real? Were they planning on cooking me alive? Dear God Man! This wasn’t a party. This was a cult. And I was to be sacrificed. To what god or god’s I didn’t know but I wasn’t about to stick around and find out. I made a run for it but was blocked off in all directions, pin-balling hopelessly around the human ring. I turned sharply this way and that but was blocked in all directions. There was no use. I was trapped.  

“There’s no escaping heathen. Now be a good pig and get on the grill.” The group moved in closer blocking all exits. I swung by arms around wildly in an attempt to create a gap. I managed to catch Seb on the tip of his nose with my right fist, enraging him further but it was all in vain - Two of the goons grabbed my arms from behind, while Seb kicked out my ankles and I went down with a hard thud. Before I had a chance to get up again I felt something come down hard on the back of my head and I blacked out.

[soloburn]

It’s The End OF The World As We Know It: Part 3

As we edged towards the blue lights I assessed my options. Did I inform the cops of our extra passenger hidden behind the seat, armed and possibly dangerous? Maybe. But what if I was wrong and Jack hadn’t assaulted the attendant back at the station. What then? Maybe all he’d been guilty of was a couple of unpaid parking tickets? Perhaps all he was armed with was a packet of jelly babies and an alibi in the form of Sabine’s trust. Assuming she trusted him. It was hard to tell after his irrational violent outburst earlier but that was hardly enough to have him convicted, nor enough to assume Sabine would back up my story and turn against a guy who clearly had some kind mental hold over her.

Of course I could go with the plan - tell the cops that we were on our way to Port Elizabeth to see my parents. Sabine and I were spending the Christmas break together. There was nothing unreasonable about that this time of year. Of course then if anything were to go wrong I’d become an accomplice to this Bonnie and Clyde like couple and any of the heinous crimes they might have committed recently. At the very least I would be charged with driving under the influence.

The bright lights hit my senses like a brick wall. “Good evening officer.” I said. He shone a flashlight directly into my eyes. For a moment I couldn’t make sense of his face and was forced to throw up a hand protecting my eyes from the harsh direct light. How was anyone not to act defensive when so obviously provoked from the beginning?

“Good evening Sir. Ma’am, he said acknowledging the much more at ease Sabine.

“Hi,” she responded flirtatiously. He unashamedly ogled her never bothering to return his attention back to me. Sabine looked unbothered presumably having had to deal with cops like this throughout her life.  

“License please,”

“There you go”. My hand shook ever so slightly. He examined the license closely.

“Gladstone?” he asked raising his eyebrow suspiciously.   I smiled unconvincingly.   

“Is this your car sir?”

“Of course Officer. Whose else would it be?”

“A Mercedes -”

“Yes officer.”

“A fine car -”

“It is.”  

“…for someone your age?” He said with an accusatory tone.  This was it. The game was up. Soon he’d radio headquarters and realize that the car was not mine. He’d run the plates and find that it was stolen. A swat team would descend from the sky, and a loud hailer would instruct me to - ‘lie flat. Hands where I can se 'em.’ Horatio from CSI would wonder over, peer over the frames of his glasses and I’d confess to crimes I’d never committed like a catholic schoolboy confessing to original sin.

“It’s not his car,” said Sabine. What? Jesus, are you doing? She’d flipped the script. The manipulative bitch had done me on all fronts. That’s what I get for underestimating a pretty face.

“It’s our parents car.” She continued assured.

“Our parents? Yes, uh, sure our parents.” I said relieved.

“Yep, my little brother. Hey bro?” Sabine prodded me under my ribs reinforcing the sibling dynamic.

“You two are related?” said the cop apparently surprised at the suggestion. “Sure Officer, can’t you see the resemblance?” He paused taking the question into deep consideration. I held a strained smile mimicking Sabine’s.   

“Well, you just seem too pretty to be related to this guy.” A wide grin ran over his portly face. Sabine smiled while I could only roll my eyes.

“Officer - ” She said

“Louwe”

“Officer Louwe,” she repeated, “flattery will get you everywhere.” He shied his face away blushing at the fleeting comment.

“What’s the reason for the road block out here Officer?”

“We’ve had word of a gathering.” He said composing himself.

“A gathering?” I said.  

“Yes, a gathering.”

“A gathering of what? “ Asked Sabine.

“Of people.”

 “Who and why are they gathering?”

“We’re not quite sure at this stage. We’ve just heard rumours of a gathering taking place in the area.”

“I see”

“And we don’t like gatherings of this nature.”

“Of what nature?”

“Ones that we do not know about. We prefer to have knowledge of all such gatherings prior to the gathering taking place so we can take the necessary precautions.

“Precautions?”

“In case something is to happen. So we have time to react and can’t be blamed for not reacting.”

“But surely you can’t be blamed for not responding to something you were not aware of in the first place.”

“That is why we prefer to know.”

“Ok-”

“Are you at all aware of a gathering of any sort?” There was a pause as I thought this might be an opportune moment to make him aware of Jacks presence.

“Well-” I felt cold steel press into my lower back. My body stiffened as I could only assume that I was now at Jacks gunpoint.

The cold steel pressed up against to my spine triggered a vivid memory. I was momentarily transported back to my childhood - to a Saturday morning paintball themed party on a farm out in Grabou. A group of twelve-year-old boys, myself included, stood around an instructor who was going through the various safety precautions before we were let lose into the field of battle. One sadistic kid named, Timothy Stiff, stood behind me and pushed the barrel of his gun into my spine.

- Timothy Stiff was the type of kid who kept an ant farm, did all the hard work of building a community, only to leak gas down the tubes and set the farm alight, taking delight in watching the defenseless creatures burn. -

“Dare me to shoot?” he said vindictively. “Cut it out Stiff.” I said.  “I’m going to shoot you just once in the back. It won’t hurt... much.” "Stiff," I said, “cut it out.“Stop being such a pussy Gladstone. Just be a man and take a bullet for your country. It’s only paint.”

“I’m being serious Stiff stop it! Stop being a dick!”

“This will be my greatest artwork yet.  I have no choice Gladstone. Your back is my canvas and the Lord doth commission the Sistine Chapel.”

“Stiff please don’t.”

“My work will be talked about for years.”

“Please. Don’t do it.”

“I’m going to shoot you in three,” “Please?! “Two,” I was on the verge of fainting. “One. BLAP!” he yelled into my left year, cackling hysterically. My knees buckled and I collapsed to the ground, my eyes swelling up with tears. “Pussy,” he said mockingly and walked into the netted arena to claim his rightful thrown in this Lord Of The Flies type atmosphere.  - Stiff has grown up to be a successful investment banker or so linkdn informs me.

“Sir? Sir!” I was brought back into the present by the cops incessant questioning. “Ah, no your officer I mean officer. No gatherings of any sort. We’re just on our way to P.E. to our holiday home.” The inordinate pause had him regard me suspiciously for a moment. I smiled nervously, as he stepped away to write down the plates.

Do you have a card Officer Louwe?” said Sabine in an effort to distract him.

“As a matter of fact I do miss.” He leaned into the car, his armpit hung directly in front of my nose as he passed Sabine his card, adding to my ever growing nausea.  It read ‘Francis Louwe. Officer of the Law and Private Investigator.’

“A detective?” said Sabine, rubbing her fingers over the card. “Very fancy.” He blushed again at the frivolous compliment “Yes, well, not officially. But I’m in training. My daughter made the card. She’s a whizz with computers. All you young kids are. She must be about you age…” He slobbered over every word. It was pitiful to watch.   

“Well Officer is there anything else you require from us.” He seemed annoyed that I broke his special moment with Sabine. “No,” he said searching in vain to find another reason to keep Sabine around a little longer, “You’re free to go”. “Thank you Officer. Have a good evening.

“But be sure to call now, for any reason, no matter how small.” He added, halting our progress momentarily.

“We sure will.” Said Sabine. He smiled at Sabine and grimaced at me, eventually tapping the car on the roof, and calling to his colleague to no doubt regale the moment shared with the flirtatious hot number.

I let out a deep sigh of relief as we edged further away. Had we done it? Sabine cupped her hand over my thigh adding, “You did well”. This seemingly inane act might have made it all worth it. We were now outlaws. Together. To what extent I wasn’t sure but I now felt a special bond with Sabine. It was now more than lust.

We took a corner and the roadblock fell out of sight. I heard a muffled voice from the back instructing me to pull the car over. I had temporarily forgotten about Jacks presence. He poked his head out cautiously. “We’re through?” he said looking up at Sabine. Her face lit up with excitement. “We made it baby.” They kissed passionately, Sabine gratuitously making sounds of pleasure as Jacks slobbered all over sensual lips. I turned away in disgust. Did I need to remind her of an hour or so ago when he threw her into the car like a rag doll? It made no sense. I was the one who got us through the roadblock. He merely cowered behind seats and now he had taken the prize. I got out of the car while the unnecessary public affection continued, the two continued to groan like wild animals. Jack eventually climbed out.

“In the back” he said sternly.

I got in eyeing him with distain.

He got in the front and closed the door.

The moment that followed was a strange and haunting one. Jack held Sabine’s forehead to his and said, “As the Popol Vuh has prophesized we have come to the end of the fourth world. We are now at b'ak'tun thirteen. The Great Cycle of the Long Count has reached its completion and now we must prepare for the next one. All praise Bolon Yokte. May he have mercy on our souls.” Sabine’s eyes were closed. What the fuck was going on?! They began to hum as if possessed. No words. Just an eerie low rhythmic hum. 

“Excuse me guys but are you doing?” They ignored me lost in the ritual. “Hello, back here, Can anyone explain to me what the fuck is going on? Where are we going? Why are you humming? Hey!” I jabbed Jacks shoulder. He slowly turned to face me. It was like looking into the eyes of the devil. The same cold look I’d seen earlier at the station. He said nothing, but his eyes said enough for me to slink back into my seat and stop asking questions.  Who was Bolon Yokte? What the hell was baktun thirteen? Fourth World?

Jack faced forward and drove the car on. After a few minutes he veered off onto a dirt road that climbed up the hill. Thick bush and trees lay on either side of the road. It had started to drizzle and the road became increasingly muddy as we climbed the hill. The sound of windscreen wipers and the suspension struggling its way through the rocky terrain is all that could be heard.

[soloburn]

It's The End Of The World As We Know It: Part 2

I watched as whimsical notes danced across a sheet of music. Bobbing my head along gaily to the optimistic tune, all felt at peace. Cool air ran across my face and I felt comfortable except for a seat buckle that dug into my side. I moved to relieve myself of the discomfort when it dawned upon me that I wasn’t dreaming. I was in fact lying in the backseat of a moving car. The lines of music were in fact power lines rising and dipping intersected by the poles that supported them. The notes, hundreds of small birds perched upon the lines, silhouetted by the dipping sun. My God! Where in the hell am I and whose car was I in? I searched for clues. In the drivers seat sat a stoic looking figure, hidden behind wayfarers and an unflinching expression of intent. It was Jack. At first I was relieved to see a recognizable face but soon overcome by a more powerful feeling of dread. Sabine sat in the front passenger seat with her feet up on the dash. Her long blonde hair chased wildly behind her, propelled by the wind. Her perfume filtered into the back of the car. It was intoxicating. Jack had noticed my movements and watched me closely in the rear view mirror. He turned down the radio.

“Hey?” exclaimed Sabine, “I was listening to that.” Jack ignored her. “Gladstone, how are you feeling?”

“He’s awake?” Sabine turned to face me. Perhaps I was dreaming after all. “Gladstone,” she said with an enduring yet somewhat patronizing tone, as if regarding a small child. “You’ve been out for hours.”

“I have?”

“We’re just under an hour or two away.”

“An hour or two from where?”

“You don’t remember?” asked Sabine surprised. I didn’t. I struggled to recollect how we’d gotten there as everything from the previous night only made sense in fragments. I remembered getting into their car. We had then driven to Garbo’s and retrieved my card. They were closing but Jack managed to negotiate a bottle of whiskey, and by negotiate I mean he distracted the barman while Sabine slid a bottle into her handbag. We then drove up to Signal Hill, and sat on the bonnet talking a fair bit of nonsense about the meaning of it all, working for ‘the man’, and the problem with The Tree Of Life. Standard conversation amongst drunken strangers. I naturally deflected any specific conversations about my own life and tried to keep things frivolous, despite Jacks best efforts to prod me on the subject. He kept on saying, “but surely you must believe in some greater purpose? Something bigger than you and I?” “It all seems pretty random to me,” I’d respond, much to his irritation. I then danced (badly) on the roof of the car with Sabine. I’m not quite sure what happened after that.

My head throbbed and for the moment I couldn’t continue thinking. “My head hurts.” “I’m not surprised,” said Sabine laughing. “The signs of a good night,” said Jack. “Don’t worry we have something that’ll take the edge off. Sabine, see if there is anything in the glove compartment.” She pulled out a small green wash bag. “Lets see,” she said, rummaging her hands through an assortment of pills. “We have… Oxycotten, Benzedrine, Seroquel, Coke, shrooms, speed…” My God! Seroquel? I thought that was meant for bi-polar patients.

“…Mescaline, weed, these orange pills.”

“Give him one of those, “ said Jack. Little orange pills? “Do you have anything regular? Like Panado? Essential? Myprodol perhaps?”

“These are better than any of that generic bullshit,” said Jack. “You’ll feel right as rain in a couple of minutes. “What exactly are in the orange pills?” I asked hesitantly. “All the right ingredients” Sabine said laughing swallowing one herself. I took the bottle of water and necked the pill. I figured if Sabine trusted it then at least we’d be in it together.

I searched in vain for signs of our whereabouts but the landscape was non-distinct and truth be told my geography was weak at the best of times. Judging by the lush fauna and thick coastal air I had guessed we were a few hours outside of Cape Town, perhaps somewhere along the Garden Route but couldn’t be sure. I would have checked my phone but naturally the battery was flat. I thought of asking again but was beginning to feel more comfortable. Perhaps I should embrace the uncertainty. Perhaps this was my ‘On The Road,’ my ‘Bande à part,’ my ‘Into The Wild,’ or perhaps I was a just a damn fool not to recognize that all those stories ended in tragedy. The pill was coming on strong. I was overcome by sense of well being. My headache had numbed and all felt right despite my immediate circumstances. I momentarily forgot about where we were or where we were going and slunk into the worn leather seats, letting the last rays of sun shine on my face.

After a few minutes we pulled into a petrol station to fill up and get some supplies. The only other vehicle in site was a large truck with no signs of a driver. An attendant sat dozing under his hat seemingly intent on ignoring our arrival. Jack gave the car a hoot to jolt him into action. “Wake up you lazy bastard” he muttered. The elderly man lifted himself up from the chair displaying exaggerated indignation dismissing our arrival with a flippant wave of the hand. “I’m coming! Relax.” He said. “Just R50.00.” said Jack.

“Oil and water?”

“No thanks. But I need to buy some cigarettes.”

He finished up and requested that Jack joined him inside to pay, but not before he stole one more look of Sabine’s legs. “Oi!” Said Jack.

“I’m coming for Christ’s Sake. Can’t a guy get a moment?!”

There has to be a sign somewhere. Something in this god forsaken, middle of nowhere outpost that would give me some indication of our whereabouts.

‘Well ladies and gentlemen, we continue with our countdown on this special ‘end of the world playlist.’ And here’s our number one as chosen by you the listeners. That’s right, you guessed it, its REM.’ Great, I thought. Typical of a passive, unimaginative audience. I doubt the listeners even voted for the song. These playlists were all rigged anyway.

‘That’s great it starts with an Earth quake, birds and snakes, an airplane, And Lenny Bruce is not afraid.’

Sabine turned up the radio exclaiming with unbridled enthusiasm, “I love this song! Come on Gladstone.” She jumped out of the passenger seat and tried to pull me out of the car.

I joined reluctantly. Tugging at my hands she swung me around while singing along to the lyrics. I initially felt foolish, fumbling around awkwardly, trying to keep pace and fake rhythm, which Sabine had in abundance. My eyes stayed glued on hers as she spun me around. But strangely enough I began to enjoy myself. Powerless to her jour de vivre I let go of every self-conscious impulse, that would otherwise have me in the car listing reasons as to why this was a bad choice, and joined her in the chorus.

Now I concede that dancing around to REM in a middle of nowhere petrol station sounded like a scene out of a bad music video but Sabine had me entranced. The whims of a beautiful woman would always be my downfall in my pathetic attempts to get laid. I couldn’t resist her infectious enthusiasm for the moment and her irreverence for all things cynical. I was tired of being condescending and Sabine seemed like the ultimate antidote to that kind of thinking.

In the mist of all this Jack came rushing out of the store. He wasn’t in the mood for dancing, nor in the mood for admiring my newfound enthusiasm for living in the moment. Something flashed in the corner of my eye, jolting me back to reality. He appeared to had stashed a gun into the back of his pants, which had momentarily paralyzed my body as my brain short circuited trying to make sense of what I’d just seen. Sabine hadn’t noticed his haste and continued to sing along. He grabbed her by the arm and demanded she get in the car. “Stop fucking around. We need to go.” He had the look of a cold-blooded killer, as if a switch had flicked and now we were dealing with a different animal. Sabine ignored him and continued to dance around, “Come on baby. Dance with us.” “Sabine for the last time, IN! NOW!” He threw her violently into the front seat, and suggested that I follow. I considered making a dash for it but soon thought better of it as there was no telling what Jack was capable of. I’m not sure what was going on but it wasn’t the right time to ask questions. I scurried into back seat and Jack soon followed kicking the car into gear and back onto the road. “Turn that shit off,” said Jack, bringing the car to relative silence. His eyes scanned the rear view mirror periodically for signs of potential pursuers. Sabine only looked into the distance, with a look of emptiness. A look reminiscent of a teenage daughter who’d just had a fight with her Father. I hadn’t questioned their dynamic before but it was clear that Jack had some kind of paternal hold over her. It was uncomfortable to watch. The bruise on the side of her arm was already visible.

What exactly had happened inside that quick store? Had Jack killed the attendant for fifty Rands worth of petrol, and a packet of Jelly Baby’s? Surely not? Besides I hadn’t heard a shot. Perhaps he was just in a hurry and hadn’t realized the time. But that wouldn’t explain the need for a gun, if indeed that was a gun and not just a figment of my vivid, now drug addled imagination.

Jack continued to check both mirrors for signs of pursuers but remained silent as none seemed to be in tow. I wanted to say something but I couldn’t get the gun off my mind. All that could be heard was for the next thirty minutes was the sound a of the muffled engine and the rattle of old car parts.

After a while the atmosphere returned to a state of relative normality. I’m not sure how I rationalized Jacks behavior but perhaps the silence and empty road had my mind at ease. I’m sure there was a rational explanation for his haste. Sabine appeared to have fallen asleep.

Our peace did not last long. We took a sharp bend to reveal blue lights in the distance. “Shit!” said Jack. “Cops.” He pulled over immediately and hit the lights. Sabine seemed shaken by her abrupt awakening. “Take another route, she said”. For the first time I detected apprehension in her voice.

“There is no other route. We have to go through.”

“How?” They both turned to me as if telepathically reaching the same conclusion.

“Gladstone.” Said Jack.

I already knew what he was going to ask but wasn’t sure how I’d respond.

“You need to take the wheel for the next bit. You got a license?”

“Why yeah but why do I need to?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Later?”

“You’ll do what I say. The less you know the better.”

I would have continued to protest but I quickly reminded myself of my vulnerability and Jacks other, more psychotic side. I had no choice but to accept and promptly swapped seats with Jack.

“Now approach at a normal speed. If he asks any questions about where we’re going say we’re on our way to PE. You got it?”

“Yeah, PE.”

“Good. Just you and Sabine. Nobody else. All right.

“But what about…”

“Just Sabine and you ok?” There was a tense pause as Jack studied me with calculating eyes.

“I’m fine.” But I wasn’t. “Sabine and I are going to visit my folks in PE.”

“Ok. You didn’t see me.” Jack, slide into the space between the back seats and the front and covered himself with a red sleeping bag.

“Drive” he said, his voice muffled under the bag.

My hands were sweating profusely. I turned the ignition and kicked the car into drive. Strangling the steering wheel tightly I slowly edged the car towards the blue lights.

[soloburn]

It's The End Of The World As We Know It: Part 1

My eyes scanned over the expansive night sky like a slow moving, giant telescope. What a beautiful night it was. The stars out, so clear and bright. The universe so vast and awe-inspiring. I should really get out into the country more often. Away from the smog of the city. The hustle and bustle. The paper chase. Spend less time wasting away on the couch making plans. Never actually doing anything. Resolutions about tomorrow. Vague empty promises. Damnit I’m doing it right now. But now is not the time. If I don’t take some decisive action soon I’ll be burnt to a crisp - literally. As I continued to rotate the sky went out of view and I was confronted by the burning fire directly below me.

 “Keep turning him,” shouted Seb. “I like my meat well done.”

How had it come to this? Being roasted alive on a spit. Surrounded by a group of confused and angry cannibalistic pseudo-Mayan, pagan-believing, vagrants and lost souls.  I wasn’t at a trance party but the scene and crowd felt similar.  Monotonous, repetitive beats and chanting. Confused youths, dancing in circles, lost on some kind of drug, trying to reconnect with some sort of ethereal happiness. Someone had convinced these fools that the world was ending tomorrow and the sacrifice of a heathen to their one or many Gods would secure them a special place in eternity.

Gladstone you fool! How could you have been so trusting? You, who prides himself on skepticism. Jack stepped in at that moment, and pulled the tape from my mouth, only to replace it with an apple. Jack, a real psychopath. I saw the flames dancing in his glassy eyes. Like starring in the devils soul. A handsome devil at that but a devil nonetheless.  Seb, his more vindictive partner in crime, pushed his thumb up against the tip of my nose, and mockingly snorted like a pig, laughing hysterically like a man possessed.  

Some twenty or so hour’s ago Jack’s eyes had looked very different. Trustworthy and welcoming. Twenty hours ago I sat in a dingy bar on the outskirts of Cape Town. It was the 20th of December 2012. On the eve of the end of the Mayan calendar. The end of the world according to some, but not to anyone with sense. We were all too busy being rational to pay attention to any of that kind of hocus-pocus. Not that I was too obviously aware of the significance of the date. All I cared was that it was the end of the work year. My night had begun positively. Celebrating the beginning of my December brake.  Thirteen days of leave. Thirteen days free of those ungrateful bastards at work. Thirteen days free of deadlines or responsibility. Free of printing problems and soul crushing compromise. But as I drank more a grim realization dawned upon me. In thirteen days time, it would be Wednesday January 2, 2013. I’d be back at work. Back at a job that I detested. Surrounded by people that I could not stand. With no signs of advance beyond a miserly wage increase. Just another year falling deeper into the rat race. No signs of escape.

 My conscious frustration had manifested into an unconscious desire for confrontation on some level. Either verbal or physical or whichever came first. Whoever crossed my path that night was in trouble.

Baring the brunt of my whining was a young barkeep named Frank. I sat hunched over a whiskey, at the end of the bar, “…all year round Frank. I lie. I lie to help sell things and ideas to people that don’t really need them. We sell ice to Eskimo’s Frank, as the old adage goes. Except the ice is actually shit, disguised as gold, sold under the name of premium h20 from Mount who-gives-a-fuck, to a target market collectively known as ‘aspirational’.

Frank was barely listening to me. I could see in his eyes he was already at home, spooning his girl, hoping for a bit of late night action before he fell asleep.

I continued regardless. “But people have five senses not two Frank, and no matter how much you try to make that shit look like gold the smell still lingers, like a rotting dead buffalo under the floorboards. Can you smell it Frank? Huh? Can you smell the dead buffalo in the room?”

Frank wisely refused to indulge me but I wasn’t about to let him off that easily. “Answer me dammnit,” I demanded. “Answer the damn question. Or are you just another fool in denial like the rest of them?” He paused for a second starring deeply into the dirty glass in his hand, trying to contain his annoyance. “Oi. Barman. A drink for Christ sake. I might not pay you to listen, but I pay you to do your job.”  Frank had had enough of my provocation.

“Would you quit your bitching? I haven’t seen a dime out of you yet,” said Frank, “and you’ve been here two hours!”

“I’m good for it. Another. This time not so light on the pour.”

“You’re done. Pay up and get out. We’re closing now anyway.”

“Closing now? What time is it?”

“3am!”

“Who closes at 3am?”

“We do. Now show me some money and get the fuck out of my bar.”

“I’m not leaving until you do your job and serve me another drink, barman!”

“Kanu…” Frank had signaled with his eyes to a heavy named Kanu at the door to help him out with this belligerent patron. I hadn’t noticed his presence before which was surprising considering his 7-foot plus stature.

Kanu’s shadow fell over me like a dark cloud. I felt his giant mit like hands firmly clasp ahold of my left shoulder. “Pay the man. Now!

“Ok, ok. Easy does it big fella. I was only reaching for my wallet.” I pulled out my wallet to find it empty. Jesus how did that happen? It was full just a moment ago. I gave a pathetic look up at Kanu, like a helpless puppy pleading for forgiveness. “Guess I’ll be paying by card then.” I said uneasily. I ruffled my hands through my cards section. Nothing. Only a gym membership card and my driver’s license. Christ, I thought, I must have left it at the last bar.

“Look, erm, There’s a slight problem. See I left my card behind at the last bar. If you just give me a chance I’ll go get it, and come back tomorrow.”

“You’re not leaving until you pay your tab.”

“Well you see Frank. Here in lies our predicament. I don’t have any money. And I don’t have my card here. So I propose that I come back tomorrow and pay you in full with a generous tip.” I had all but forgotten about the giant of a man standing right next to me. My Dutch courage was at a dangerous high point.

“Our predicament? ” Said Frank, “I’ve had to put up with your shit all night. You’ve chased away any decent tale at the bar and now you can’t pay? I ought to fuck you up myself. Kick your ass to the curb. But I’m not a violent man. Kanu on the other hand. Well he’s a little different. You see if you don’t pay your bill it affects how much Kanu earns tonight. And he’s a little less reasonable than I am when it comes to money.” I swiveled around, staring up into the stoic looking mans eyes. “How about it my man,” I said to Kanu. My voice quivering. “Think you could make an exception for old times sake?” I was still very drunk though I felt stone cold sober as I could sense things were about to turn pair shaped.

I tried to turn away and make for the door. Kanu grabbed my arm and pulled me towards Frank. Frank pushed me back towards Kanu. I was a pinball between these gargantuan men. “All your bitching and moaning about you middle class, white suburban problems,” said the flustered Frank. “Well guess what dickhead? We’ve all got problems. Kanu here had to leave his family in West Africa and come to Cape Town to make a living .You don’t hear him complaining. Petrus over there’s wife left him for some shmuck. He’s got to pay child support for two kids he never sees. And somehow its always people like you. The ones with cushy lives, who feel like you’re entitled to something more. Nobody owes you anything.”

“Except a good beating,” interjected Kanu, throwing me against the wall. I crashed into the edge of a table, sending an ashtray and couple of empty beer glasses crashing to the ground, my ribs taking the brunt of the blow. I crouched down, holding my stomach, and tensed up, waiting for the inevitable boot to the head. Beatings of this nature took place all the time in South Africa. I was arrogant to think my smart-ass mouth deserved anything less. I was already imagining the permanent damage to my better than average facial features. My mother crying, bedside, her son a disfigured monster. My father, barely able to look at me, knowing in his heart of hearts that I probably deserved it. And at all future family gatherings they’d seat me at the furthest end of the table, away from the light, where the shadows were more severe, and Aunt Phoebe smoked her filter cigarette gabbing on about her ex-husband and their financial issues. Just get on with it I thought. What’s taking so long? I eventually mustered up the courage to open one eye. Kanu, Frank and another man stood at the bar, discussing something. A good deal of money was exchanged and then the stranger approached. He helped me up to my feet and asked if I was ok? He looked like a 1950’s movie star. Striking features, a strong jaw line, a perfectly symmetrical face and dirty blonde hair. He spoke again, “I took care of the bill. You can leave. Provided that you never return to this bar again.”

“I’d be glad to never return to this dump.”

“Good. Now we must go" 

I felt the need to get in one more cheap shot in the form of a verbal quip but the best I could muster was,  “Fuck you Frank. I do deserve more!”

“Come on” said the stranger. “Out. Now!” This was my introduction to Jack.  

He led me out of the bar. His arm around my shoulder.  I stumbled along entirely confused as to what just happened. Who was this guy and why was he helping me out? I never did trust a Good Samaritan.  

We exited out onto the dark parking lot. The only source of light was a single, harsh, unfiltered street lamp, that hung over the sparse space creating a pool of light below it. Just below the light stood the most beautiful creature I’d ever laid my eyes upon. A sultry looking blonde angel, lighting a cigarette. She wore black hot pants, ankle high boots and a loose oversized shirt that barely hung to one shoulder. Depicted on the white shirt was a portrait on Neil Young in black ink. She had a tattoo on her inner right thigh that escaped into her shorts. I was in love. 

“Sabine,” he said as we edged closer. “I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. What’s your name friend?” he asked. “It’s Gladstone.” I said.

“Gladstone? How unusual. I good strong name. Gladstone. Gladstone.” He repeated it a couple of times. “A name full of integrity.”

“That’s what my father always says.”

“He sounds like a wise man.”

Sabine flirtatiously extended her hand out to me. “Pleased to meet you Gladstone.” she said. My eyes focused on her full, sensual lips.  “Our friend Gladstone here finds himself in a bit of a bind.” Said Jack.

Oh really? Said Sabine. “ Yeah,” I said, “I had something of an altercation with the barman in there“

“I was referring to your other problem, said Jack.

“What other problem?”

“You know...”

“Look buddy. My hands might be small but I can assure you that that does not in anyway correlate to the size of my…”

“I was referring to your career problems.”

“Oh, uh. Yeah. Those problems. You heard that?”

"A great deal of people heard you. Though none were really listening. But I  was fortunately.”

“Ok”

“Do you want to know why I was listening?”

“I guess.”

“Well because I too have experienced similar frustrations. I too have felt that living a life, as you described, is not worth living at all. What you do on a day-to-day basis give you no sense of fulfillment or meaning. But you keep doing it because? ”

“Because….”

“Because you feel you have to. Bills to pay etc. ”

“Sure.”

“And this frustrates you. It even depresses you?”

“I suppose it does.” I didn’t want to seem pathetic in front of Sabine. I wanted to appear like a man with purpose. With drive. A man of conviction.

Jack continued, “It’s called the problem of the depressive psychosis. You feel overwhelmed by the demands of others – of your colleagues and family and that these demands need to be met. And you can’t imagine an alternative way of life. You cannot imagine being released of this network of obligations. And the worst part of it is, is that these responsibilities no longer give you a sense of value or self esteem.”

“Well…”

“You don’t feel like you’re contributing anything of value to the world. You’ve become a shadow of your former self. A worthless man. “

“I…”

“A walking ghost.”

“All right I think we get the point. “ I said. “Look I appreciate your help. But it’s getting late and I’ve got a long walk home.”

“Walk? Look, why don’t you join Sabine and I for a nightcap, and then I’ll take you home.” What was this loon going on about? Everything he said made sense but how dare he psycho analyze me. The only person that was allowed to do that was me and maybe my shrink. Perhaps they were swingers? That had to be it. Why else would be they so friendly? “You two seem really nice but I’m not sure I’m down.”

“Down?”

“You know…swinging. It’s not really my thing. I mean don’t get me wrong. She’s beautiful and all but…”

Sabine laughed. “We’re not swingers” she exclaimed.

Jack laughed. “No, nothing like that my dear fellow. We’re only looking to get another drink before the night ends. I’m not tired enough to go home yet, and there’s still a couple of hours left in the night. Join us for a nightcap.”

“I’m not so sure...”

“Please,” begged Sabine.  I was powerless to the requests of a beautiful woman. My instinctual response had always been ‘how high?’.

“Yes, now Gladstone you must. I insist,” said Jack, “You’ll break poor Sabine’s heart if you don’t. You really must come.” He walked towards the passenger door and opened it, pushing the drivers seat forward to invite me into the cramped back seats. The car was a large old red, Mercedes CE Coupe. Well kept though the tanned leather inside looked worn.”  

“Well where are we going?”

“Sabine? Said Jack, “Where should be go? The Old Vick?”

“I think the Old Vick closes at two,” said Sabine. “Didn’t you say something about leaving your card at the last bar?” Said Jack.  

“Yeah, at Garbo’s”

“Lets go there then,”

“Ok.” I conceded.

“Garbo’s. Great.” Said Jack, “Then it’s settled. I climbed into the car and off we went. I still wasn’t convinced about these people but truth be told I didn’t feel like walking home. Plus I needed to get my card back and the idea of retrieving it tomorrow on what promised to be a deathly hangover was enough to have me get into a car with two complete strangers. To what end I wasn’t sure.

END OF PART 1

[soloburn]

General Anxiety Disguised As A ‘Quarter Life Crisis’

Tossing and turning at night. I can’t sleep. Anxieties floating through my head. Keeping me awake. My stomach feels stretched. Tomorrow’s concerns. Last nights fuck ups. Memories of her and happier times gone by. Why can’t I relax? I wish she were sleeping next to me, smiling peacefully, her angelic face sighing with comfort as she subtlety adjusts her head to rest more comfortably across my chest. I’d be happier then. I’d settle for the blonde at gym. She looks like a lot of fun. But I miss her. I wonder what she’s doing right now? Probably tired from work but content, a thousand miles away, dining out with friends at some cozy restaurant, not thinking about me. A red light flashes in the corner of my eye. I’m compelled to look but I know it’s a waste of time. I reach over anyway and check my phone. A friend has copy-pasted an all-encompassing life affirming quote on facebook. It reads: “It’s not about the destination but the journey that gets you there.” I guess at this point I’m supposed to smile and think to myself, ‘ah, so true. It really is about the journey. I should be living in the ‘now,’ not in the future. Thanks friend! Your quotes really do have a way of putting all my problems into perspective. I sigh, as I a scroll through the monotony of my facebook newsfeed. Christ its 4:56am. I have work tomorrow. Why do I concern myself with the plethora of bullshit that this thing has to offer? I should really get off it.

“Why’d you have to be such a cynic all the time” asked Lanna at dinner the following night. “People don’t mean anything by those quotes. They’re just feel-good sentiments.”

“Like a smiley face at the end of an email?”

“Yes.” 

“Well I don’t like those either.”

“No ones asking you to like it!”

“I thought that was the point of facebook. Validation.”

“Ugh” She looks away in some kind of disgust. Her angry eyes hidden behind over-sized shades. I was losing her. My cynicism had been amusing up to a point. Ironically the very reason she had liked me in the first place, but cynicism had a way of becoming tiring. A girl wants a dreamer, not a pragmatic atheist. “How about, ‘reaching your dreams is about coming to terms with your limitations,’ a quote by Neil the realist and lover extraordinaire.” I though it poignant, but she seemed less impressed. It only seemed to confirm her fears. She wanted a believer. I needed to believe.

A week later I lay on the couch, hugging a cushion tightly, watching the Olympics. These athletes are an inspiration to us all. A testament to what’s possible if you put your mind to it. A lifetime of dedication focused towards a single pursuit. I momentarily prop myself up to reach for the crisps on the table, collapsing back onto the couch, mimicking in my head, the movements of the high jumper on television except, my reward wasn’t a medal but unadulterated laziness, and a beer stain. I’ll clean it up later.   

I listened to the gold medal interviews with awe, as the enthused athletes spoke of their incredible sacrifices. A week later they’re on a breakfast show explaining how they got in to the sport containing the generic sentence, “And it was then I knew I wanted to be____[insert profession here].” It has always amazed me how successful people are often able to pinpoint the exact moment when they knew what they wanted to do. Ryan Lochte tripped and fell in a pool. When his father, pulled him out in a panic, young Lochte started crying and promptly jumped back in. Jake Bugg, a seventeen-year wonder kid from Nottingham, heard ‘Vincent’ by Don Mclean on The Simpson’s and took up guitar. I watched the same episode, laughed, had supper and went to bed. They did there ten thousand hours in their first twenty. These are the same nerdy kids currently writing algorithms that determines how your personal robot will function in ten years time whilst you struggle to remember the shortcut for ‘undo.’

But how, with all the choices in the world, did these people know that this was what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives? I can barely decide on the right detergent, brand of underpants or toothpaste, fumbling along the supermarket isle like an old man suffering from dementia. I guess I’ll try Colgate whitener this time. The girl if frozen foods smiled at me. I wonder what kind of toothpaste she uses? Maybe I’ll sleep with her one-day and find out. She’s probably the type that squeezes the tube with reckless abandon rather than carefully and economically. I think I’d like that about her…

Don’t get me wrong there are a lot of things I ‘like’ the idea of. I like the idea of being an artist. I’ll think to myself I should start to draw again. So I’ll go out and buy a pencil set, do a couple of sketches, but then become disillusioned because my masterpiece came out looking like the Guernica when I was hoping for Cezanne’s apples. And with that, like a budgie, distracted by shiny trinkets, I’ll turn my attention onto something else, all along never concentrating on anything in particular, only dabbling in a bit of this, a bit of that.

The only moment of epiphany that I’ve ever experienced, that had the same kind of life determining potency was an orgasm. It was at that moment I knew what I wanted to do with my life and how often. Everything seemed so clear and vivid. My choices obvious. But even then I wasn’t able to commit. All of twenty seconds later, I lay in a fetal-like position overcome by an overwhelming sense of regret.  Did I even love her? Is Ashley Adams even her real name? ‘Knock, knock.’ Better close the laptop before someone walks in. “Coming!”

I suppose, what I’m going through now is what some people have conveniently termed ‘a quarter life crisis’ which is really just another way of describing general anxiety that comes with life’s choices. It’s only because twenty something’s like myself are so self-involved that general anxieties take on crisis proportions. But Spielberg shot the movie Jaws when he was twenty-seven and Zuckerberg was a billionaire before aged thirty along with the handful of other accidental friends. I’m twenty-five and I have nothing tangible to show for it other then a some photographs, a couple of worn out converse and a graphic t-shirt depicting The Brooklyn Bridge, though the graphic is fading with every wash. Where are my groupies, nerdy or otherwise? Somehow I feel like I’ve failed already and my career has only begun. Unrealistic expectations I’ve created for myself manifested out of a world built on instant gratification. If it hasn’t happened immediately then how could it be any good? Patience is a virtue but not something that my generation was heavily imbued with.

And so like George Costanza I sit on the floor, pondering over the jobs I might do that’ll give me more satisfaction and that I’d be good at. “I like sport, I could so something in sports…” says George to Jerry, “Ah, ha,” replies Jerry, “in what capacity?” “You know like the general manager of a baseball team,” says George. “Yeah well, that can be hard to get.” “Well,” says George, “it doesn’t have to be the general manager. Maybe I could be like an announcer, like a column man. You know how I always make those interesting comments during the game.” “Well,” says Jerry, “you know they tend to give those jobs to ex-ball players, and people in broadcasting.” Well that’s really not fair,” says George. “I know.” Says Jerry.

I’m about as confused and overwhelmed as George Costanza at this point in my life. I don’t know if any of my choices have been right or wrong. Whether I’m any good at what I’ve chosen to do. Maybe there isn’t any right or wrong? Maybe it’s all meaningless and absurd? God knows constant reflection is getting me know closer to an answer. It’s certainly not making me any happier. In the face of these overwhelming decisions no matter how small or large I guess the only thing you can do is go with your gut, deal with the consequences, stop worrying about the future, and laugh whenever possible at the absurdity of it all, preferably around friends or someone you love. If it were only that simple…

I’ll leave you with an all-encompassing quote said by Woody Allen’s ‘fictional’ version of Gertrude Stein in Midnight In Paris, that gives me inspiration when it all becomes to much to handle: “We all fear death and question our place in the universe. The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence. I mean you have a clear and lively voice. Don’t be such a defeatist. ”

END

[soloburn]

Play It Again Sam Because I Didn't Hear A Thing The First Time Round: Slurp, Crackle, Popcorn

I sit in a dark and gloomy bar, somewhere on the outskirts of the Cape Town Harbour. Outside a neon sign flickers in the winter darkness reading Ricks Café Americain. I wore a deadpan expression on my face, staring deeply into the rolling remains of my diluted bourbon. A couple of other drunks sit near by mumbling obscenities under their breaths to ghost like patrons seemingly lost in their own misery.

A piano man unofficially donned Sam taps away at the keys of a salmon colored piano in the corner of the room playing what sounds like the beginning of Claire De Lune or some other melancholic tune.

“Christ it had been a long year and it was only May.” I mutter under my breath, “Sam?”

“Yeah boss”

“Its 31st of May in Cape Town, I’m guessing it’s about the same in Casablanca. What time do you think it is in New York?”

“I…my watch stopped working boss.”

“I bet they’re sleeping in New York. I bet they’re sleeping all over America.”

Overcome by the pain I slam my fist down onto the bar. “Of all the cinemas, in all the cities in all the world they walk into mine. They had to order the extra large popcorn, a gigantic slushy drink, and whispers to boot. Arrive five minutes late and sit in my isle. What’s that you playing?”

“Oh, just a little something on my own” he responded sheepishly.

“Well stop it. You know what I want to hear.”

“No I don’t”

“You played it for those two you can play it for me. 

“Well I don’t think I can remember…”

“You play at a bar called Ricks Café Americain God damnit. Now play it!”

“Alright boss”

Sam begins to play “As Time Goes By”.

“Christ I haven’t heard this tune in a while. Brings back painful memories of a time when a night out at the cinema still had a certain romance to it. Back then we didn’t go to the movies. We went to the pictures. We dressed up and respected the time-honored tradition. Nobody had cell phones or facebook to ‘check-in.’ Nobody cared if you were reuniting with your college pals at some trendy bar, or how much you ‘mish’ each other, paraded unashamedly over virtual ‘walls.’ You didn’t check in with anyone, people only checked out… And when they did, we went to their funerals and that was the end of it.

“What was the last picture you went to see Sam?”

“Crazy, Stupid Love with Steve Carrell I think.”

“And was it any good?”

“It was pleasant enough.”

“You don’t lie as well as you used to Sam. You know it was God-awful drivel. What did the audience think of it?”

“They seemed to be enjoying it.”

“Of course they did. You know what’s worse then an unintelligent movie Sam?

“No boss.”

“An unintelligent audience that’s what. Oh, Who can blame them? What with the dross that Hollywood produces every week…their expectations have lowered…”

“I guess Boss…”

“But I do blame them. If they stopped paying the entrance fee the careers of these unfunny hacks would die and I wouldn’t be three quarters of a way through a bottle of Jack. I saw that Avengers tonight. Highest grossing opening weekend since Harry Potter they tell me. Where did all the money go? I’ll tell you where it went. Into a bunch of high-powered effects that’s intended to distract you from a lack of meaningful plot and one-dimensional characters.  The only character I found half believable was that green angry fella.” 

“The Hulk?”

“Yeah him…the only character I could relate to. Course I might have enjoyed it a little better if the guy sitting a couple of seats down from me wasn’t performing fellatio on his straw that  protruded out of his oversized slush. If he’d exhibited the same kind of skills on the strip they’d call him Roxanne.”

“You don’t have to put on the red light” sang one of the drunks across the bar as if a dog howling to the moon.” The bar fell silent for a moment.

I continued, “Anyway, I gave him the quarter head turn, then the half head turn, and he still carried on sucking away. His goddamn slush was empty by the second trailer. We all knew it. But he just continued to slurp away at the goddman thing like he was Daniel Day Lewis sucking for oil. And always at the most inappropriate times, right over important dialogue. You think people would exhibit some restraint in their eating habits during the more intimate moments of a film…. not that there were many in The Avengers. Just a bunch of explosion and action scenes followed by some nauseatingly smug quips from Robert Downey Junior.”

“I thought he was kinda funny boss”

Ignoring Sam I continued, “Oh who am I kidding, all the romance of it is dead. It died a long time ago when the cell phone was born and social networking became second nature. People’s attentions spans lasted longer then a music video. Comedy wasn’t reduced to a bunch of bridesmaids getting diarrhea…the genius of that. These days going to the pictures is like flying economy class. Leg room has been reduced, ticket prices have gone up, you’re forced to sit next to people that aren’t fit for a zoo and just when you’re about to get comfortable some little blue light flickers in the corner of your eye, accompanied by a loud whisper that says, “'Excuse me I have to use the toilet again…'I might as well wait for the movie to come out on DVD.

“You’re only saying this because you’re drunk and…”

“I’m saying it because its true! I sit in these theaters watching these pathetic excuses for public service announcements that urge the audience in vein to turn their cellphones off, and somehow it never gets through. That’s because they’re never hard hitting enough. If I had my way Christian Bale would accompany me to every film and if anyone so much as uttered a word over a piece of dialogue they’d have the Terminator to deal with. I public humiliation fit of an angry Mel Gibson.  But they’ll never do something like that of course because the companies that own the cinemas couldn’t care what you do once you’ve paid the price of admission. ‘Set the fucking reptiles loose on each other’ they’ll say, ‘as long as the movie makes budget.’"

A thud is heard as another one of the drunks falls off his stool.

“And yet week in week out I return to these relics is the naïve hope that it’ll be different this time. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon... Soon I’ll go see a picture. The audience will be considerate, turn off their phones and sit down in time. They’ll realize that they can put their lives and relationships on hold for a couple of hours, sit in the darkened theater and be absorbed into another universe. Be transported into a world foreign to their own that contains truths so true its as if the dialogue was written for them alone. This is my hope Sam…”

“We all hope for that boss.”

“Cheers to that,” another drunk says as be proceeds to tumble, joining his friend on the floor.

“Sam, I’m no good at being noble but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of a couple of drunks, a piano man and one infrequent blogger doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Some day you’ll understand that.” A single tear rolled down Sams cheek as he chimed out the final notes of ‘As Time Goes By.”

“Now now,” I commiserated, “Here’s looking at you kid.” And raised a toast to hoping.

END 

[soloburn]

Embellish A Little

Dear Fellow Burners,

Recently a friend of mine got involved in a rather nasty cycling accident resulting in two broken arms. This was during the 5 Boroughs Bike Race in and around New York City. Apparently he had a momentary lapse of concentration (probably admiring some passing by fun-bags on the side of the road – not confirmed), which resulted in his foot getting caught in his front wheel and the subsequent tumble.

Naturally I was sympathetic but advised that he might change up his story a little. There’s nothing particularly heroic or interesting about getting your foot caught in your front wheel regardless of the size of the fun bags, which I imagine must have been fairly substantial (wait...lets imagine them for a little bit longer. Yeah, they must have been glorious). Embellish a little, I said. This story could work to your advantage and maybe even get you laid. 

This is what I suggested he might say:

It was a dark and gloomy day in cold, scary Brooklyn as you sped along the route of the 5 Boroughs Bike Race, avoiding bullets, discarded Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, and other natural hazards of the borough, in your single minded pursuit for victory. Though this race was for more than victory. It was for little Jimmy, for little Kimmy and all the other sweet, sweet kids at the St George’s Children’s Hospital that needed your support. The race was going well. Your legs were a little sore from the marathon you ran for the St. Bartholomew’s orphanage the previous night but all things considered you were making good time. Seemingly out of nowhere, a little boy ran into your path, chasing his labrador puppy, (though in Brooklyn odds are it would have been a malnutritioned midget hipster OR Gary Coleman and Urkels love child chasing a rat – but as I said embellish a little). Cars rushed towards you in the opposite lane but you had no other choice but to swerve into the oncoming traffic. You plowed straight into a black Escalade, which sent you flying a good 10 feet in the air. The Escalade lost control and slammed into an out-of-order fire hydrant.

The driver seemed to be ok but the car was a right off. After dragging yourself up from the glass littered tar, you noticed the drivers face for the first time. It was none other then FBI’s most wanted, Miguel Juan Antonia Ortega also known as El Puma or The Puma, (who you’d recognized from an interesting and informative documentary on "The War On Drugs" which aired a couple of nights ago on Discovery). Instinctively you made a b-line for the escaped drug trafficker come-murder. You chased him right down into the 'Marcy Avenue' subway. Driving through the people, you lost him briefly and somehow you found yourself on opposite platforms, starring each other down. You would have pulled out your 9mm at that point but you'd left your piece at home after watching an interesting and informative documentary on Discovery entitled "The War On Guns".

Miguel gave you a dirty grin as a train approached on his side. There wasn't enough time to cross the platforms using the stairs or tunnel, so you decided to leap across… a ‘leap of faith’ if you will. Your whole life flashed before your eyes as the distant train galloped towards you. You remembered all the charity work you did on your 'Gap Yah’ in South America and Sniffles, your Belgian Corgy, that had passed on when your were eight. You remembered your favorite meal, cooked by your Mom and the first pass of a football with your Dad, which ultimately lead to a brief but eventful two-year professional career at Fulham FC. (Nobody would question the validity of this because know one really knows who's playing for Fulham FC at any given time or cares.) You remembered the first time you made love to your first and only love of your life but simultaneously had something of an epiphany, realizing that you could love again as long as you 'believed' and found the 'right' girl... [At this point, you take a sip of your beer and look into the distance reflectively].

[Returning to the story], Miraculously, you landed on the other platform missing the hurtling train by inches.  Miguel wore a stunned look on his face as he entered the train, amazed by your heroism. You scrambled up and gave chase into subway car. Chasing him from car to car, Jason Bourne style, you found yourself at the final car and seemingly had El Puma cornered. "The games up Miguel!" you said, “You can’t keep running for the rest of your days!” "You'll never get me alive" responded a defiant but worn out Puma. He made a dive for the door just before the train departed. Wedged between the doors, he struggled to get out as you tugged to get him back in. The train started to move. With one last push Miguel somehow managed to squeeze out the jammed doors. "You see amigo, no one can stop El Puma!" But you still had a grip on him as the train accelerated out of the station, your arms protruding out the doors. You weren’t going to let go now. "Let go" shouted Miguel. "Let go you son-of-a-bitch. But you defiantly held on. "I'm invincible!" he yelled, “invincible!”

"No Miguel,” you said calmly, “You're just another brick in the wall!" [INSERT CLASSIC QUOTE HERE.] BANG

You might want to work on this line a little. Perhaps something more cutting. Something Arnold or Christian Bale would be proud to deliver. Something like... "lets see if cats really do land on there feet, El Pumo"....which doesn't really make sense since he's not really falling  but rather being slammed into a wall at high speed.

[CONTINUED] as you ‘delivered this timely quote, Miguel smashed into the oncoming wall along with your now, dislocated and broken arms. You fell back to the floor of the train, panting and in pain. Your arms dangling like pool noodles from your shoulders. [PAUSE briefly].

You never did find out if Miguel survived the ordeal but you suspect that he didn't. All you do know is that you had a race to finish because God knows that St. George’s Children’s Hospital didn't need any more broken promises. And with that you gathered up your strength, hobbled off at the next stop, recovered your mangled bike, and rode, hands-free the rest of the way, through the remaining boroughs.

Naturally anyone with a heart will call you a hero and buy you a drink but if not, maybe you could add:

“I’m glad I managed to finish the race I guess, but I’m just a little sad I couldn’t get the victory I had promised for little Jimmy, for little Kimmy and for all those beautiful kids at St Georges. I guess next year I’ll just have to try harder.”

Anyway, I wish you a speedy recovery.

Solly

[soloburn]

Blame It On Serge: Requiem For A Jerk

                                                                                   FIN

Screen fades to black.

(Credits role.)

Vincent Cassel as                                                                                        Jacques Mesrine

Vincent Cassel as                                                                                                               Vinz

Monica Bellucci as                                                                                                              Lisa 

Catherine Deneuve as                                                      Séverine Serizy/ Belle De Jour

Eric Elmosnino as                                                                                    Serge Gainsbourg

Laetitia Casta as                                                                                          Bridgitte Bardot 

Anna Mouglalis as                                                                                           Juliette Gréco

Anna Mouglalis as                                                                                              Coco Chanel

Jean-Paul Belmondo as                                                                             Michel Poiccard 

Juliette Binoche as                                                                                                          Elise

Romain Duris as                                                                                                            Pierre

Gérard Depardieu as                                                                                                     Guido

The last note of Les amours perdues fades out. I sit for moment in silence at the DVD kicks back to the main menu. I switch off the television, and reflect. The clock reads 1:07am. I lock up the house, and proceed upstairs to my room. I hit the lights, scramble around for my headphones, scroll down to ‘Serge’ on itunes and hit play - Requiem Por Un con – That should set the mood just right. I’ve successfully managed to stay lost in the world created by one of the half dozen French films I’ve watched over the past couple of weeks.

“Monsieur, monsieur?” says the imagined concierge standing across the desk from me, “do you wish to check out of this fantasy?” "No merci", I reply, “another bottle of le chateau Toulon six huit. and vite vite monsieur. Vite vite.”

I start to fantasize about what my life could be. How my life should be. Why couldn’t I or shouldn’t I live a life as chic! as tragique! as hédonistique! as the likes of Serge Gainsbourg or Vincent Cassel. The modern day equivalent of Bridgitte Bardot is just waiting for my warm embrace. With a little tinkering to my everyday goings on I could become the next Serge Gainsbourg. Bar the fact that I can’t play the piano, paint, speak French or write paradigm-shifting lyrics I’m almost there. These are just mere speed bumps on my way to having a scandalous love affair with Mrs. Bruni. 

I imagine myself five years down the line, standing on a small fire escape balcony, in the bohemian quarter of Paris, sucking on the remains of the cigarette, reflective, as I observe the chaotic street scenes below. Hysterical cackling and the sounds of les flicsdisrupt the silence of night as un con chases another into the darkness. Inside incense mixes with the smell of burnt tobacco and expensive perfume.  A Smith Corona deluxe sits at my desk, next to a half completed manuscript. Remnants of hash and papers lie strewn across the small coffee table, which holds on top of it a bottle of cognac and couple of bottles of uncorked red. A record collection with enough serotonin to kill the likes of Lester Bangs, clings for dear life to the shelf above my bed, on the verge of collapse.

“Come back to bed my love” says the beautiful Amber Heard. I turn around the face her. Her gorgeous, naked body lies entwined in a sea of white Egyptian cotton sheets (thread count 1500). Rolling over she notices something under my pillow. She reaches under and pulls out a revolver. “What’s this?” She asks, terror running across her angelic face. I grab the gun from her, spin the cylinder and bring the barrel to my temple.

“Oh god, what are you doing?” I cock the hammer back.

“No! No!”

CLICK! I start to laugh.

“Oh my god, asshole!” She hits me with a pillow.

Shock still in her eyes, “Is it loaded?!” She looks inside the guns cylinder and sees five bullets in the chambers. She gasps. “You’re crazy!” And tackles me back onto the bed. We continue to make love for the rest of the night. That is until tragedy strikes….

The headline reads:

COUPLE DIES UNDER A TIDAL WAVE OF GREAT MUSIC

Better still…

UNE VIE TRAGIQUE

2016-05-20 17:18

Neil Solomon was pronounced dead today in his small apartment in Montparnasse. Paramedics conclude the cause of death was exhaustion from a seventeen hour-long orgy with eighteen runway models.

Neighbors alerted police when the cacophonic sounds of orgiastic delights were replaced by mournful sighs and wailing. On arrival Inspector Depardieu found eighteen scantily clad women scattered around the apartment in various stages of mourning.

One model, (who preferred not to be named), sobbed uncontrollably as she recounted the events: “We had just finished Jean Paul’s (Gaultier) show. Neil had invited us all back to his apartment for some drinks. Seventeen hours later and…. this. I’m sorry I need, I can’t…”

Another said, “It’s so sad. C’est tragique. I was number eighteen. You understand? I was eighteen! I never got the chance to… I’m sorry, I need… I can’t…”

Informed over the phone of the tragedy, Neil’s father, Peter Solomon, asked as to how his son had died? “He died of over sex exhaustion monsieur. A seventeen-hour ‘session’ with eighteen… well, very desirable women.”

“That’s my boy!” responded his father in an eerily optimistic tone and promptly hung up.

Tributes flew in from across the world. Canal Plus have already optioned the script to his biopic, (suspiciously written by the deceased). It’s said to star Vincent Cassel and Amber Heard. 

By Anonymous

But perhaps prophecies cooked up at 2:43am are no sure path towards clairvoyance. The following morning I wake up tired and alone. No Bridgitte in sight to spoon with. No Alizée to caress. Later I find myself scrolling through the channels stopping on Seinfeld. It soon occurs to me that I have more in common with George Castanza than Serge Gainsbourg. I’m unemployed, I live with my parents and I guess a receding hairline is not entirely out of the equation.

My chief concern that day was to find helium for a remote controlled floating shark while Serge lies in bed making Bridgitte the Bonnie to his Clyde.

This has always been my problem. Delusions of grandeur verging on pure solipsism. The inability to distinguish the difference between fantastical European films and my own life. But so what? We’ve all at one stage or another imagined our lives as one big epic film, starring ourselves in the lead role. These delusions of grandeur are necessary. Its what lets us escape from our mundane existences, whether it be for three minutes, or three hours. It lets us believe that we’re a little more exciting then our day-to-day lives suggest. 

Alas, the time is now 3:07 am. Tomorrow I begin my path towards ‘chic’dom. I’ll rid myself of all forms of technology. Begin an epic vinyl collection. Take up smoking two packs a day, drinking three bottles of wine, embrace a life of hedonism and get off all forms of social networking. After all, no one checks-in (online) at the Chateau Marmont despite what The Eagles might have you believe.

And as I become increasingly more pretentious, trapped in my own self-delusion don’t pass judgment or blame me. Blame it on summer nights in November. Blame it on French New Wave Cinema, on Bardot, on Gréco, on Cassel or Serge. After all, this is a requiem pour un con.

[soloburn]

Breaking Up With A City

Dear Fellow Burners,

The five stages of grief read like the last few months of my life. These stages are: denial, anger, bargaining*, depression, and acceptance. What’s worse is I haven’t quite reached acceptance yet. I’m still wallowing in the depression phase of it all with brief interludes of extreme highs, disguised as denial. In fact, I’ve been in denial so long that I’ve had to skip past anger, done a little bargaining in the form of booking a trip to New York, and now I find myself wallowing in a black hole of depression. I guess the only consolation -the light at the end of the Holland tunnel if you will - is that thing called ‘acceptance,’ not to be mistaken with New Jersey. Being that as it may, due to city wide power outages, (#3rdWorldProblems), the light is currently not working and I find myself stumbling along in the dark, with no direction home.

There being no light I spend most of my days living in some empty nostalgic haze dreaming of what once was. Baz Lurhman said in that ‘Sun Screen’ song that nostalgia is a way of fishing away the past from the disposal, whipping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more then its worth. Or was the advice? Either way, New York and my two-year love affair with her, didn’t really have too many ugly parts. Oh sure, she’s got her problems. Garbage bag aromas on a stinking hot day in August that manages to ruin that perfect Marilyn Monroe moment, as some unsuspecting beauty steps over a subway grid; the fire engine catching you off guard as it blasts its horn into your ear, causing your head and heart to throb like an obese woman caught in a lasso; the jerk who jumps in front of you to steal your cab on a freezing January night; February in general; Wall street preppy’s; the tattooed up hipster in your local coffee shop who insists on playing Regina Spektor all day – I know she’s quirky and so are you. We get it! Now return to your old school game boy strapped around your neck, and throw something on the speakers that doesn’t resemble your non-prescription glasses or ironic moustache. (Oops there’s some of that anger).

But for me our time together was just mostly good. Free comedy shows with Zach Galifianakis; watching The Dude abide on the Brooklyn promenade with a lit up Manhattan skyline in the background; Method Man crowd surfing; Julian Casablancas crowd surfing; The Gorillaz at MSG; The Black Keys at a ‘secret location’; James Blake in Williamsburg; Woody Allen films on opening weekend; The Yankees in the Bronx; supporting Spain in a German beer garden; Halloween; Halloween again; Santacon; Christmas and a desperate, yet ultimately feeble attempt, to find small town girls in fur boots, huddled around a roaring fire, with whiskey filled coco and an inviting smile; joy riding around the city in a coupe; The Frying Pan on a sunny weekend evening; conversations with ‘pizza’ girl; watching an ‘ex-cheer leader’ demonstrate her ‘skills’ in a closed off Thompson’s Square Park; Boom Bar; the girl that got away at Boom Bar; cheering on Luis Goodman as he makes his way down St Marks; Hurricane Clemze; Sasha visits; Emma visits; screening my thesis to a bunch of strangers and some friends; porn star conversations; singing ‘Where The Streets Have No Name’ on an empty Wall Street without even a hint of irony; Summerstage; being ‘caught out’ at the Standard; The Standard Beer Garden; dinner and breakfast with the face of Africa (thanks pops); Ludlow street; rooftop bars; Chelsea market; fake plastic trees on fake plastic beaches; pub crawling with the rugby team; the return of Lauren Hill; Wu Tang, Wu tang,  the list goes on and on.

Like any relationship there are far too many memories to recount them all into something manageable. But it’s never the big events that one remembers most. It’s those moments in between. Life is what happens when you’re making plans. Closing a restaurant over shallow or heavy dinner conversations; watching the city being reduced to a small town by massive snow storms and the snowball fights that ensue; walking home on a Friday evening, ipod in hand, a cold beer or whiskey waiting for you when you get back; the first bite into a chipotle burrito, (never did get to the last); sitting in a plunge pool on a mates roof; bike rides up the Hudson; sitting on 2 Gold rooftop talking shit; watching the boats go up and down the Hudson as Lady Liberty gives you a cheeky wink; dolphin taming and dolphin training conversations; mancunian swagger; retelling stories of the previous night with old pals on couches, while you slug back a couple of myprodols and prepare yourself for another adventure filled day; brunch by yourself; brunch with friends; people watching at BUA; people watching in general; meeting some of the craziest, coolest, most full of shit people I’ve ever come across,  MOMA days and nights; beer pong; flip cup; flip pong; the Manhattan skyline; having an accent – “Why yes I do have an accent and yes I suppose it is kind of enduring the way I use words like ‘inconvenient’ and ‘howzit’. By Jove look at the time. Best be putting the kettle on the boil. I’m yearning for a fresh cuppa. Freshen your drink guvna? Howzit bru. Your place or mine?”

I encounter these memories on a daily basis all of which seem to come flooding back on some idle week night. I’m tempted to text New York. Send her inappropriate messages that I’ll end up regretting in the morning and sometimes I do. The only consolation is that one day I won’t get horribly drunk, stumble into New York again in some dive bar, and make an ass of myself, saying, “Look at me now New York. Look at what I’ve become. I’ve found a new woman, that’s better then you. She has more fire, more excitement, more charisma then you’ve ever had. Her names Wanda.  Rrrrrraaaaa wanda to you!”

But I guess I’m slowly coming to terms with the ultimate burn. New York was never mine to begin with, even though she made me feel that way. The moment I stepped off the tarmac she’d moved on. She’d already made plans for that night and weekend ahead. Cavorting with her many other lovers. Slut! But I guess that’s why I was attracted to her in the first place. I’m always been attracted to ‘free spirited women’ I can’t have…

And while I still refuse to accept that we don’t ultimately belong together I’m not going to revert to anger. There’s nothing to be angry about. New York City and the people in it have given me the best years of my life. How could I be angry with someone like that? She might have moved on a little, her inhabitants changed, her tastes evolved, but her glorious, imperfect, edifices remain and will for some time. Her intoxicating energy will endure through thick and thin, and one day I shall return to continue my love affair with the city that’s given me all of her greatness and then some.

Wait, I think I see a light….

*Bargaining refers to: trying to establish a new relationship. This usually involves trying to be friends with your ex which generally doesn't work out.

[soloburn]

The Deep Burn - Gym

Note: This post might make more sense if you have seen the music video to System Of A Down's "Chop Seuy" - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CSvFpBOe8eY.

Dear Fellow Burners, 

Recently I started attending the gym located at the bottom of our building. And with each visit something unexplainable happens to me. As I enter that cold dark arena of grunting, snorting and all around male bravado an unknown aggression inside me builds. The sound of metal clunking together, the sight of teeth gnashing. Crazed beasts marching up and down, ipods in hand, chests puffed out, only broken by the sight of a couple of girls jogging effortlessly on treadmills in the background. Their bosoms rolling like vast swells in a violent ocean. Its impossible not to notice them as mirrors surround you in every direction you look. As a result you unconsciously find yourself competing for their approval.

In the mist of all of this the atmosphere could only be described as ‘tense.’ So much so that at any moment all hell could break loose kicking off into some sort of chaotic mosh pit reminiscent of a Metallica concert or the video for System Of A Down’s ‘Chop Seuy’*.

On one such occasion I founded myself more aggravated then most. I’d already made a dismal attempt at the bench press. Now to move on to curls. I walked over to the weight shelf, eyes down, trying to keep my feelings of angst toward my fellow ‘gymers’ to a minimum. 17.5 will do just fine for curls today. The Japanese version of Hercules stepped up next to me. We glanced at each other. He looked down at the 17.5’s smirking arrogantly. I wanted to knock his head off right then and there, but in my heart of hearts I knew I didn’t stand much of a chance against this pumped up bastard. Move along you sonofabitch, I thought. Go do some stretching. Yeah that’s right. Run along. Amber on the treadmill was now in clear view so naturally I skipped over the 17.5’s and moved straight to the 35’s. Way above what I am capable of lifting, but I got caught up in the moment. I struggled over to the only free bench located in amongst the ‘chamber of mirrors.’ Japandroid from earlier was sitting on the bench next to me. Great I thought. What exactly is he doing? Mocking me? Taunting me! He’s certainly not doing any 'gyming.' The desire to fight him grew stronger. I envisioned tearing off my Nike ‘dry fit’ shirt and in one brisk movement ripping his head off. Amber on the treadmill having seen my brute strength would wonder over, at which point we’d ravish each other right there on the bench.

Snap out of it I thought. Ignore these horrible urges. Just concentrate on the task at hand. Lifting a mountain of weights without shitting out your own intestines.But still that bastard starred at me. He expected me to fail but by god man I wasn’t about to give up now. Not today. Amber on the treadmill will be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine.

All right that’s it. Get your back straight. Arms rigid. Looking good. Now easy does it… ‘Onnnnnneeeeeeee.’ That’s right baby. You’ve got this. ‘Spaniard, Spaniard, Spaniard. Channel Gladiator.’ “Tttttttwwwwooooo.” Almost there. My arm felt like it was going to snap at any moment but I kept my eyes on the prize. Eyes on the price? Who says that? Who am I?

“Threeee,” My face was slowly turning the color of a turnip. “Fouuuuur” Almost half way. “Fiiiiiiii” My right arm collapses under the weight, inciting laughter from Jerkulese who’d been watching all along.

Are you laughing at me? I said.“What?” Replied Jerkulese.“Yeah that’s right. You! You think I’m funny? You think this is a joke?" “Well…”“Cause if you think for a second that the girl from 4501 likes you, you’ve got another thing coming.”“What?” said Amber in astonishment, “how do you know where I live?” “Whatever,” responded Jerkulese, “Amber’s been eyeing me out all week. Amber needs a real man. That can lift ‘real weights.’ Not a skinny boy like you.”“How do you know my name?” asked a bemused Amber. Ignoring her I responded, “Amber doesn’t need another beefcake. She needs a man with style. With intelligence. With substance. “Oh really,” says Jerkulese, “and I suppose you’re the one to give it to her?” I rose up to meet the Goliath. We squared off like two cowboys in a dual. I could hear The Good, The Bad and the Ugly score whistling through my head. “Waaa, waaa, waaa”. “What was that?” Said Jerkulese. “You shut up!” I snapped, and with that I lurched at him. He elegantly moved to the right, sending me crashing into a giant inflatable stretch ball. I rebounded back off the ball as if in a wrestling ring, and hurtled towards him, arm out. “Close line. Bam!”

He lay helplessly on the cold ground. But I wasn’t done yet. An excitable crowd had built up around us, and I was going to give them what they wanted. I climbed up the weight shelf, standing on top of it, ready to jump onto the barely conscious Jerkulese.

“Jump” one shouted. “Crush him,” yelled another.. “Spaniard, Spaniard,” they began to chant. I looked around at the rows of gnashing teeth and clenched fists. What was I doing I thought. What had I become? I looked down at them with distain. “Are you entertained?” I asked them. “Is this not why you are here?” There was much grunting but no discernable response. I leapt forward. There was a hush as I flew through the air. I came crashing down next to Jerkulese's lame body with a thud. Fortunately a mat was there to cushion my fall. The crowd sighed, disappointed by my change of heart. I got up and offered out a hand of support, “Let me help you up my friend.”

He smirked and kicked violently at my ankles. I went tumbling down. Jerkules jumped up, rising over me. “Finish him” they cried. His fist came down like a hammer hurtling towards my face. I moved out of the way just in time, grabbed him in a headlock and in one brisk movement sent a knife slicing through his well-groomed ponytail.

He smirked and kicked violently at my ankles. I went tumbling down. Jerkules jumped up, rising over me. “Finish him” they cried. His fist came down like a hammer hurtling towards my face. I moved out of the way just in time, grabbed him in a headlock and in one brisk movement sent a knife slicing through his well-groomed ponytail.

“Last Samurai my ass” I said, holding up the loose ponytail in triumph.There was a moment of silence. A look of pure disbelief swept over the crowd as the ponytail swayed in my hand.

“Well, that’s incredibly racist,” said one onlooker.“He’s not even Japanese!” said another. “Where did he get the knife?” inquired a third.

What have I become, I thought. Dear God what is this place turning me into. “You have disgraced yourself and your family,” said Jerkulese. I looked around at the sweaty men, judging me. “Its this gym.” I said, “These weights. All this testosterone clogging up the air. It’s messing with my head.” I broke down onto the ground, looking up to the heavens in despair.

“Father,” I sang, “why have you forsaken me? In your eyes forsaken me, in your thoughts forsaken me.” Jerkulese looked at me with pity, seeing the utter despair in my eyes. He dropped to one knee and joined in, “in your heart forsaken me”. All the men inspired by this moment of camaraderie embraced. Like a choir, we looked up the heavens and sang the chorus to Chop Seuy, “trust in our self righteous suicide, weeee cry when angels deserve to die, in our self righteous suicide. We cry, when angels deserve to die.”

There was an eerie, silence as twenty or so sweaty men, arm in arm stared toward the ceiling waiting for some kind of divine revelation but nothing came.

Eventually the door to the gym opened and in came a vision far more inspiring then an angel. The girl from 3604, clad in light blue hot pants and a white tank top. Men broke off quickly so as not to appear awkward, returning to their gym equipment with gusto. Much grunting and snorting ensued. 

“She looks like fun ey?” I said to my disheveled looking comrade.“She’s mine you son of a bitch”I looked down, clenching my fists in rage, and made for the showers.

END

[soloburn]

That Wallace Sure Does A Lot Of Meeting

Dear Fellow Burners,

A friend of mine shared this with me the other day. He happens to live in a high rise apartment adjacent to the very same building that he works in. His bedroom is in fact visible from his offices. This has afforded him the luxury of going home for a nap during lunch, amongst other things. One day however, he forgot to close the blinds leading to disastrous consequences. Well… depending on how you look at it.

Enjoy -

It was 11am on a Monday and ‘Bob from accounts’ was on his routine coffee break. Bob liked to stroll around the office stopping occasionally to make small talk with various colleagues. On this particular Monday he thought he’d drop by Wallace and Richards desk. Richard who was affectionately known as Dick, (though he hated being called Dick), was busy and didn’t have time to chat to Bob from Accounts.

"Where's Wallace Dick?", said Bob, as he sipped gingerly on his coffee, standing awkwardly close to Richard. Richard did not bother to look up, as he secretly hated Bob from Accounts because Bob from Accounts was just so smug! "Don't know,” replied Richard. “Think he said he had an important meeting.”

Bob from Accounts reflected out loud, "Ah, that Wallace sure is a hard worker. He sure does do a lot of meeting."

Bob continued to stand next to Richard casually scanning the building across the way. Something however, caught his eye. He squinted trying to make sense of the shape and movements. "Hey what the hell is…. Dick..."

Richard continued to stare at his computer, though now noticeably frustrated "What?" said Richard. “Dick, Dick. Look over there, Dick. There’s some guy masturbating in that apartment in the building across the way." Richard peered over his cubicle and astonishingly Bob wasn't lying.

"Hold on," said a bewildered Richard. "That's not just some guy. That's Wallace!"

This observation caused Bob to spit out his coffee onto Richard, and Richard’s computer. "Oh. Sorry Dick. I was just so..."

"My name’s not Dick you son of a bitch. It’s Richard. Richard!" Richard shoved Bob from Accounts. He'd shoved him again and again. Across the office they went. "Get it. Richard! And you're not sorry. You're anything but. All you are is God Damn smug."

They were now on the opposite end of the open floor approaching a balcony. Bob almost toppling over with every shove. But before Richard could gain control of himself, he gave Bob from Accounts one last, fatal push. Bob lost balance and went crashing backwards, out onto the balcony and over the railing. Floor after floor he dropped. It would seem like an eternity. Falling, falling...

Richard, as white as a ghost, turned around to face his hushed colleagues.  Shaking, sweating, Richard said, "Dear God, what have I done?" his voice quivering with fright. There was dead silence in the office.

"Dick! My God. You've killed him," said Hassleback. “Well Dick, we can't have that happen in such a reputable institution that is Webber and Wicks Bank. “No, no," continued Hassleback, "Can’t have that. If we were to go around pushing every smug in-house accountant out of the window to their inevitable deaths, lets just say that the IRS would be up to their guts in audits." The whole office laughed at this.

"I'm sorry Dick, but we're going to have to let you go."

"But sir, its Wallace. Wallace was...."

"Now now Dick. Don't blame it on Wallace. Wallace is a respectable, hard working  employee....".

“A credit to this institution”, said another,

“He sure does do a lot of meeting.", said Higgins.

"To true.”  Continues Hassleback. “Speaking of which, looks like we’ll have to give that promotion to Wallace now, since well, Dick’s a murderer and all. Where is that son of a gun?”

Just at that moment a sweaty looking Wallace came hurriedly back into the office, “Sorry fellas. Was just at a meeting. Did I miss anything?”

“Only the death of an account, and a promotion!”

"I got it?” said Wallace.

“You sure did Wallace” said Hassleback.

“But I thought Dick was a shoe-in?”

“Well that was before Dick went awol and murdered Bob from Accounts.”

“That’s great news. I mean, that’s tragic…”

“I’m not going to miss that smug son of a bitch. Are you?” The whole office laughed, except for the accounting department, who while having heard, and seen the events pass, were physically incapable of laughter, or any other human emotion.

Richard, kicking and screaming, was dragged away by security, made one final statement of intent, "I'll get you Wallace! If its the last thing I ever do, I'll get you!" 

Wallace, ignoring Richard looked down at his watch, "Well, no time to waste," he said. "I have a meeting to get to. Later all." The whole office laughed at this, simultaneously give each other high-fives.

END