Musings Of A Pop-Culture Fanatic

Drunken Irish Eurasian

2010-07-16T23:59:00.001-07:00

Drunken Irish Eurasian

All I have of you is this photo

Can’t even see your face

What a shitty photo

Why didn’t I wait for you to turn around?

Don’t even know your last name

But you have rocked Bradders’ world

Bradders does not usually make out with drunken chicks in hallways

Bradders is not usually accosted by attractive women

Why didn’t Bradders get up early enough to get you on facebook this morning before you left?

This is not what Bradders does

Usually just works shitty jobs and watches dvds

Doesn’t ‘put himself out there’

Feel kinda emotionally devastated and mentally retarded

Sort of feel like maybe I blew it

Maybe will see you in San Francisco tomorrow

Find me on facebook Drunken Irish Eurasian

R.I.P. John Hughes

2009-08-09T05:43:00.001-07:00

When a filmmaker like John Hughes dies, every middle-aged reporter uses it as an excuse to dredge up old adolescent memories. Nobody else had an impact on teenagers in the 1980s the way Hughes did, and the ageing Gen-Xers are now wiping away tears as they recall how Ducky from Pretty in Pink really spoke to them. Check out such “back in the 80s when I was cool” posts as Paul Katz’s at The Huffington Post. He was hip enough to have been at the Chicago premiere, and writes, “I was fifteen, a sophomore in high school, and attended with my friends Jenny and Tracy, two girls heavy into the punk scene”

To keep up liberal credibility, The Huffington Post also points out that Hughes’s movies were not exactly racially diverse – although they do add the qualifier “but that’s ok”: John Hughes Films Weren't Racially Diverse, but That's OK

For more mainstream media tributes, see the CBS morning show panel’s attempt to make sense of the significance of Hughes’s like and work. It’s half a laugh:

From a less sarcastic perspective, the outpouring of sentiment over Hughes’ death is different to what you usually get when a Hollywood director dies. If Scorsese pegged it tomorrow, there would no doubt be an avalanche of columns discussing what an influential and talented director he was, but there wouldn’t be the same degree of warmth involved. He never really got to the sentimental center of people the way Hughes did. The Breakfast Club and the rest of the Molly Ringwald trilogy, not to mention Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, captured the spirit of youth in a way that no other filmmaker has been able to before or since, and have become intertwined with teenage consciousness. These movies form a big part of the way we remember our younger years, and our memories from that period are the strongest of all. A.O Scott makes this point vividly for The New York Times, as does Peter Howell for thestar.com who writes, “The many people mourning his [Hughes] passing this weekend are also mourning their own memories of better days.”

Hughes' death also shows the way bloggers affect the news cycle these days. Alison Byrne Fields of We’ll Know When We Get There revealed that the filmmaker was her pen pal in the 80s, which other blogs and news organizations picked up on, so much so that this little story has become part of the greater Internet memorial to him: Sincerely, John Hughes.

Perhaps the best eulogy comes from Ben Stein, the actor who uttered the immortal lines “Bueller….Bueller….Bueller”: he said, “I don’t think anyone has come close to him as being the poet of the youth of America in the postwar period. He was to them what Shakespeare was to the Elizabethan Age.”

Paranoid Commuters

2009-07-27T03:36:00.000-07:00

I had the most bizarre experience on the train thursday morning. Boarding the 9.01 express at Camberwell station I sat down opposite a middle aged man, suit-wearing and respectable looking, who was reading the morning’s paper. There was nothing particularly different about this scenario to any other train ride, except for the fact that I had been able to find a seat – a rare occurrence indeed. After a few minutes the man got up, apologizing as he bumped me on his way into the aisle, and sat down on the next row of seats over in front of a young Asian man with pond shaped metal framed glasses. He began talking to him, and I assumed they were friends. Retreating into my own world of headphone assisted music I thought nothing further of it until the song I was listening to ended. Suddenly I noticed a palpable sense of agitation and confusion amongst my fellow commuters. “You’re harassing me”, my former seat-mate stated to the young Asian man, in a remarkably measured tone.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life, sir,” the bespectacled one replied in a similarly even and nonplussed manner.
“Maybe you haven’t. But this is the same sort of treatment I’ve been subjected to for five years, maybe not from you, but from a wide network of people just like you”
The affable young man just smiled pleasantly.
“Sir, I don’t know what you are talking about, you are mistaken.”
“You’re stalking me,” the other continued, “This is harassment. I would like you to get off at Flinders St with me and talk to the police’
“I can’t right now, I have a meeting, but maybe later this afternoon.”
“Well, I can’t later this afternoon, I also have a meeting.”
The accused jotted down his mobile number of the man’s paper, promising he would be able to talk to the police later, and indeed, even seemed to relish the possibility. The train reached Parliament, where he got off, the suit man satisfied enough to allow him to leave, having drawn some sort of concession. It was a remarkably efficient negotiating process that belied the utter weirdness of the preceding conversation.

The obvious conclusion is to be drawn from this encounter is that middle-aged suit man is affected with some sort of condition that induces intense and unjustified paranoia. But who knows? Maybe there really is a vast network of people out there, following his every move, scrutinizing his every activity. A shadowy government agency perhaps, or maybe he owes somebody important money. Farfetched, sure, but a couple of things bothered me. If pond-shaped glasses didn’t know this seemingly disturbed soul, then why did he not seem more flustered? He seemed merely bemused, as if it were all in a day’s work. If I was in his situation I would have been thoroughly disturbed.

Still, it is without doubt the most bizarre exchange I have witnessed on public transport, and I have both seen and been part of many. I’ve been offered unsolicited tips on how to get on food stamps, and when, where and why to take acid - considered casual conversation on the Portland bus I was on I’m sure. I’ve been shown bullet wounds from gangstas and servicemen alike, one caused by South Central LA, the other by Iraq combat ---- but this well and truly takes the cake. In Melbourne, it takes mental illness or drunkenness to initiate these left-field encounters. The only time its acceptable to start a conversation with a stranger sober is if you are going to ask the footy scores. Anyway, it’s the ‘wide network of people’ that does it for me. That guy’s been watching the X-Files.

Sugar Man

2009-07-20T05:18:00.000-07:00

Sixto Rodriguez. Creates two beautiful albums of Dylan inspired Psych-folk in the early 70s. Nobody buys them, he disappears. Develops a following through word of mouth and bootleg tapes in the southern hemisphere, but doesn’t find out until his daughter reads about it on the internet in the late 90s.

It’s a tale that gives hope to all of us out there just waiting to be discovered: the self-satisfied, self-anointed creative elite - the scandalously ignored artistic geniuses among us. Of course you might need to be willing to wait 30 years, and may only develop a cult following in countries that don’t have markets big enough to financially reward you for your patience.

Sixto’s story shows the kind of luck involved in commercial success. Producing good music is not enough. You have to whore yourself out to promotion duties, which Rodriguez was unwilling to do, and catch the ear of the right radio DJ or A & R exec. Nothing is guaranteed, and talent often goes unnoticed. If manufactured pop stars are rewarded for their meager abilities in the millions, then it is only just that Sixto should be able to afford a nice beach house somewhere. But justice and the music business do not share strong ties. Bad taste conquers common decency, which turns out not to be as widespread as its name would suggest. Yet Sixto is still out there, pedaling his decades old tunes to those with the sense and goodwill to listen, playing the old dive bars he sung about, searching for the sugar man. Turns out you can’t keep a good dog down.

Drops of rain, bullets of truth.

2009-07-14T20:12:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in my car as it pours with rain, I don’t dare brave the conditions outside. If I make a run for the ticket machine my laptop could get soaked. I haven’t bothered to get a protective jacket for it yet, so it just sort of floats around in my bag. It’s a set up that asks for trouble.

Also, if I just wait around in my car for another ten minutes I won’t have to pay for parking, thus rendering redundant the dash for the ticket machine, and minimizing the possibility of drowning my cherished macbook. Yes it’s another horrible, grey Melbourne winter’s day that threatens to destroy my goodwill, but all is not lost.

I am just finishing Hunter S Thompson’s Hell’s Angels, a non-fiction novel that is constantly interesting and occasionally brilliant. I don’t hold Hunter in quite the same esteems as others, because I think he is a little inconsistent, but when he is at his most potent he is unrivalled in the field of creative journalism. His best passages make you wonder why he can’t write with such intensity the whole time. Take this stroke of genious:

“This is the generation that went to war for Mom, God, and Apple Butter, the American Way of Life. When they came back, they crowned Eisenhower and then retired to the giddy comfort of their TV parlours, to cultivate the subtleties of American history as seen by Hollywood” – p 270: Penguin Modern Classics Edition

It’s the sort of statement that few writers could make without sounding ridiculous. But Hunter writes so assuredly and with such conviction that his generalized analysis becomes truth. You can’t define an entire generation, but you can define the prevailing spirit of the times, and its overarching problems and characteristics, which is what Thompson does so vividly here.

I find Mailer and Fitzgerald to be the same way. They lull you into a state of casual interest, and then stun you with moments of zeitgeist defining analysis and wordplay. Bullets of truth penetrate from an invisible literary magnum you were not even aware they possessed. I think that is what separates literature from entertainment. If you stick with it, you will be struck with answers to the questions that cripple your sub-consciousness, even if they never make their way to your present mind. To be honest, there were about five pages in Gatsby that were memorable to me, but they made such an impression as to dwarf some of the far more entertaining fiction I have read. I still think that the Star Wars: Rogue Squadron series has one of the most engrossing plots going around, and I don’t care how that sounds, but its prose style and existential depth holds no match for Fitzgerald. If you can combine both of these elements you are really on to something.

The rain has stopped, but I’m inside now so I don’t really care. That’s always the way though isn’t it?

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There was an article in The Age today about elites in Toorak buying up the properties surrounding their homes. Apparently they didn’t want to have to put up with the hassle of having neighbours. What the hell is wrong with these people? Their plots of land are so big they would need binoculars to even get a glimpse of anyone at an adjacent property. Allegedly, this is a long-seated tradition of our beloved Bailleus. It’s nice to know that the man who wants to be Premier of our state is part of a family that loves Victoria so much, they wouldn’t want any of its inhabitants moving in next to them.

Unfortunately this is not an impersonality that affects only our bluebloods; it’s also a defining aspect of semi-affluent inner suburbia. Yesterday a friend of mine told me that there was a complaint against someone I work with for being “overly friendly”. This city is full of cold barstards, I swear. We’re only happy when we’re being ignored. Warmth fills us with distrust. The only time it’s acceptable to talk to strangers is when you are intoxicated. Where is the sense of being in this thing together. Perhaps it goes back to our convict roots; maybe we’re still all scared of having the larrikin from the neighbouring hovel on Little Bourke St steal a loaf of bread when we aren’t looking. In any case Melbourne, have a little heart.

Anonymity and Hot Chocolate

2009-07-08T22:43:00.000-07:00

I have gone to the same Starbucks a couple of times every week for years, and yet they still ask for my name whenever I show up as if they had never seen me before. The impersonality of the place is awesome, and one of its greatest attractions. I can place myself down on a generic padded chair and be ignored for hours on end. No, ‘Would you like another coffee?’, and definitely no subtle hints to fuck off. Friends are still dismayed by my utter lack of hipness in café choice, but I don’t need a double shot of pretension in my drink. What I need is to be left alone and treated as another piece of furniture, which is exactly the service my ambivalent neighbourhood baristas dutifully provide for me when I present myself for an hour of reading at 5:30 on a Monday afternoon.

The pressure of jobs in marketing or public relations fade into oblivion as customers are soothed by the semi-alternative music aired over Starbucks radio; the sounds of Bob Dylan, or The Cult, or even Sixto Rodriguez. I might retreat to my headphones for a dose of Dinosaur Jr., and enjoy the irony of listening to slacker rock in a multinational coffee house chain. Most others appear happy to let the Starbucks music stand educate them.

In my travels, Starbucks provides a reassuring familiarity in places where I don’t know a soul, recognize a single street corner or possess knowledge of public landmarks of any kind. It is a beacon of comfort in a sea of cold faces for whom I hold no interest. Does that not have some value? For every time I am willing to step out into the unknown world and take a chance, there is another that I simply want to retreat to something I know.

I am sure many Melburnians will scoff over their Chai Lattes as they read this, no doubt listening to the new Dirty Projectors album and looking out onto a Fitzroy street front of skinny jeans and angular fringes, but hopefully they will not choke mid-sip as their throats swell with smugness.

Christchurch, where are your daughters?

2008-11-07T21:17:00.000-08:00

9/10/08 - The Thomas Hotel, Christchurch

I cannot express how much I miss America right now. The contrast between the States and New Zealand is simply too great - it is much too quiet and isolated here. When I was caught up in the maelstrom and vibrancy of American life, I didn't quite realize how hard it would be to resurface from it. I am finding it extremely difficult. In fact, I would describe the feeling as homesickness. America was where I lived for 3 months, a period of time which seemed epic in scope. I felt like I was ready to leave, but obviously I was kidding myself.

Part of what I wrote at Oakland Airport remains true - I do have ambitions that I want to work towards, and I will. If I am going to be at home, then I am going to work hard at them or else there is no point in me being there. Quite simply, I have to go traveling again, hostel style - at the beginning of my journey I though that I might be done with it. I now know that to be far from the truth. Cam is in New York and I am so unbelievably jealous - thats where I want to be right now, not in NZ, Brisbane, or Australia, period. I will be back there in the next 3 years. 27/28 is still easily young enough to do the backpacker circuit. Hopefully I will get there in the next two years though.

I'm off to Dunedin this afternoon, but I am really only mildly interested. I realize that what fascinates me now is energy and scope. NZ, while horrendously scenic, does not have the vibrancy that comes from having 300 million people. Wellington is a great city, but I need to have a metropolis at my fingertips. I really should have done NZ first, which is what I realized when I flew into Auckland in June - I wasn't prepared for America yet, having been so stressed out before I left. NZ would have provided a great opportunity to gradually easy my way into the traveling mode.

When I get back to Oz, I really need to be proactive, its the only way I could stand to stay there. My friends and family are great, and I missed them a lot when I was in the States, but now that I am so close to home I don't feel that same desire to get back to Melbourne; I just want to be on a plane back to NYC. If I am not getting somewhere professionally in the next couple of years, I am out of here.

Homecoming

2008-11-07T20:41:00.000-08:00

20/9/08 - Oakland International Airport

As I am preparing to depart the mainland, I can't help but feel regret. After 3 months, I've gotten used to being here, accustomed to the vastness and the vibrancy of the place. Having spent much of the time in a state of unease, why is it that I now feel most at home here, almost like an honorary American. What is that most detestable part of the human mind, that doesn't allow us to truly appreciate something until it is almost over?

This has not been like the last time; I have not been captivated by a permanent sense of wonder, although I have definitely experienced awe on a number of occasions. The transcendence I felt when I was here 3 years ago has not been as potent this time around. There are a few ideas I have come up with for why this is the case. Firstly, 2005 was my first time on an extended journey away from home. I was 21 years old, the perfect age to experience this magical land that I had so long dreamed about. By the age of 21, I think the character of most people has more or less fully crystallized. You are at your most alive - impressionable like a sponge, but with a personality strong enough to retain the core of what makes you who you are. It was a transforming, life-defining journey for me, and I spent the next 3 years trying to recapture the vividness of experience that I felt in that brief, transient period. This current journey was the culmination of all my efforts, but it has not provided the illumination I had hoped for.

The challenges that have formed over the past few years cannot be overcome simply by travelling. I know I won't be happy until I feel like I am accomplishing the task that I am designed for, whatever that may be. I don't know why I feel less alive and invigorated than I did 3 years ago. It could be growing older, but I don't think so. I think it has more to do with the degree to which you are contented with and excited by your life. I don't think I will be able to achieve that purity of visceral epiphany that I once experienced until I can honestly say that my life is going the way I want it to. Adult life creeps up on you, and existential crises are not easily solved. I have come to the conclusion that the way forward lies at home and not abroad, at least at this stage in any case. Ultimately though, I know another extended jaunt overseas, and in America, lies in my destiny.

This journey, while different from the last, has still been an amazing experience. I don't think I will be able to process everything I have learnt and felt until some time from now. The number of people I have been able to get to know has been astounding, and even better than I had hoped for. That probably more than anything else is what I will cherish most from this journey, and enjoy for the rest of my life. I feel that I have really gotten to know this country well, having spent almost 5 months in North America all up. It does seem like I have been here for a long time now, when I think back to Blacksburg and New York, and it is hard to believe that I am actually leaving. For the longest time, it seemed like there were so many days left ahead of me. It will be interesting to see how I readjust to the routine of Melbourne life - I still have a few weeks of NZ and a bit of time in Queensland before I will find that out, though.

Leaving the US mainland is the endpoint of my American odyssey, the primary purpose of this journey - it has certainly been a trip. So long, farewell America... it's been great. From Chick-Fill-A in the south to Coors Flagons with Cam in San Francisco at the Green Tortoise. From Camel Lights with Evan in Victoria to American Spirits with Will in Northern Virginia. From Moped burns in Blacksburg to hookah in Fayetteville. From reconnecting with old friends to making new ones - I bid all of you a fond farewell.

Blacksburg and Meadows of Dan continued

2008-08-12T17:04:00.000-07:00

After New York I caught the Chinatown bus down to D.C. where I stayed with some friends of a friend who I had never met before - they left the back door open for me. I had to ask the first people who walked in - 'Do you live here?'. Most of my time there was spent smoking American Spirits out the back of their house with Will. We were merely supporting the good people of the Virginia tobacco industry. It is extremely strange but exciting to be having in depth conversations on the state of America and the world in general, with people you have never met before - I guess that is what traveling is all about though.

Next stop was Maryland, where I stayed on a small farm owned by my friend Ted's in laws. There I met his brother in law, Greg, who on a whim I drove down to Blacksburg, Va for a week. It was great to be able to sample the American college lifestyle - Blacksburg is a great example of the university town. Its population is only around 40,000 people, but over half of these are aged between the ages of 18-24. It is extremely chilled out, but at the same time all party come sunset. We got around town on Mopeds and a revolving cast of trucks, sampling beers from all over yonder at the magnificent Vintage Cellars, living off quesadeas and chick-fill-a. I was befriended by the entire apartment complex, and attended parties where I became initiated into the sacred order of beer-pong and various other drinking games. The whole rivalry between Virginia Tech and the University of Virginia even began to make sense to me, and at this point, I realized I could totally live in this town. There was a friendship group I could easily fit into, and Blacksburg has a bottle shop of the first order (the aforementioned Vintage Cellars). As such, it was most saddening when it came time to leave this oasis in the high country. A couple of days before I departed, however, I was thrust into the other-worldliness of the truly bizarre Meadows of Dan.

That day we had been at a local vineyard. Yet the fact that we even able to get there is remarkable, because during the course of that day, Greg and myself were witness to some of the worst driving known to man. I mean, this girl was horrendously bad - turning around to talk to us for ten seconds at a time, backing out onto a highway and blocking all oncoming traffic..just a couple of her faux pas. Her worst sin though was neglecting to take a glance at the fuel meter, as by the time we reached the vineyard we were almost totally out of petrol. Hence the reason for our stop off at Meadows of Dan. Our first inkling that such a place might actually exist came to us on our walk back to the car park. There was a firetruck on standby in case of any emergency, which had an extremely mythical name. 'Meadows Of Dan! What kind of name is that?', our friend Sean exclaimed. 'Yo, don't make fun of my town', came the reply from within.

We thought nothing further of it. Greg put the car in neutral on the way back down the hill to conserve gas, but there was a definite question mark over whether we would make it to a town or not. Luckily, with no help from the locals (who when asked where the nearest gas station was only replied with a barely understandable grunt of 'movin, movin' - thanks heaps, pricks), we spotted a town off the highway, which turned out to be the mysterious Meadows of Dan.

Meadows of Dan is essentially two gas stations and a general store. Confederate flags were for sale, which I suppose is nothing out of the ordinary in the south, but that wasn't what struck me. It was the people. They were just...plain...creepy. It was the Children of the Corn all grown up. Me and my friends were looked upon with unguarded hostility. Bikers orbited the gas station as if on patrol - the message was unmistakably, 'Get the hell out'. Men wore leather tassled flares and carried skeletons on the back of their bikes, the women were plump and unseemly. There appeared to be an unnatural obsession with pumpkins. So we got our gas and got out, but not before taking a few happy snaps in front of the street sign.

On my last day in Blacksburg I was smart enough to burn my toes on a moped. I had been riding around town, and in my efforts to get the stand down (in thongs of course) put my feet right against the exhaust pipe. It was quite hot. For the next couple of weeks I had to change the bandage everyday due to blistering. Oh well, it will be a cool battle scar.

One of the things I noticed in Blacksburg, and in America in general, is the wonderful capacity of people in this country to interact with complete strangers. People talk to one another on the street, in bars, in queues, in a way that makes Australians look like cold pricks. But lets face it, we are. We hate each other. We view other people as obstacles between us and getting our groceries, or beer, not potential friends or someone to talk to to kill time. Its almost like we don't give a shit about anyone unless we already know them. Australia, the indifferent country. When I went to the opening session of The Dark Knight, there was 45 mins to kill after we got out seats before the movie started, so a cinema wide inpromptu game of charades started. This would never happen in Australia. 'What? Interact with strangers when I'm not pissed, yeah right mate'. There was a particularly amusing moment when a blonde girl got up to mime a movie title. The first yell out from the crowd was 'legally blonde', then 'Debbie Does Dallas'. It was a rather raucus affair. There were these total frat dudes sitting behind us who were the source of much beautifully crude humour. One guy got up for his turn and they called out, 'You're a faggot!', 'Could your hair be any longer?', and other such well though out insults. It was entertaining. The movie of course was pretty good also.

Of rooftop parties and Meadows of Dan

2008-07-20T17:04:00.000-07:00

20/7/08 - Blacksburg, Virginia

Arriving in New York was a trip. Upon touchdown, the woman next to me burst into tears - she had just called home, only to find out that her dog had died while she had been away. We had to circle the airport for a while due to a nearby thunder storm, and the descent was quite bumpy. After collecting my bags, I caught a taxi, whose driver had no idea of where he was going. I had to direct him by looking at the GPS display in the back, which was a comical process to say the least. Anyhow, I managed to make it to my friend Heidi's apartment (after having already walked past it the first time).

The first thing I did in the daylight was to go an see Sonic Youth play in Battery Park. They put on a great show, but it was almost as interesting to engage in a bit of people watching - some hipsters are absolutely ridiculous creatures, so far have they disappeared up their own arses. A group of people sat with their back to the opening band, playing cards and checking to see if anybody was noticing how detached and cool they were. I wanted to slap them on the face. I saw many other absurd displays of self-indulgent look-at-me playacting, such as two guys playing dominoes in a Williamsburg bar - and we're not talking about your afternoon pub here, this was a full of life and action/loud music bar. Wankers.

I won't lie though, Williamsburg is awesome. There is always something going on in the park along Bedford avenue, whether it be soccer, sunbaking or just plain old fashioned loitering. Yeah everybody thinks they are pretty cool, but some of them probably have just reason to think so - there is some interesting stuff going on. Staying with Heidi meant that I was able to meet a lot of people who were doing things around the area. It is always cooler to get to know the locals and participate in everyday life than walk around as a tourist. On the night of the 4th of July, we went to a party on the rooftop of an apartment block where one of Heidi's friends lives - it was pretty crazy, fireworks were going off on the roof as well as over East River. Some crazy English novelist started talking to us, first inquiring as to whether or not we knew the owner of the umbrealla he was holding, before proceeding to educate us on the difference in meaning between the words 'shit' and 'shite'.

''Shit', you see, comes from the German 'Sheizer', whereas 'Shite' is more Irish in origin. They actually have different applications. English people don't say shit as much, for it has more serious connotations'...then one of our friends interjects, asking, 'but they both refer to stuff that comes out of your ass right?'. 'Well, yes, I suppose so' the umbrealla bearing novelist had to concede. He later tried to convince me that I should go to Burning Man festival, which he was most adamant about.

From there we went to some bar, which was where I saw the wankers playing dominoes. I spent a lot of my time in NY in bars to be honest - it was too humid to walk around all day.

To be continued.

Be sure to wear a flower in your hair...and carry a big stick

2008-07-08T19:32:00.000-07:00

1/7/08 - University of California - Berkeley Campus

The thing about America is that it's really fucked up. But it is also amazing. It is full of vagrants and miscreants and strange possessed characters. A street flooded with crack addicts and alcoholics is not considered abnormal. I would love to know the story behind the bloodshot eyes and withered faces - many of these guys look like extras from a zombie flick. In my brilliance, I managed to book a hostel in the middle of the Tenderloin, which as I found out on my arrival, is a big mistake, for it is basically skid row. As I walked with my heavy and awkward bags up uncompromising hills, I could see poverty and tragedy in every badly lit alley and street. This is a part of the city that has been taken over by those who are truly beat and despairing. As I walked up one street I saw a drunken homeless man urinate on a car - welcome to San Francisco, I thought.

Fortunately, I had another hostel booked for the next three nights, and I have moved onto the nautically-themed Pacific Tradewinds hostel, which is caught between the financial district, Chinatown and North Beach. Staying at this little backpacker place, at the top of 3 flights of stairs which it shares with the Chinese restaurant next door, has been a truly bizarre experience. It is full of fascinating, and sometimes saddening stories. One girl, Veronica, is supposed to be getting married in 3 days, but she has fled to San Francisco. She has only just turned 18, and why on earth she would be wanting to get married at that age is incomprehensible to me, especially when her boyfriend dropped out of high school, is unemployed and is getting his income through what she referred to as 'other means'. From Arizona, she bears an uncanny resemblance to the classic archetype of the San Francisco runaway. 41 years ago, during the Summer of Love, there were 70,000 like her, most of whom were also on the run from something, and all of which had the own complicated past. Somehow, Veronica has managed to get herself into an extremely messy situation before she has even started university. Her family is trying to convince her to come home, but I don't think she has any intention of satisfying them.

Another girl has dropped out of college in North Carolina to pursue acting in California, to the horror of her parents. She seems passionate about what she is doing, but there also appears to be a lot of poorly hid insecurities under the surface, as if there were more to her story that she isn't telling.

Barry, a South African from Perth, works for his board at the hostel and hasn't been home in almost two years. He is escaping from what he described as a 'not happy time' back in Australia. Everyone here seems to be on the run from something, or on some sort of spiritual quest. Many at the hostel are dabbling in various forms of yoga or other eastern practices, which is hardly unusual given San Francisco's history of spiritual experimentation, dating beyond the beats and the hippies, who held as holy texts the I-Ching and Bhagavad Gita. The sad thing is, putting miles between themselves and their problems is not going to help them in the long run. Eventually these tortured souls of North Beach are going to have to deal with the shadows that follow them around, shackled to them like stones. The boys and girls of America are truly lost.

3/7/08 - Denver Airport

FYI - The Department of Homeland Security just raised the threat level to orange. Also, this airport is freaking huge.

Yesterday I walked around the Haight, which is full of dirty hippies who have absolutely nothing to offer. Ken Kesey would be rolling in his grave, for these people have no interesting ideas about life or how to change the world or their own consciousness - they spend too much time practically comatose. They have totally missed the point of the whole counterculture movement, while they sleep in its cradle, defiling it with their presence. Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park was awash with pot smokers, who are all trying to push their sub-standard green. Presumably the San Francisco Police Department must have more pressing concerns than worrying about a bunch of stoners.

I took a walk up Buena Vista Park, which was absolutely worth the climb - with the fog rolling in across the bay the view was magnificent. The most interesting thing about the Haight Ashbury, though, is being able to catch a glimpse, through recreating secondary memories, of what it was like 42 years ago. Aside from that, there isn't really much to differentiate it from any other strip of vintage clothes stores and smoke shops.

After surveying the out there weirdness of San Francisco, it seems to me that America is constantly in a state of civil war. The crazy, earnest left fight for survival against the equally demented and frighteningly sincere religious right, and in between there are a few thoroughly petrified people caught in the middle. Everything is taken so seriously here.

Looking around the airport, people are all going to so many different places - Topeka, Louisville, New York. There is such an energy about America, fueled by its bewilderingly massive infrastructure and the sense that everything is always moving.

Hawaii - Where Else?

2008-07-08T19:14:00.000-07:00

To Be Continued...

Who Needs Direction Anyway?

2007-07-01T20:56:00.000-07:00

Its not easy being a generation x caricature in a generation y world. Everybody seems to have ambitions and plans and the drive to make them a reality. Whatever happened to good old identity crises and plain idleness? I keep thinking that I am supposed to have some idea of what to do and how to do it, but the fact remains that I just don't have a lot of drive. My only goal is to get to New York sometime in the next two years and to stay there for as long as possible. The only thing pushing me is wanderlust and a certain desire to avoid making 'important' life decisions. The last 3 months I have been freaking out about what I am supposed to do with my life, and the only thing that was keeping me from a complete psychological melt-down was the fact that I watched all ten seasons of Friends (in a period of time so brief that I am to ashamed to mention it).

Basically, I have decided to not worry about the grand scheme of things right now, because that was what was leading me into a crippling period of indecision. Instead, I have determined to get a 'McJob', get some money, and in the words of The Animals, 'get out of this place'. Far out, I'm only 23, aren't I allowed a few years in the wilderness? The world needs slackers to make everyone else feel better about themselves anyhow - its pschologically important to feel superior to at least someone (generally this has not been my problem, but I'm happy to help other people out).

Anyway,

Until Next Time.

Whatever happened to...

2007-06-19T21:33:00.000-07:00

I may be functionally unemployed, underachieved and overly obsessed with triviality, but I still feel that I may have something - or even many things - interesting to say. So here begins the start of an experiment that is likely to go largely unnoticed.

Choosing A Writing Name

I suppose I could have adopted a pseudonym, but lets face it, I'm not sure if I possess the wisdom and discernment to invent one that does not completely blow - that being said, I'm sure I will adopt one at some stage in the future. I've determined to go with T.R. Bradbury - there may not be much substance behind the pretentiousness of the initialled byline, but I feel it gives more credibility than merely using 'Tom Bradbury'. Besides, it may kid people into thinking I actually have some degree of authority to write what I write.