Yesterday's Hat

Blogs should follow certain guidelines.
Rule number one : Nothing too personal. This is not for security reasons, its because nobody really gives a shit, it'll bore them, and they just won't read your blog. Everybody loses.
Rule number two: Dont tell anyone about Fight Club. This joke has been used, but often I find delight in flogging dead horses.

I can't remember the others, but rule one is the only rule I know, and I'm about to break it.
I'm not about bending rules.

To get on with the story already

I believe peoples bad habits are conveyed in other things they do - it seeps through to their hobbies / daily activities / rituals / whatever.

Allow me to clarify
I have a friend who has a speech impediment and has no idea he has it. He can't pronounce 'th' - it comes out 'f' (Well maybe he does know.. I have taken the piss a couple of times. )
To conclude my point, he is also a drummer, a drummer who has no co-ordination between his foot and his hand. Straight beats are ok, providing you don't mind the tempo changing; but if you want a foot that can hit at a different time other than the hand, your lookin at the wrong man. And of course - he has no idea of this incompetence.

How does this relate to me?
I have no directional sense while driving. Or walking somewhere. Or riding a bike.
I can stare at a map for an hour straight. I can have every turn and street name memorized, but as soon as I get in the car, I end back up in Karratha or some equally lost geographical location. The kinda lost where you just want your mum around.

I believe this seeps through to my life in general.
Most of the time I think about living as a musician, earning my wage and eating my bread as a musician. Yet I open my eyes to find myself turning right at another forked path of Network Administration, following the sign that says "The right thing to do, 20kms" and I think damn, I hate it when this happens. I didn't want to go this way, now I'm lost and I want my mum.
Most poor souls live their life surviving on the crumbs of 'what should I do next'; apprentiship here, traineeship there. These suckers have no idea what they want to do.

I know what I want to do, I just keep driving off and ending up in woop-woop.

So what is the right thing to do? Find a path and stick to it? or follow two paths that will only get you half the way to either location.
That to me is like having two women, just in case one falls through.
I think you should be true to your woman, coat her in honey and stick yourself to her, roll her around in hundreds and thousands and get her warmed in the sun.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is - girls rock.

I like girls.

Show me a girl, and I'll show you something I like.


word of the day -
crapsicle : [noun] a crap on a stick.
example: "crapsicle!"

What goes around comes around - old Windmill Saying

While a teabag is seated on the cradle of a teaspoon, its string is the exact length to be able to wrap around the bowl of the spoon twice for the paper part to be able to squish onto the piping hot bag.

Coincidence? I think not

Some things are supposed to just work out in life, other things just happen that way.

I remember back in primary school sitting in the back of a year 2 class with my comrades Steven and Matt (my twin brother); Steven intent on spraying the entire desk with nose-goo, me intent on never touching the desk again - watching my teacher tell us things which involved the words 'marmer marmer marmer... marma marmer.... ma', then *BAM* just like a wet tea towel in the face, a vision slapped me.

I remember it so clearly too-
I wanted everyone to see me just appear from out of nowhere, flying-side-kick my teacher karate-style out of the scene. Then, as the girls put their hands over their mouths screaming with their knees shaking in awe, and the boys stood up hooting and pumping their fists, from the sky sent from the heavens a guitar would come flying towards me. I would catch it and just wail away the meanest fucking guitar solo ever to be witnessed by a year 2 primary school class while the lights went bizarre.

As comical as this may seem I'm not making it up. This was the point in my life where I knew I wanted to play guitar for the rest of my life.

The next week we had a class performance to do where we had to stand and sing and do a play. I opted to play the cardboard guitar, but my teacher told me I didn't look like a guitarist. I got a position as a dancer at the back. She gave the guitar to Aiden. To Aiden.

Aiden could not play the cardboard guitar. He would hold it and shake it like a human sized marracca.

I stood at the back there on my small dancing podium through every rehearsal, his every guitar shake a stab to my heart. How he held it- like a massive double cleaved axe from a fantasy novel - became the bane of my existance for the next month as I stood there... shooping to the music... wincing at the rockstar mocking figure... clicking my fingers in time... clencing my teeth.

With my new found direction in life, how could I stand back and watch this? The path I had chosen to travel was now being shat on directly in front of me everywhere I stepped. With his little pelvic swings this one boy was provoking everything I now lived for.

I was crippled that day. There are some things people should not have to endure. Imagine being a teacher and your boss replacing you with somebody who tought your ex-pupils that two plus two equals five - something that just doesn't make any sense. This boy was no guitarist.

Soaked with sweat and freezing cold, twisting and turning I am surrounded by floating faces. My teachers severed head appears 'you don't look like a guitarist' she fades out and Aidens head appears 'shakin... shakin mah pelvis... shakin' Stevens head appears with a nose of a leeky faucet and the laugh of an insane man, which is then accompanied by the laughing heads of Aiden and my Teacher. I see them circling like a merry-go-round, faster and faster, the laughter getting louder and louder. I'm trying to escape, I find myself running down a road made of shit, and its getting more difficult with each stride. My legs are sinking deeper and deeper until I cannot run anymore. The shit road becomes shit quicksand. I dub it shitsand, and I'm goin down. The faces still mocking me, floating around me.
I scream and awake to find I am waving my arms like I am swatting flies.

It was just a dream.

I look down to see a small pile of poop at the bottom of my bed just below my feet, and I think... nah.

Sometimes to go forwards, you need to escape. To leave everything behind.

So I set off to find my destiny, just me my guitar and a road, vowing to return one day and take my rightful place as King.

Ever Forward

General editing: Paul