For those of you who might be wondering where on earth Quack had gotten to (as I have been), I bring news!
Somewhat spookily, I invoked Quack's name twice this morning, then return home to find this lovely post! Life is funny sometimes.
Somewhat spookily, I invoked Quack's name twice this morning, then return home to find this lovely post! Life is funny sometimes.
Though I'm afraid I was too drunk to document Friday night, it was an absolute blast, and began a pretty decent weekend.
Full bloggage in due course - I just didn't want to look at the old one any more as I'm in, I think, a much happier mindset (though I stand by the general point).
Naff as it is, I'm obsessed with this video.
Full bloggage in due course - I just didn't want to look at the old one any more as I'm in, I think, a much happier mindset (though I stand by the general point).
Naff as it is, I'm obsessed with this video.
Life should be lived out in the open, not on the internet. The world is a beautiful place and should be properly experienced with wide eyes and phone away. Today a combination of people power and internet power conspired to inadvertantly rob me of a potentially exciting experiment and a day or two of naive happiness. It was not intentional, but the power of the web is such that the implications of our posts and uploads can have unexpected consequences. I don't blame people for that, I blame the technology which enables us.
We have created something we don't completely understand, and I think we need to acknowledge that, slow down, and think about what we want to use this power for. In our day to day dealings with people we all have an implicit code of practice - a way of living. Why do we so easily leave that behind when the laptop is opened?
This blog is not aimed at one person, and I want them to know that. It's aimed at any number of this community today, myself included. But I'm scared at how publicly we have come to live our lives, and how videos and memes have come to replace heartfelt apologies, declarations of love, passive aggressive anger - not complement the usual methods of communicating these things, but actively replace them. We are forfeiting our sense of reality; it's why I write my postcards, my letters - to remind myself of the real world. I am terrified that we will forget to communicate in any meaningful way with each other.
When I was married, I didn't use social networking at all. If I fucked up, I had to be creative about how I apologised. Armed with sincerity and a bit of imagination, I wrote letters, stood outside the flat with a ghetto-blaster, sang stupid songs...did all sorts of ridiculous-sounding shit until just how sorry I was was understood. My wife and I hatched mad-brilliant schemes to show our love, and when we hurt each other, we did it face-to-face. I'm conditioned to use the tools of the real world, and I wouldn't dream of using public platforms to deal in depth with private relationship problems. Every day I see the various social network media used in this way. But I'm scared that these will replace our traditional modes of expression or at least stunt our natural ability to connect with one another.
Today, the internet hurt me. I love it, but it hurt me. The internet can't apologise. It can't make it up to me. Isn't it awful to be so in thrall to such a passionless sociopath?
This weekend looks likely to be a good one. There may even be happy photos as a result. Maybe I'll post some, and maybe I'll keep some for myself. I might even buy a photo album. Grayson Perry would call that making a shrine.
Carry the fire.
Edit: Since writing this, I've thought of a thousand ways I've used public forums to air what should be private issues. That I'd forgotten terrifies me. It shouldn't be so easy.
We have created something we don't completely understand, and I think we need to acknowledge that, slow down, and think about what we want to use this power for. In our day to day dealings with people we all have an implicit code of practice - a way of living. Why do we so easily leave that behind when the laptop is opened?
This blog is not aimed at one person, and I want them to know that. It's aimed at any number of this community today, myself included. But I'm scared at how publicly we have come to live our lives, and how videos and memes have come to replace heartfelt apologies, declarations of love, passive aggressive anger - not complement the usual methods of communicating these things, but actively replace them. We are forfeiting our sense of reality; it's why I write my postcards, my letters - to remind myself of the real world. I am terrified that we will forget to communicate in any meaningful way with each other.
When I was married, I didn't use social networking at all. If I fucked up, I had to be creative about how I apologised. Armed with sincerity and a bit of imagination, I wrote letters, stood outside the flat with a ghetto-blaster, sang stupid songs...did all sorts of ridiculous-sounding shit until just how sorry I was was understood. My wife and I hatched mad-brilliant schemes to show our love, and when we hurt each other, we did it face-to-face. I'm conditioned to use the tools of the real world, and I wouldn't dream of using public platforms to deal in depth with private relationship problems. Every day I see the various social network media used in this way. But I'm scared that these will replace our traditional modes of expression or at least stunt our natural ability to connect with one another.
Today, the internet hurt me. I love it, but it hurt me. The internet can't apologise. It can't make it up to me. Isn't it awful to be so in thrall to such a passionless sociopath?
This weekend looks likely to be a good one. There may even be happy photos as a result. Maybe I'll post some, and maybe I'll keep some for myself. I might even buy a photo album. Grayson Perry would call that making a shrine.
Carry the fire.
Edit: Since writing this, I've thought of a thousand ways I've used public forums to air what should be private issues. That I'd forgotten terrifies me. It shouldn't be so easy.
There is a weird obsessive quirk to my personality, and nowhere is this more evident than my irrational love of waitresses. You merely have to be wielding a coffee percolator, and I’m probably already developing a crush on you. Offer me a slice of cheesecake and you run the risk that I’ll be asking you to marry me. I doubt it’s any coincidence that Amelie Poulin was a waitress.
Never having worked in bar or restaurant myself, I imagine the job is really rather hellish, and isn’t helped by the loners such as myself who sit there sipping our refilled mugs of filter coffee wondering how to ask you out. I was discussing the phenomenon with a female friend whose particularly tastes run to footmen and hallboys of a bygone age, and we’ve concluded it’s something about the service industry.
The clue, we decided is in the name “The Service Industry”. Across the broad field that this covers, you have a plethora of status/power dynamics, strictly controlled behaviour and developed etiquette. These societal rules can be broken, neatness can be dishevelled and cleanliness can be dirtied. In some cases, there are even uniforms. There is multi-levelled appeal.
In my case, I think there are further factors surrounding my fixation on the waitress archetype. Despite the fact I’ve never been to America, I have a deep love, admiration and respect for Americana. Edward Hopper and Andrew Wyeth are two of my favourite artists and diner culture is prevalent in my books, music, poetry, and my favourite medium, the cinema. From Malick to Wenders to Tarantino to Lynch, an endless list of memorable scenes have occurred once the waitress has taken the order and exited screen right.
And when I think of the Beat generation I think of hungover coffees in cheap greasy spoons whilst talk of politics and philosophies and nonsense that no one at the table really understands takes place on a morning where any concept of punctuation is thrown out of the window so the brew is needed because this stream of consciousness stuff is groovy and what does it all matter anyway and those involved in the heady discourse need the caffeine to help sustain the speed at which their recite their beautiful rough poetry without taking pause for breath and its cold at outside and they pawned their coat for liquor money and there are no jobs for bums like them
Etcetera.
The second factor I think is probably relevant is the attention. Contrived and false and fleeting as it is, for the brief few moments of interaction, someone female is interested in me, if only to take my order. This isn’t to sound self-pitying, and it’s a terribly sad thing to admit, but it does play a part, I suspect, in the psychology of my waitress amour.
Over the last few years I have built a significant and wonderful network of friends, the majority of whom – it must be said – are female. I am extremely fortunate in this regard. Though all my male friends are awesome and special, I have historically found it easier to interact with women and it’s great. I’ve (for the most part) managed this while at the same time avoid all the usual clichéd pitfalls of sexual tension and the ensuing complications and ramifications of this. When I haven’t been able to swerve it, I’ve always been mindful to repair the friendship afterward.
But, to be honest, I miss the validation of attention that transcends the fact I’m a throroughly-decent-guy-once-you-get-to-know-me-and-stuff-like-that. My wife thought I was good-looking, and my last ex became interested in meeting me after seeing a photo. But that relationship ended just as my alopecia was really taking hold, and the admirers have hardly been queuing up since – and while I can tell myself objectively that there’s no link, my heart can’t quite believe that there’s not. Self-confidence based on the way one looks is shallow and superficial and I’m not proud of it, but it is real.
I do my best – have no choice to do my best – to ignore the fact I have no eyebrows, eyelashes, body hair or facial hair and that I pretty much look like an embryo. If I show an interest in someone we both have to pretend that I don’t look unusual, and that this has no bearing on any rejection, even if it might do (this is not to say that it necessarily must, but rather that it’s a possibility). My friends are very kind and generous with their compliments, and it has done more than I can express for my confidence, so that I’m now at the stage where I can rock the look better than most and almost completely forget that it’s not how I’ve always appeared (this self-deception is harder once I’ve removed my glasses, oddly).
But what does this have to do with waitresses? I tend to cycle through a small selection of favourite haunts, and as such there is some degree of familiarity with the staff in each. Even so, when they take my order, and for the duration of my meal, I am in the company of men and women who do not know me. They don’t know whether I’m a nice guy or a complete bastard. More importantly, they don’t care. That might sound like an odd thing to take from the experience, but there can be something therapeutic about almost total irrelevance. At most they might consider me with indifferent pity.
Being irrelevant means that I’m not given the time of day to become friends with the people serving me. The ‘friend zone’ is completely off limits. The percentage of women that I have become friends with as a result of clumsy romantic advances is higher than the norm I would wager, and you don’t, as a rule, become bosom buddies with whoever serves you the chips. It’s a controlled environment with unspoken rules.
If, for instance, I sit at the bar to eat, then its pretty clear that I’m on my own, and if I sit enough times at the bar, then its pretty clear that I’m always on my own. This obvious single man indicator means that very, very occasionally a friendly waitress might idly flirt with me as she clears the plates. There’s no intent in this, or malice – it’s a trivial contrivance either borne of an awareness I might tip better (Wikipedia has an entry loosely related to this emotional labour), or more probably (and less cynically) of a natural personality trait. Central to this practice is the customers understanding that the waitress is completely in control of the tone and duration of any chatter. I don’t generally declare my undying to every waitress that calls me ‘honey’ (though there is one for whom I hold a torch), nor would I ever dream of acting inappropriately. By the same token, she’s not likely to ask me to father her children after I’ve had my main.
And then she’s gone, I leave and that’s it. But she has done me some good. For it is only in these brief interludes between walking from A to B that any sort of flirting
takes place, or even the imitation of courtship rituals occur. That small release does me the world of good.
I love being a friend to some incredible people, and I take pride in the fact that I’m a pretty decent one myself. I’m used pretty regularly as a sounding board for sensible advice and I hope that I’m fairly decent company in a cinch. But there is currently no-one in my life with whom I share any sexual tension or desire. I do plenty of desiring, perhaps – but not of anyone who might reciprocate. There is so much more to me than just someone who can be a good friend, but no outlet for it - even in the realms of harmless banter. So, in this respect, the waitress has become a symbolic cipher for a side of my personality that I don’t get much of a chance to express (at least not at the moment). It is any important side – its probably not good form to discuss it, but its futile to deny that it doesn’t exist.
Oh, and did I mention the uniforms?
Never having worked in bar or restaurant myself, I imagine the job is really rather hellish, and isn’t helped by the loners such as myself who sit there sipping our refilled mugs of filter coffee wondering how to ask you out. I was discussing the phenomenon with a female friend whose particularly tastes run to footmen and hallboys of a bygone age, and we’ve concluded it’s something about the service industry.
The clue, we decided is in the name “The Service Industry”. Across the broad field that this covers, you have a plethora of status/power dynamics, strictly controlled behaviour and developed etiquette. These societal rules can be broken, neatness can be dishevelled and cleanliness can be dirtied. In some cases, there are even uniforms. There is multi-levelled appeal.
In my case, I think there are further factors surrounding my fixation on the waitress archetype. Despite the fact I’ve never been to America, I have a deep love, admiration and respect for Americana. Edward Hopper and Andrew Wyeth are two of my favourite artists and diner culture is prevalent in my books, music, poetry, and my favourite medium, the cinema. From Malick to Wenders to Tarantino to Lynch, an endless list of memorable scenes have occurred once the waitress has taken the order and exited screen right.
And when I think of the Beat generation I think of hungover coffees in cheap greasy spoons whilst talk of politics and philosophies and nonsense that no one at the table really understands takes place on a morning where any concept of punctuation is thrown out of the window so the brew is needed because this stream of consciousness stuff is groovy and what does it all matter anyway and those involved in the heady discourse need the caffeine to help sustain the speed at which their recite their beautiful rough poetry without taking pause for breath and its cold at outside and they pawned their coat for liquor money and there are no jobs for bums like them
Etcetera.
The second factor I think is probably relevant is the attention. Contrived and false and fleeting as it is, for the brief few moments of interaction, someone female is interested in me, if only to take my order. This isn’t to sound self-pitying, and it’s a terribly sad thing to admit, but it does play a part, I suspect, in the psychology of my waitress amour.
Over the last few years I have built a significant and wonderful network of friends, the majority of whom – it must be said – are female. I am extremely fortunate in this regard. Though all my male friends are awesome and special, I have historically found it easier to interact with women and it’s great. I’ve (for the most part) managed this while at the same time avoid all the usual clichéd pitfalls of sexual tension and the ensuing complications and ramifications of this. When I haven’t been able to swerve it, I’ve always been mindful to repair the friendship afterward.
But, to be honest, I miss the validation of attention that transcends the fact I’m a throroughly-decent-guy-once-you-get-to-know-me-and-stuff-like-that. My wife thought I was good-looking, and my last ex became interested in meeting me after seeing a photo. But that relationship ended just as my alopecia was really taking hold, and the admirers have hardly been queuing up since – and while I can tell myself objectively that there’s no link, my heart can’t quite believe that there’s not. Self-confidence based on the way one looks is shallow and superficial and I’m not proud of it, but it is real.
I do my best – have no choice to do my best – to ignore the fact I have no eyebrows, eyelashes, body hair or facial hair and that I pretty much look like an embryo. If I show an interest in someone we both have to pretend that I don’t look unusual, and that this has no bearing on any rejection, even if it might do (this is not to say that it necessarily must, but rather that it’s a possibility). My friends are very kind and generous with their compliments, and it has done more than I can express for my confidence, so that I’m now at the stage where I can rock the look better than most and almost completely forget that it’s not how I’ve always appeared (this self-deception is harder once I’ve removed my glasses, oddly).
But what does this have to do with waitresses? I tend to cycle through a small selection of favourite haunts, and as such there is some degree of familiarity with the staff in each. Even so, when they take my order, and for the duration of my meal, I am in the company of men and women who do not know me. They don’t know whether I’m a nice guy or a complete bastard. More importantly, they don’t care. That might sound like an odd thing to take from the experience, but there can be something therapeutic about almost total irrelevance. At most they might consider me with indifferent pity.
Being irrelevant means that I’m not given the time of day to become friends with the people serving me. The ‘friend zone’ is completely off limits. The percentage of women that I have become friends with as a result of clumsy romantic advances is higher than the norm I would wager, and you don’t, as a rule, become bosom buddies with whoever serves you the chips. It’s a controlled environment with unspoken rules.
If, for instance, I sit at the bar to eat, then its pretty clear that I’m on my own, and if I sit enough times at the bar, then its pretty clear that I’m always on my own. This obvious single man indicator means that very, very occasionally a friendly waitress might idly flirt with me as she clears the plates. There’s no intent in this, or malice – it’s a trivial contrivance either borne of an awareness I might tip better (Wikipedia has an entry loosely related to this emotional labour), or more probably (and less cynically) of a natural personality trait. Central to this practice is the customers understanding that the waitress is completely in control of the tone and duration of any chatter. I don’t generally declare my undying to every waitress that calls me ‘honey’ (though there is one for whom I hold a torch), nor would I ever dream of acting inappropriately. By the same token, she’s not likely to ask me to father her children after I’ve had my main.
And then she’s gone, I leave and that’s it. But she has done me some good. For it is only in these brief interludes between walking from A to B that any sort of flirting
takes place, or even the imitation of courtship rituals occur. That small release does me the world of good.
I love being a friend to some incredible people, and I take pride in the fact that I’m a pretty decent one myself. I’m used pretty regularly as a sounding board for sensible advice and I hope that I’m fairly decent company in a cinch. But there is currently no-one in my life with whom I share any sexual tension or desire. I do plenty of desiring, perhaps – but not of anyone who might reciprocate. There is so much more to me than just someone who can be a good friend, but no outlet for it - even in the realms of harmless banter. So, in this respect, the waitress has become a symbolic cipher for a side of my personality that I don’t get much of a chance to express (at least not at the moment). It is any important side – its probably not good form to discuss it, but its futile to deny that it doesn’t exist.
Oh, and did I mention the uniforms?
Because I either don't have a massive amount to say, or a massive desire to say anything. I'll instead post the trailer for a dance piece I saw an extract of last night. It was truly extraordinary, and I'll be lucky enough to see the whole thing in March. If you told me a few months ago that ballet would bring me so much pleasure, I would have scoffed. Let this be a lesson - it never hurts to try something new. Always keep an open mind.
Within the spoiler lurks a not-very-good review of Shame. So yes, SPOILER ALERT
Intriguing. No sooner do I question the whereabouts of Quack, then I receive correspondance about...the whereabouts of Quack! It's quite a thrill, and I'm incredibly grateful to his collaborator, who I one day hope to know the identity of. Both letters have been a real treat.
Yesterday I did something which, for me, is quite novel. I booked a holiday. Not even a big holiday – just a few days in Paris in April. But I’ve spent the last few years unable to commit myself to even that. Between courses, exams, and the ever-present (and in my case, very real) spectre of resits, it has been impossible to arrange anything because my schedule just hasn’t allowed me to properly relax. That sounds like an excuse, but especially in the second year, every month had something – by which time you were massively behind with actual work anyway. I might try and book something bigger and bolder later in the year, but right now this is a start. It feels jolly good to be free, let me tell you.
I love Paris, but it is my shame that I haven’t been for a good few years. If you like art as I do, then its about a good a place as any (with the exception of St Petersburg and the mighty Hermitage) for a jaunt. I’m more excited about than I should be, but that’s a good thing, surely? Who knows, between now and then I might find a travelling companion, but if I don’t, then I think I should be capable of making a fist of it on my own. Before I know it I’ll be home anyway – but at the very least it should give me a taste for getting out.
I think 2011 ended up being a difficult year for a fair few people. But we’ve survived it somehow, and I believe that this fact alone should give us hope that 2012 will be better. I’m very lucky in the friends I have found, and the family burdened with me, and I would like you all to know that should you need anything I will do my best to be there for you. Never be afraid to ask.
In the foreseeable future, I think the SGUK prom (dedicated to the birth of our illustrious leader, Creamy) is the Big Event to look forward to (albeit sans date), though I’m very happy to be off to Harrogate this weekend to visit Miss Emma_treasure. In terms of my resolutions – of which there are not many (its about time I gave myself a break) – I’m off to a slow start, but I’m sure I’ll pick up the pace once I’m back from up t’north. Or not – does it really matter anyhow?
What are your hopes for the New Year? Do you have any fears? Enlighten me.
Happy New Year
P.S. No word from Quack. I do so hope he’s okay, and not in a ditch somewhere
I love Paris, but it is my shame that I haven’t been for a good few years. If you like art as I do, then its about a good a place as any (with the exception of St Petersburg and the mighty Hermitage) for a jaunt. I’m more excited about than I should be, but that’s a good thing, surely? Who knows, between now and then I might find a travelling companion, but if I don’t, then I think I should be capable of making a fist of it on my own. Before I know it I’ll be home anyway – but at the very least it should give me a taste for getting out.
I think 2011 ended up being a difficult year for a fair few people. But we’ve survived it somehow, and I believe that this fact alone should give us hope that 2012 will be better. I’m very lucky in the friends I have found, and the family burdened with me, and I would like you all to know that should you need anything I will do my best to be there for you. Never be afraid to ask.
In the foreseeable future, I think the SGUK prom (dedicated to the birth of our illustrious leader, Creamy) is the Big Event to look forward to (albeit sans date), though I’m very happy to be off to Harrogate this weekend to visit Miss Emma_treasure. In terms of my resolutions – of which there are not many (its about time I gave myself a break) – I’m off to a slow start, but I’m sure I’ll pick up the pace once I’m back from up t’north. Or not – does it really matter anyhow?
What are your hopes for the New Year? Do you have any fears? Enlighten me.
Happy New Year
P.S. No word from Quack. I do so hope he’s okay, and not in a ditch somewhere
Today, I received this through the post:
Who is Quack?
Who is Quack's accomplice?
Can you help?
Who is Quack?
Who is Quack's accomplice?
Can you help?
