Around My About!

Just a few moments ago I updated my ‘About The Lateral Column’ page and I feel it goes a good way into explaining what I’m doing here.

Therefore, I’m laying it out for you here too!

After reading, don’t forget to Like me and to think of me constantly. Tell your attractive friends about me too, and your boss for good measure.

Here you go!
Thank you for reading!

I’m a writer (see!) and I’ve come to realise that, through many years of neglect and lack of confidence, I’m not about to be the next big thing.

I’m not going to change the world and the revolution does not start here.

However, I still do love what was my calling and I enjoy the feeling of discipline and steady (so, so slow) improvement and so I keep it up here.

For the most part I write when inspired, but my true aim is to write (and upload) at least once a day with something silly and also less regular pieces with a tad more passionate oomph.

I’ve got two main themes:

‘Matters That Matter’ (in which I discuss, debate, diatribe and use real CAPITAL LETTERS) on subjects from all areas which have me feeling that old urge to write).

‘Brief…Therefore Witty’ (wherein I write as a stream-of-barely-consciousness on whatever strolls across my blank mind at the time of writing. It might get a little weird. Brevity is the soul of wit, and these are brief as fuck).

I have a third theme: Lists. This will feature lists. I could tell you what else this’d feature; but you’d need to check the ‘Lists’ section for that.

I can’t explain how much Likes and Comments cheer me and irk me to keep it writing. Please do.

Thanks again,

Sam.


Pick Up That Gauntlet. But Only If It’s Absurdly Heavy

I’ve gone and gotten an urge to bulk up and bulk out lately.

Perhaps I’ve been standing too near the mountains. The show-off “look-at-my-snow-tufted-peaks” mountains. Those “ooh-I-bet-you-wish-you-were-as-riddled-with-goats-as-I-am”mountains. Mountains with an entourage of Sherpas playing fifes in their immovable wake.

Maybe I’ve been too long in the too near mountains, but that’s New Zealand for you…and for me. Still better than the old Zealand.

Perhaps it’s not ‘Zea-land’, but rather instead ‘Zeal-and…’; thereby leaving you with fact that Kiwis are espousers of zeal and…whatever else you’d like to add. It’s pleasant when national identity is a matter of, first, enthusiasm and, second, whatever else you’d like to add.

Like laziness. One could be be enthusiastic and then lazy, 100% dedicated push towards not really being bothered about it. Enthused lethargy.

Not that I’m saying Kiwis are vehement recliners, because that seems a tad racist and if I’m going to be racist I’m going to save it up for a good one (brace yourselves…Scandinavians).

Scandinavia…that’s another common hangout for mountains; the sort of mountains that once did terrible things to handmaidens or gave birth to longboats, or other ancient Scandinavian strangeness.

But to be like a mountain; I’ll give it a go.

I’m beginning with lifting some heavy shit, but not actual weights.

I’m going to improvise variously, such as by lifting a shipwreck’s timber or a conveniently proximate boulder.

However, best place to find a new heavy thing for up-and-downing is a farm. Sure, armfuls of bundled hay and discipline-inducing muck for shovelling, but mainly livestock, for the best things to lift for applicable strength are things that wiggle, and wriggle is rampant in the farmyard.

For there lay the beasts that have the ancient instinct of not-knowing what being lifted up is, but know in their gut they must not allow it to happen to them by any and all means deemed appropriate at the time of departure from the ground. It should be one of those situations in which the animal is so pissed off that the majority of noises it makes are coming out of its nose. An articulate snort of sorts.

If they don’t wiggle or kick, then it’s one of those animals that naturally climb people, like scenery.

Complimentary though it maybe to be considered vast enough to be a place to spend an afternoon (“I think I’ll have tea at Sam…perhaps the elbow region.”), it doesn’t count as lifting. Even if a horse climbs you; that’s down to the horse, not you.

And when the animals become willing to be lifted…rotate your sheep, sir.

Keep an unwilling yet steady procession of animals a’coming, thoroughly unprepared for being hoisted and lunged at the sky as though eager contrary proof against the cloud’s accusing suggestion that you don’t have any sheep to hand.

And the method works! My biceps nowadays…they’re why animals think of me as scenery, like a valley.

You know when the show-off body builders kiss their biceps? Well, I can’t help but do that, because mine are near my lips perpetually, being a bit of a sizeable bother to be honest.

My biceps are so large; they’re near. Near the dog, near the hat stand, near the computer, my wife complains when my biceps get in her light whilst she reads…and her soup.

More importantly…Forearms. You’ll want nice manly firearms, naturally the kind that make your daughter’s suitors know that you can…just…keep…hammering, in a rugged checkered shirt, whilst your beard looks on sternly and bushily.

How illegal is a hammer anyway?

Hammers give me confidence, less son-in-law strife and and forearms that bulge like I’ve got a problem.

Bulging is either a sign of the absurdly healthy (healthy to the point of arousal) or desperately done-for. And I’m the former.

You don’t even need nails, though some earplugs to hand and ear might be advisable. And then, thoroughly deaf, you can show the ground why you live on top of it. Make it pay for abandoning those sheep and other livestock to your lofty ambitions of cloud collisions.

Hammer, mallet, axe; all these are tremendous for the forearms and greatly decreases the proximity of those you want, increases the distance of those you don’t want, and adjusts the altitude at which you prefer your sheep to be.

I say sheep, but there’s nothing more biblical than ‘oxen’ to lift.

When you go ‘oxen’; you’re too-too-much in general terms.

Like as a wedding gift. Once an oxen would have been an ideal wedding gift, sitting patiently as a future grandchild’s inheritance, between the toasters and bed sheets. Now though, that oxen is too-too-much.

‘Biblical’ is a hell of a method of overkill though.

5000 people for dinner and serving just fish and loaves of bread? With some suspiciously watery wine? And then retaliating to a rude comment at the water-wine bar by flooding the Earth? Rounding things off by killing yourself to one of the worst torturous deaths imaginable and then saying to people as they walk back to their seats from the bar: “I’m doing this for you, y’know. How about some applause!? If it’s not to much to ask?! Can’t do its myself obviously, can I?!”

Biblical is one way, but medieval is quite another.

Like chucking down a gauntlet and expected other folk to be suitably insulted by it, thereby picking up the gauntlet prior to you both killing each other’s employees.

If you’re going to take part in that daftness, at least make it a heavy gauntlet.

That’ll do for today’s…whatever this is. I wouldn’t call it advice, as I’m more that chap your teachers and parents warned you about regarding being told to jump off a bridge.

Remember.

Variety and weight. Every day. Check the farmyard.

Conditions are perfect.

Silly enough?

Sam


Donald and Kim; Bunker Kings

This is the beginning of the end?

Nah.

The end of the beginning? I think not…

This is the interval, the intermission, in which you can pop out for a tiny tub of ice cream and swiftest of halfs before dashing back, on ringing bell’s command, to the theatre of war in which we all are about to get a front row seat (aka splash zone).

Apocryphal writing certainly is the most enjoyable! Perhaps it because of the confidence of correctness. There’s nothing better than the burden of proof than occasions on which you’ve got some proof.

And when writing about the end of the world; you’re correct.

In so far as it as an eventuality, at least. The end of the world has been about to arrive since the amalgamation of those two other twirling balls of matter in space collided and, in doing so (and with an admirable degree of spinning), created Earth.

The beginning signifies the end.

But at least the end signifies a new beginning, be it terrible or perfect.

This has been the size and shape of things for our species ever since we became self aware and our grandparents died.

Where on Earth did they go? Is being 99 and riddled with as much disease as can be squeezed in and out of a human body any excuse to go all stiff and allow the rats to nibble at you?

It would seem so.

But now we have a different reason to pass away promptly.

Nukes.

Nuclear war is the war of the most privileged people to ever exist. Only the premiers of nations and the wealthiest of individuals can survive the burnt out horror of the post nuke age.

One bomb can be lived with, as can a thousand more. It is the possession of these bombs by two opposing sides that causes the Earth’s mantel to tremble and turn a shade of green (from pre-nuke nerves, as we all have, to the post splash radiation and tremors).

‘People’ are what really spoil nuclear bombs.

Not merely owing to being the species with the necessary articulation of fingers to be able to raise the middle one in rudeness and then push down on that now infamous yet never seen big red button.

We also spoil them because of the reaction we have to them; all that ghastly melting business, and the smell we give off. Fireman supposedly dislike pork products owing to the similar stench humans waft from within as they burn. I can’t imagine the smell of the atomic bacon we’d whiff off in the fallout age.

Most of the world doesn’t have the means to protect their individual selves from the day to day turbulence of life on Earth; we can’t afford the sheet metal, concrete and luxury of height. Tsunamis and volcanoes wreak as much devastation for the modern Italian as it did for the Romans.

Nuclear war is a pastime of the privileged; those in command of prime real estate bunker at a fashionable depth of 2 miles below sea level with canned caviar to last them till their own stiffness sets in and they can find themselves conveniently pre-buried.

A war of the 0.0001% and New Zealand; wealth and geography, social position and distance from ground-zero.

I used to be a fan of Mutually Assured Destruction.

I believed that those who rose to positions of power had taken a route of hard effort over many years all whilst inspired by the ambition that drives those easily lured by the mix of power and comfort that wealth and politics brings.

These days (oh ‘these days’ aren’t what they used to be), I find myself not trusting the politicians.

A stupid comment perhaps, but my trust in politicians used to be in their ubiquitous self-preservation. This is harder to witness than ever.

North Korea is one thing, but paired stubbornly with Donald Trump…we only know what we don’t know and we don’t know what the fucks going to occur.

Two megalomaniacs, two walking (albeit one with severe gout and one with several solid gold sticks of his own choosing up his arse) definitions of megalomania, in contest. Both with the capability and, potentially, the will to ruin life for all others so long as we can all finally agree that HE is the BEST person.

We are in a popularity contest for ‘Best Person’.

Both knows he is the best person, both are in contrary opinion of the other.

What is unique here is that both would undoubtedly love to be the other.

Kim Jong-un would love to live in America, in palaces suffering from an architect with Midas’ Touch, and the thrill of eating nothing but Emmentile cheese and watching US films all day, smoking and widening; isn’t he just great…

Trump on the other hand would kill (obviously…) to lead a rogue nation in which national edict was to praise him as a god, have every wish granted to him on pain of death, and be able to watch parade after parade of high footed stamp-down marches all in honour of how smashing he is; isn’t he just great…

And these two are locking their squelchy and floppy horns together in a deadly contest of grotesque will and self importance.

The Royal ‘We’ (and all other ‘we’s come to that) are the battle field.

Nuclear fodder.

Here’s a transcript of a recent telephone chat between the two Dickheads of State…

Trump: “Do what we want or we’ll kill everyone on earth!”

Kim Jong-un: “Yeah? Just try it Mr; and WE’LL kill everyone on earth!”

Trump: “Aside from you and me of course…”

Kim Jong-Un: “Naturally.”

Because, of course, there’s no chance either of them will die in this nuclear exchange.

Bunkers are the Versailles of the future.

They could turn their keys and introduce a far more proletariatless existence.

Of course, it’ll be an existence of easily imaginable torment and toil.

Proletariat grow potatoes and beef, proletariat guard you whilst you sleep, proletariat lift the heavy goods and hurt their backs, and the wars of the world are fought and died by them, their parents and their children.

Inherent wretchedness made more tolerable via good wifi.

This being as this is being, it by no means infers that the proletariat are about to start being thought and cared for by their nuclear-proof Dickheads of State. Nor are these wretched about to demand their rightful lot.

I have no faith that they shall.

For this brave new world encourages you to stay the fuck in, sit the fuck down and eat, smoke, drink, breed, diminish and die after allotted working hours. You deserve to be distracted from the political process by the noble deeds of Saturday night television, and it about time you treated yourself to some diabetes-on-toast.

We’re just going to keep rolling forward, like a fat man trying to emerge from a sleeping bag (I could poeticise with such words as “slumber” and “dream touched dozing” but “fat man trying to emerge from a sleeping bag” works better) until the leaders are heroes.

Because ‘these days’ are what ‘these days’ used to be, but I have one hope.

I hope these men realise the horrendous enormity of what might be about to occur.

For if they push the button of infamous bigness and redness…they might never enjoy a drop of finest cognac again, for who would brew it?

An extremely well-done steak of prime male beef (I’m sure they’ll only eat males because even dinnertime’s a contest with what’s on the plate) won’t be available…for who’d raise, slaughter, cook and serve it?

After a hard day’s dictating…you want to come home to the finest things in life, and you can’t have that without the more unfortunate specimens in life…like you.

And me.

So, in theory, I suppose we’re saving the world, so long as Donald and Kim realise this.

And I sincerely hope they haven’t stockpiled canned caviar and crates of Hennessy; those Bunker Kings.

Here’s hoping to see you underground,

Sam


Humanity Won; Kangaroo Didn’t

I have never been more proud of my species than the occasion on which I watched the video of an Australian man squaring up with and punching a Kangaroo.

To begin, this was not one of those cruel kangaroo-boxing charades as per the Victorian era…it was a kangaroo that deserved to be punched and man that deserved to do the punching.

To set the scene of this wonderful moment, it begins sadly.

A young Australian man has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, meaning that his life is a great deal more ‘over’ than the rest of us currently walking around.

This being so, the chap is still luckier than a fair many people; because he has his friends who are insistent on taking him out to live life whilst it’s still liveable.

So this friend takes his very ill pal out to do what they both enjoy most; hunting with their dogs in their jeep.

Here is where the video begins.

A shakily held camera (a shakily held camera is forgivable considering cancer) atop the jeep, Aussie outback whizzing past and distressed calls of the men looking for their dogs which appear to have disappeared.

As it turns out, they had a fear of what had become of their hounds, and the fear was confirmed.

The motor pulls to a stop and a man, the friend, leaps down and begins walking towards what we can now see; a large dog in the unfriendly embrace of a very large Grey Kangaroo (‘the big kind’).

The man is walking towards the two animals with manly purpose; and here’s why that’s brave.

A Grey Kangaroo is about 5-feet-something tall and filled with testosterone and all the muscly meat that entails.

Have you ever seen a shaved chimp? Whilst casually reaching for a banana you’ll see their arms ripple with all sorts of unnecessary-yet-insisted-upon-by-nature muscles, and a kangaroo is no different.

In a permanent ‘look at my muscles’ pose, a lone male Grey Kangaroo is highly aggressive and will happily consider your garden as it’s new pot to piss in.

Along with this, the kangaroo is deadly owing to one weapon in its arsenal; the tail.

Usually seen as a mere aid to its hopping about the wilderness, it is in fact like a crocodile’s tail; filled with muscle and unyielding bone, not prehensile but it’ll make you apprehensile (but only if you’ll excuse poor puns) when you discover it’s trick.

When fighting, kangaroos might look as though they are indulging in a bitchy little face pushing fight, with scratching being the order of the day, but this is not the end all. For the deadly strike, the kangaroo will lean back on it’s bewilderingly now-leg-like tail (currently holding its entire bodyweight) and proceed to kick out with its legs into the abdomen of the opponent.

Picture a tripod bouncing across the Australian landscape, only you didn’t realise this until too late and now its going to involve that third leg most unfairly in a fight.

The force breaks bone, and should claw catch flesh: the belly can easily be carried off and away.

To tackle this takes guts, as it is your ‘guts’ that can also quickly be staining your bush shoes and the kangaroo’s toes.

That is what this man is walking towards, with oh-so-perfect a purpose.

The kangaroo sees the approaching Aussie male, and let’s the dog escape (with which it appreciatively flees).

The man is now right up to the kangaroo, and there is a hell of a lot of testosterone in the air this afternoon.

He and the kangaroo both square up, with the Roo bulking out and the man shaking loose like Bruce Lee as he adapts to a boxing pose.

And then, the man promptly puts his hand though the kangaroo’s chin.

Through it’s chin.

Butter.

Like UTTER BUTTER.

And I’m standing up and yelling “YEEEESSSS” at this, in my cosy bedroom at home, thousands of miles away and two weeks later.

The kangaroo waves is arms in pathetic yet vital little spirals in effort to keep balanced whilst it leans back dependently on its deadly secret weapon of a third leg.

The look on its face is of be-fucking-whilderment.

Befucklement.

It does not have the processing skills demanded of it now to understand the tuned ability of this incredible species: humanity.

Exactly how to stand so as to generate adequate power for the punch, precisely where to aim and land the blow through the now-since-buttery chin of the kangaroo, and the compassion of heart to not have your mate’s trip spoiled by the loss of another great friend to our species: dogs.

The kangaroo is entirely and irrevocably undone by the chap’s species, his knuckles and his good form.

The standing up for your species and your mates is the pinnacle of what we should be spending our time doing and this could not have been better (like BUTTER) exemplified here.

Kangaroo defeated, humanity the victor, this Australian man nods his head in appreciation of the occasion (“Yeah.” would fit well here) turns, and walks away, back to his dog and his mate to enjoy the rest of their trip together.

My hero and yours.

The statement is ultimate.

The next time we have a chance do this this it might be Aliens…so get your shit together, do some push-ups and hug your mates.

Well done sir; bravo humanity.

Sam

Video here: http://youtu.be/FIRT7lf8byw

(Disclosure: A kangaroo WAS mildly hurt during the making of the article, but it was being a bully dick and deserved it.)


Oh I Could Just Eat You Up

I want to eat my wife’s legs.

It comes from a place of love, I can assure you of that, though there is also a chance some small percentage of inspiration comes from a small breakfast.

We have an agreement, you see, in which, as our hearts, lives and bank accounts have become entwined, as have our shared ownership of body parts.

Those are OUR bosoms and that is OUR foreskin, so on and so very much forth.

There are limbs and sundry which have special ownership, however, such as my ready greediness for my wife’s legs.

I’m not sure why, but as time has passed in our whirlwind of passionate going-steadiness, my mouth has passed from open mouthed awe at my wife’s physical form (along with the very decent form of being eager to involve me upon it) to closed mouthedness – with teeth bitten down and much attempted chewing upon a choice buttock.

Probably just arousal, though I feel sure there are connotations of good old cannabalistic adoration…eating the hearts of one’s enemies can only fall more pale to the good etiquette of eating that of a lover’s, whilst I am also confident it’s simple good forward thinking.

Plane crashes were an awfully ‘2016’ thing to occur, but this year might decide to replicate with me dangerously strapped in to my seat.

I can envisage plowing down, cockpit first into the scorched ground of Saharan desert, peanuts and hostesses flying every which way, before blacking out holding my wife’s hand.

Coming to, still with a hand to hold but no wife in sight, I would eventually come about to find her, and seeing this am overcome by grief and an attack of the munchies.

From then on it’s something to chew over whilst considering my future in canabalism.

Of course, this is all nonsense.

Whilst I do encounter a peculiar urge to nibble upon my wife’s legs when I stumble upon a glimpse of them, I don’t want eat my wife.

Perhaps I should simply eat a trifle more (as two trifles evidently isn’t enough…actually, please help me with my trifle habit) prior to our bath time.

This being said, I still do have a degree of autonomy of regions of my Mrs.

We’ve agreed, I get her thighs, whilst my forehead is all hers.

I want her thighs because they are too pure a specimen for her to spoil with some form of “I’m a spiritual wanderer and foot-first hippie” tattoo involving ‘swishy’ lines as if you’ve really got a David-Bowie-starry-summer-breeze on your leg…and a horsie.

Plus they’re simply a smashing pair of pegs.

And she has intentions on my forehead. Not sure why. To hang art from it at some point possibly; it is a rather large forehead and we all have a calling…even foreheads and I.

All this about eating my wife is merely how I feel regarding munching on the public, but I’m not so sure, not so sure at all, about grandmothers.

“Oh I could just eat you up” they’ll say.

And, yes, they jolly well could, but not without a fight and a retaliatory chomp.

Do you have the fortitude to beat off a granny of steadily advancing years and worryingly advancing nashers?

Whilst I’m confident of being socially comfortable with belting a granny about the nose and ears with her own handbag/Yorkshire terrier, I know all too well of chums falling to the dentures and hideously successful gumming of a starved granny who thinks they’re adorable.

Not to mention, these old women are riddled with spare teeth, meaning that they could eat you with dentures in both hands AND with the mouth.

“Ooh ain’t he lovely Doris!?”

“Oh yes Marge, but try him with gravy.”

Most unagreeable.

Personally, I’d have to view the whole encounter as a fine selection of fellow-filled grins from which to elect the most helpful to knuckle heavily before running home to my wife and urging us to eat more before babysitting any potential future grandchildren.

I truly-doodly-do write some strange things throughout my articles.

However, I’d like to remind everyone not to eat anyone and vice versa, unless you find them in a prime state for eating, just remember to wash all hands before cooking. And feet. And sundry.

And don’t forget, canibalism leads to larger larders but fewer friends…not a pleasing alliteration when realising one is a direct result of the other.

So; not chewing, but nibbling.

Sam


Third Article In A Row! Ouch.

Third article in a row.

Third article in a row hurts.

With the get-go of the first and second I was enthused with such an efficient tempest of productivity, less than 24 hours ago, that now I gaze back upon it wistfully.

To begin, after an efficient cup of tea, I exercised in the manliest of manly ways.

That’s not to say I lifted the weightiest (owing to being medically buxom) femme fatal I could rescue and kicked in bolted dungeon door after bolted high-tower door whilst cloaked in a sexy sheen of man sweat and musk that made me both glow like a golden god and reek like the best bits of a bear. I did however, do some push-ups and then acted like I wasn’t breathing at all heavily – no big deal (I did 15 and 1 for luck; I promise).

To follow I made some notes, something I can reassuringly ignore later, like a comfort blanket in the form of a sheet of words that I can tug over my guilt of not wanting to write at that time.

This can be a pickle as time passes. And not a good pickle, like a summer’s day pass-me-the-pickle-jar-darling kind of pickle. Rather more the bad kind, is-it-a-pickle is-it-a-Victorian-baby-with-too-many-noses-and-not-enough-heads kind of pickle.

You might know it as a gherkin (oh the joys of language!).

Then I travelled by Greyhound bus from Byron Bay to Brisbane.

This is normally a tremendous chance to begin ignoring my notes, and I indulged heftily, though my ignoring was interrupted by the need to I wiped the drool from my wife’s chin, blouse, and allocated seating area (when the drool flowed out of this area; I considered it free to roam).

I then finished reading my book, a galant little number about a cheeky doctor and his silky ilk, before beginning a comic-tragedy the Jehovah’s Witnesses had whipped up (featuring some worryingly enthused illustrations, such as a reanimated-to-life woman who appears so jolly at what has befallen her she just might bite every living motherfucker out there).

Briefly Brisbaned Brisbane and bought the brand of noodles that taste just swell out of the sheer knowledge you’re saving money by having a mediocre time. The joys of discipline (feeling good about a bad time) are a treat we’re having to rely on these days.

I don’t care how, but I feel we should also say “noodles” more frequently.

It’s bound to help somehow, unless the osmosis effect is of people becoming more ‘noodley’ and that’s all too easy to envisage. The prospect of shaking hands with a ‘noodley’ man upsets me and my digits. Let’s cease this noodleyness.

Ate the noodles and spent the next hour wallowing in the few cents I’d saved in an attempt to stave off the oncoming nervousness I could feel in my thankfully ‘not-noodley’ bones.

Why was I feeling so? Noodles? Was I not feeling good enough about my bad time?

So I charged away and fled back again; meaning I exercised back and thither, hither and there across the apartment floor, waiting for the good feeling of discipline to take hold.

I would begin writing any second now.

There’s a tarnishing habit in myself and others in which we swerve in attempts to begin work by assuring ourselves we’d be far more productive at a more inconvenient time; translating to “we’ll wait till midnight to panic, by which time we’ll be far too slumberous to give the panic the performance it deserves so…might as well ‘beddiebyes’ it”.

Midnight was still a way away and so I tuned my efficiency once more, as a means of procrastination.

I washed my body and washed my clothes, became diligent in both, to the point of folding my socks and working out the creases by my eyes.

Currently…too much coffee, perhaps the inner conflict of procrastination against a righteous little hobby, or maybe the noodles let me down; in any case I’m beginning to find all actions and choices to be a slope well buttered and I’m sliding.

And now it’s tomorrow.

I’ve slept, awoken, watered and walked, before chasing my bed all the way home upon the discovery of my being unhealthy and not fit for public consumption.

And following a day in bed, I am exhausted, tired and getting the knack of being knackered (testicles are also commonly referred to in the British Isles as “knackers” and this is funny, if a tad tricky to work into this tale…goodness knows why but my testicles were not of tremendous feature this day).

Now my lass is home with me, drooling and occasionally sleeping, whilst I type this out to you feeling sad.

Aw.

Third article this year and it’s a sick note from my self-created inner-mother (whom I’m finding worryingly attractive…hopefully due to her looking like me) excusing me from my tardiness and signed with an adorably audacious yet shaky signature.

I’ll write two now to make amends.

Consider it as writing lines.

Cheerio.

Sam


Vinyl or Digital? Hmmm.

It’s got to be vinyl.

Because we don’t need the Earth as much as we once so crucially depended on it.

I was very intellectually viewing a Vice video recently, in which the news was studied that Jack White (once a White Stripe) has purchased a vinyl record factory in Detroit, wherein he has a workforce devoted to bringing back about the tradition of music being heavier in the hand.

Throughout the interview, White gave his reasons for this endeavour, citing the enormous sales of vinyl in the UK and how music audiences have tired of the “invisibility” of music.

White also mentioned that folk liked moving mechanical parts to their music; which is nice.

I can see the appreciation of vinyl being a visible pleasure, for it was the same when I first purchased my first cd; Blood Sugar Sex Magic by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

The album art system is lost, with the purchased song now having the visible identity of a postage-stamp sized irrelevance in the corner of your screen.

Whilst one could claim that this gives the audience no illusions other than the sheer product of music itself; album art was and can be tremendous.

With Warhol and The Velvet Underground having the audacity to bend minds with a banana, the ludicrously luscious lips (even the tongue is still swaggering) of the Rolling Stones and world starting Big Bang of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (by the Beatles; a local Liverpool based group); these album covers gave an added appropriate kick in the teeth to authority and kick in the arses to those young folk whose attention had yet to be garnered.

Memorable to the mind, and our first contact with the album; the cover art mattered and it still can as it gives the artist another dimension the express and the audience an added bud to with which to taste.

The theme of dimensions plays again when regarding the idea of making music “heavier in the hand”.

The song you’ve downloaded from ITunes, is THE song. You’ve got it and so do your companions.

With the vinyl album, just as it was for me when I bought my first cd; what you hold in your hand is now YOURS.

That’s YOUR Appetite for Destruction. That’s MY Are You Experienced.

Of course, one’s chums had it too, only theirs was theirs, whilst yours was yours.

The album would be clenched to the strangling point of anticipation whilst you listened for the first time, studied diligently and blindly stared at as it revolved in ones hands as you felt what the songs gave you to feel or found a feeling within you.

YOURS.

MINE.

I can tell because it’s in my hand. Yours is in yours.

As well as this, there is the factor of also listening to this music, should you care to.

“Crisp”, “clear”, “acute”, “sharp”, “sterile”, “cutting” – All words describing why you should purchase the latest model of audio technology.

“Cold” is another and is, for me, the definition of digital sound in so far as a pleasure.

It has a place, of course, with Metal and certain Dance and Techno tunes, but people are drifting towards the future of vinyl for the welcoming, wistful “warmth” that it breathes.

A pleasing, deep groove of a song comes from the speaker of a turntable. The familiarity of sound that resonates like that of ones father coming home from work whilst your mother was reading and you were really rather busy in the womb.

The sound of ‘next door underwater’ has, in my thoughts, a direct link to our first hearings from within mum’s tum; a resonance from before you were born.

That’s quite a selling point.

Why choose vinyl?

Because of this, that, and the other; especially those last three.

It’s also tall and wide and round and it spins, all highly pleasing attributes to most physical things and a record is no exception.

The flaw in the proud procession along the groove of vinyl’s victory parade over digital music is that leads to the inevitable and irreversible end of the Earth.

It is a physical thing, and physical things take up space about the planet.

They require a great deal of energy to create and distribute, both of which cause ice shelves to melt as quickly as teenage hearts to a sweet pop melody.

A vinyl record can be found lodged in the corpse of a once highly determined and regrettably dense seagull or tortoise, who took to biting and swallowing once the young chap on the brow of the boat impressed everyone immensely by demonstrating just how well a vinyl record could fly with the correction application of “spin”.

Sharpened well, a vinyl record could be the weapon of choice; whilst the digitally downloaded song is notably omitted from current editions of Cluedo as a method of murder.

And so the Earth will close for business and eternity; awash in seas of plastic discs and enormous and quality album art.

It’s a good thing Mars has all but invited us to call in soon.

I’ll pack in advance I think…must remember to bring my IPod.

Sam.