Birthday.

Hey Internet, did you know that it’s my birthday next month?

I’m going to be 24 years old. That’s 3.42857143 in dog years.

The last few birthdays just crept up all of a sudden. God, when we were young – like, under 11 – my brother, sister and I used to literally count down the days. We possibly made calendars and crossed off each precluding day as they passed. Now I usually don’t even think about it until a couple of weeks before and even then, they aren’t big thoughts. Do you remember how exciting birthdays used to be, Internet? Like it was going to be the best day of the year. Isn’t it strange how underwhelming they get, the older you are.

I don’t ‘freak out’ about getting older. In fact, I quite like it. I assume that, for every advancing year, people are going to take me a little bit more seriously, like I was a real, live grown-up. This is mostly because I still look like I’m 17 and always get asked to show my ID in any place that would require it.

Some of my friends ‘freaked out’ when they turned 25 – I don’t think I will. A quarter of a century of living doesn’t seem so bad. I don’t feel like I should have achieved anything in particular by then. Some friends freaked out when they turned 21 – twenty-one for chrissakes. What on earth is there to worry about when turning 21? Why worry at 28? Or 30? Or 40?

Some kids my age – people I grew up with, went to school with, partied with – are married now. They are engaged. They are working as lawyers and accountants and architects. They have invested in property and are building the home of their dreams with their partners. I don’t have a partner. I have a hamster. I live with my hamster and five other housemates in a dingy house in the heart of East London, and we have a lot of fun there.

So I’m at a quarter of my life already? That’s seems unlikely – it would only be true if I’d live to 100. More likely, I’m at 2/5 of my life. And then what about relativity? I could die a year from now. Accidents happen. That would make it 96% of my life lived right now. I hope I get more time than that. I still have things to do, to see, to hear. I still have people to meet. Science tells me that half of the babies born this year will live to be 100. When they get to age 25, they will have lived a quarter of their lives, and they will be sure of it.

I’m not scared of death. I see it as one of those things that have to happen, y’know? What goes up, must come down. An apple seed grew into a tree. In time, it sprouted an apple and eventually that apple fell. It was seen falling by Sir Isaac Newton and then it rotted back into the ground.

Can you imagine how crowded the world would be in nobody died? More importantly, can you imagine how immensely boring it would be to live forever? And frustrating? Technology moves fast. We adapt with it, sure – from eight tracks to cassettes to compact disks to downloadable mp3s – but only to a point.

Have you ever tried teaching a senior citizen how to use their computer? They call everything ‘the internet’. Worse, they refer to it as “my internet”. Like, even email is “my internet” and they want you to explain how they are able to access ‘their’ internet from another computer. After spending hours with the explanation, you write down detailed instructions in case they forget. Then they call you up two days later to say it isn’t working, to please come over and explain it again. THIS IS GOING TO BE YOU. In 70 years from now, you won’t be able to work out the new synaesthesia-based entertainment platform that is beamed directly into your head even though the kid at the department store has explained it to you a thousand times. That fucking kid has is so painfully polite that his patronising resentment is seeping through his teeth. Eventually your eyes glaze over and you start complaining that internet television was better, about what a good show The Office was.

And what happens as the human race slowly evolves? Those damn kids are going to be telepathically mocking your high-waisted skinny jeans when you walk by and you won’t even know it because YOU can’t read thoughts like they can. You can make out cold sniggering to the left of you as you walk past. You feel paranoid and embarrassed. You didn’t even hear any talking. You finally shuffle home and stare, glassy-eyed, at your redundant collection of limited-edition DVD box sets.

—————————

I usually don’t ask for birthday presents but if you really want to get me something, here’s what I’ve had my eye on:

The Hamster Heaven Hamster Cage (by Savic):

(Because I think the little guy is growing and I think he deserves an upgrade.)

That, or money for my ticket to All Tomorrow’s Parties, as curated by Pavement. I already bought my ticket but you could just give me a bunch of money and we could pretend that you actually bought me the ticket. Then for years afterwards, when I relate stories about how great the festival was, you can chip in with “I’m glad you enjoyed your birthday present” and feel real smug. ‘K thanks.

Band.

Hey Internet, did I ever tell you about my band?

Of course, I use the word “band” in the loosest sense.

A little over a year ago, my good friend Jason and I decided to start up a little music project. We would both play ukuleles, glockenspiels and other ridiculous instruments. These were easily procured, myself having been an avid collector of mostly useless toy instruments for years. We called ourselves ‘Two-Headed Sex Beast”, based on an Alan Partridge At The Races sketch. Only one person has ever clocked the reference.

We only have two songs. Two whole songs. This is because we tend to watch films instead of doing anything actually productive, and at least 90% of our hang-out time is spent quoting from the five seasons of Peep Show. Despite this, I tell everyone I meet about our band. Mostly because I think it’s hilarious. I don’t tell them that we only have the two songs.

The first song we wrote is called “My Friend Frank” and it’s about an axolotl. It contains the only lyrics we ever co-wrote. We performed it – live – a few weeks after its conception to a bunch of drunk Austrians and Glaswegians in the living room of my house. The lyrics are as follows:

I know an axolotl called Frank.
He lives in my room, in an old fish tank.
He has hands where he shouldn’t,
I could touch him but I wouldn’t
‘Cause Frank’s pretty weird-looking,
Just like me.

I took Frank on a holiday.
We took the train down to the bay.
The sun set over the sea
And he smiled at me.
We watched in silence
And took the last train home.

And here comes the chorus:

I love Frank, he loves me too.
He’s always there when I’m feeling blue.
He’s a great listener.
He wouldn’t tell a soul.

Then we’re back to a verse:

I met Frank when he was small.
He was just one centimeter tall.
He’s grown a bit since then
But he’s still my smallest friend.
That’s ok -
I’m pretty short myself.

And then another chorus (with a twist!):

I love Frank, he loves me too.
He’s always there when I need him to be.
He’s a great listener.

I think that’s really neat
‘Cause Frank is really sweet
And he has tiny feet.
He makes my life complete.

At this point, there’s not a dry eye in the house.

Not. One.

The second song we ever produced was one that I wrote for my brother and sister for our 23rd birthday. Jason provided glockenspiel and my wonderful housemates Felicity and Maria provided back-up vocals (which are much, much better than my own off-key effort). We performed it at a tattoo-themed party in my house. The party itself literally left holes in our roof, and now lives in both glory and infamy. But more on that another time. This is the Triptych Song:

Did they like it? They appeared to.

Will ‘The Beast’ reform one day – prolific as they are – and delight their fans with other such instant-classic masterpieces of sound? Uh…I’ll have to get back to you on that one.

Windy.

Outside is a swirling cacophony of autumn leaves and people wading through the gale. They’re all underdressed in that optimistic way that only the English seem to be, “well it seemed alright when I left the house, y’know, and there might be a patch of sunshine later on – gotta work on the tan, y’know, couldn’t go to Spain this year, Credit Crunch, y’understand.”

It should be noted at this point that I hate the wind. Because I hate my forehead.

Disliking obscure parts of your body is one of those things. Everybody does it. Don’t pretend you don’t. Like, “I hate how when I bend my elbow, there’s a little patch of skin that stretches in a funny way” or “there’s a crease on my ankle that looks like Gérard Depardieu’s head”. You can’t explain it, it’s entirely subjective. They’ll never listen to you, no matter how many times you try to convince them that they are imagining/overreacting/insane.

I have a high hairline. Not ridiculously high – maybe 5mm above where I assume ‘normal’ hairlines should start. Consequently, I hate my forehead. I mean, there’s nothing actually wrong with it but all I can see is a large patch of bare, fleshy terrain, perched on the side of Mount Head. My brother has it too. We call it “the Lurie forehead”. It comes from our Dad’s side of the family. Dad always told us that a large forehead is a sign of intelligence. This is rubbish. Our sister doesn’t have the Lurie Forehead and she is extremely intelligent – more so than me. She has other Lurie physical attributes that I don’t have. Genes are interesting like that.

In mid-2005, I had a flash of genius. I knew how to solve it. How to solve all the hatred. The answer was this: I would grow a fringe (or “bangs” if you’re American). And by golly – it worked.

There was one thing I didn’t count on, however, and that was the wind. That bastard wind.

The thing with the wind is that when it blows at you (yes, at you, because it is a malicious, sentient being and it knows exactly what it’s doing), it blows the fringe up into the air. Luckily it is attached (to your head), so it doesn’t actually blow away, down the street. I quickly learned that my master plan was essentially flawed. My arch-nemesis – the forehead – would return.

Leaving Copenhagen.

Just over a year ago, my brother showed me that my trusty Canon IXUS 860 IS had a time-lapse video function. At the time, he and my sister were etching their way through the Middle East and Europe, and I joined them for a couple of months. I wrote about it here. He showed me this “time-lapse video thing” (as I called it) and it became an instant obsession.

I made little movies of scenery from the windows of intercontinental trains. I made little movies of people riding the Paris metro.

Come to think of it, most of the footage I took involved trains in some way. I like trains.

I got back home and put them away until, I told myself, I bought a Mac and could edit them with that iMovie thing I kept hearing about. I ended up buying one about 7 months later but by that point, I had forgotten about them all. Until now.

Jesus.

So I haven’t updated this thing in nearly five months.
That is downright terrible.
I haven’t even been working on my portfolio website like I said I’d be doing.
That was a lie. A bare-faced lie.

Here’s what I’ve been doing instead:

Pulling stupid faces at camera lenses.

Eating.

Drawing on myself.

Eating.

Sitting upon gigantic hallucinogenic blobs of plastic.

Eating.

Braving the London nightbus.

Eating.

And driving my car into the canal.

That last one may not be true.
I don’t even own a car, let alone a canal.

Stop living in the past, man.

So I’ve been trying to put together a website for my creative projects (ie. ‘online portfolio’) for a few weeks now. The main concern that I’ve been grappling with seems to be what to include and what not to include. I’m wary of not putting up anything too old – unfortunately, most of my illustrations and comics (well, the ones that were done properly, at least) come from before my graphic design  prep course. At the same time, the course yielded some nice design work but not too much that I can include as actual graphic design from a professional perspective. Dig?

The solution is that I’ll probably try to churn out a lot of new illustration work as soon as possible, and try to shake off the ghosts of the past.

I’ve been going through some things from the past couple of years that I like but probably won’t fit into the portfolio itself, and so I figured I’ll just post them here. So you’re forced to see them, whatever happens. Like the one below. Ha.

How Fucking Romantic.

I’ve become involved in a project called 69 Love Songs, Illustrated, which is essentially a mission to make a comic for every song in the Magnetic Fields’ prolific and much loved album of the same name.

From the site: “We are a loose collection of mostly London-based comic-artists, illustrators and writers, who have grown up listening to the Magnetic Fields and got together over a mutual love of the songs. One day, on Twitter, a couple of us decided that illustrating – or writing a comic – or a short story – inspired by all 69 songs was a worthwhile and exciting pursuit!”

The project has receive a decent amount of attention from the Interwebs and has had some nice things said about it. My first contribution is a comic based on Let’s Pretend We’re Bunny Rabbits. The line work is different to my usual style, as it’s one of my first attempts at using live trace in Illustrator. It turned out alright  but I guess my vector work will get better with practice. Not for the faint of heart – it has nudie bits! Here’s a taster:

See the full comic here.

Brand New Bike.

On Sunday I bought a bicycle.

This is fairly exciting for me – I haven’t had a bike of my very own since I was about…ten years old? As I young teenager, I’d sometimes take my Mum’s old pink bike for a spin to my friend’s house. It had the word “Australia” plastered on the frame in a tacky white, green and gold design. (Which, by the way, I was horrified to learn that they got rid of last year.) But the intermittent cycling didn’t last so long because eventually I learned to drive. And, of course, the moment you learn to drive, it’s pretty much “well bikes can go fuck themselves because who needs exercise when you can cram six other people into a 5-seater car and go careening down to the beach?” Or something like that.

But that was a while ago.  I’ve lived in London for three years now and have started to appreciate the value of bikes. You see, bike value increases almost exponentially as regular commuting on public transport increases. You can imagine that graph right? You do that enough of that peak morning shift on the tube for an hour – stuffed into the armpit of a full-figured businessman with a mystery odour – and you don’t seem to mind prospect of having torrents of icy rain hitting you in the face while your fingers freeze and cab drivers plot your demise.

With this in mind, I figured that I’d finally built enough courage to tackle riding a bike in London. I also thought it would be a good way to get some much-needed exercise, which I seem to be a champion at putting off. All I needed was the bike to use. Easy enough, right?

The caveat for the following story of my bike hunt is that you have to understand that I am a naturally clumsy person. I mean, really clumsy. I get it from my Dad. Don’t deny it, Dad. You know what I’m talking about.

There are a few ways to go about buying a bike in this city. You can:

A) Go to a reputed bicycle shop, lined wall to wall with shiny/new/trendy bikes of every type imaginable, where – for a few million hundred pounds – they will advise and fit you properly for your perfect ride,
B) Go to a second-hand bike shop or repairs place (note: this is great because they are usually experts and service all the bikes that come in, but sometimes it’s slim pickin’s and it can take months of revisits to find what you need),
C) Buy a second-hand model from a private seller through Gumtree [.com] or Ebay, or
D) Go down to Brick Lane and pick up a ridiculously cheap bike that is so obviously stolen that the seller is wearing latex gloves. (Seriously.)

My first step was scouting out option A but I soon realised that it wasn’t the most financially practical way to go. Next, I consulted option B, where I quickly learned that my main issue for finding a potential bike was going to be my size: I wasn’t tall enough for any of the ladies models I tried. Yes, I am short. But I didn’t think I was that short, y’know? I figured I was at least average-short. Not short-short. My sister is short-short, so I have an idea of what it looks like.

Which brings me to last Saturday.

After a food mission to Broadway Market, I stopped by nearby Lock 7 (bike repairs/shop/cafe) to see if they had any suitable bikes for sale. I found a nice-looking, retro green model and one of the staff suggested I try it out in the parking lot around the corner.

As soon as I got on, I knew that it was too tall for me but thought ‘hey, I’ll give it a shot anyway’. Two seconds into my joy ride, I started to teeter. I attempted to stop by balancing myself with my feet to the ground…which would have worked nicely if they had been able to actually touch the ground. So I fell over. And so did the bike. On top of me. I grazed up my hand real nice and took this photo.

I got up, brushed myself off and wheeled the bike back into the shop, sheepishly. I was blushing as I caught the lady’s eye and told her “thanks, but I think it’s too big for me.” Then she noticed the hand that I was trying to subtly conceal behind my back.  “You’re bleeding!”, she exclaimed. Blushing, I stammered out with “er, yes. I, uh, fell over’. She was very nice and made a fuss to get me a bandage and give me some wet towels to wash the bits of gravel off.

I left ashamed. I felt like I had humiliated myself in front of the East End bike set before I’d even set foot in their club. How embarrassing.

Despite this set back, I continued to scour Gumtree (that was option C, remember?) night and day. Contacted a few sellers, went to see a couple of bikes. Fruitless. And then, last Sunday, I found one. It was black with a few gears, and felt pretty safe. The back brake wasn’t perfect but could be fixed. I was so relieved to find I that the seat was adjustably perfect for my height that I nearly burst into tears of joy. And it cost me less than a hundred quid. And is fun to ride around the park with (until I build up my road confidence).

How’s that for a happy ending?

Mulberries.

As I was walking to work this morning, I started to notice small, misshapen dots of colour intermittently staining the pavement below foot. They were a dark reddish-purple, the colour of  mulberries. Y’know, the ones we’d pick off the bush at school and crush into the ground with our tiny feet. It took me a few moments to realize that they were spots of blood. The trail was heading the same direction that I was, all the way down Cambridge Heath Road to Whitechapel. When it stopped sometime shortly before the big Sainsburys, it thought that might be it. But then it reappeared.

We both continued onward, toward our destinations. When I turned right onto Whitechapel Road, my companion did too. It was shortly afterwards that I lost sight of the bloody traveller, and I made it to the hospital. It did not.

Easter.

On Friday, or maybe it was Saturday,
I was traveling somewhere via Liverpool St, or maybe it was Waterloo,
But where ever it was,
There were flocks of bunny-eared women loitering in the station.
Not just one group either – multiple, separate groups.
At first I thought “well maybe there’s been some kind of horrible
Hens’ night epidemic
That has descended on our fair city
From some tacky planet two solar systems away”.
But then I remembered it was Easter.
I sighed
And made a mental note to eat some chocolate.