aric with an a

I’ve always been a fan of coffee & Miles in the morning - seems like you can’t beat that, easing into the day, listening to ‘Kind of Blue‘, was, up till this morning, my favorite.

But when you add company, and it’s a Friday, well, I suppose it’s just one of life’s little bonuses.

As if there wasn’t enough of my vocal/written drivel all over the net, I get cast in a video game - although, I’m not sure if I can pull off the descriptions:

Kristofer
(The Playboy)

Background
He’s about 30 years old. He’s a guide in Kellington. He likes new things and keeps up with the latest gizmos. He uses a crossbow in combat, which is still quite a rarity. Although he’s originally a rootless wanderer, he now stays in Kellington thinking he’s got a relationship going on with Seraphina. Although he comes off sly and sarcastic, he cannot stand injustice. He thinks being a playboy is manly. He knows exactly what is important to him and what’s not. He’ll do whatever it takes to protect what is important to him. 175 cm tall. Curly blonde hair. Blue eyes. He wears pants like jeans with a coat and leather boots. He’s got a red bandana around his neck.

Personality
He’s always coming and going. His tone when speaking to women is much different than when he speaks to men. He is weak to new gadgets and beautiful things (especially women). He’ll do whatever it takes to protect what he feels is important, even at risk of embarrassment. He stands strong even in a pinch.

Additional Info
Likes: fiddling with machines and women
Dislikes: dark places
Habits: stroking his chin and smug poses
He speaks very eloquently to women.

…oh, my neices and nephews are going to have the coolest Uncle.

Ever since hearing him on my parents record player, I liked the little Paul Simon - Dylan without the poetics, Taylor without the attitude. That was before I heard that he was a gypsy of sorts, traveling from place-to-place for inspiration instead of paying someone like Phil Spector. After hearing that, I fell in love with him. While in what’s quickly becoming my second home, the Japanese bar Diage, I heard what had to have been the acapella band he found and brought back to NYC with him to record backup vocals for ‘Graceland’. I knew they were Africani, but had never heard any of their own stuff. I quickly jotted down what the iTunes told me - Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Perhaps it was the excitement in waiting on someone to show, perhaps it was the $1.75 Jack and Coke, but I asked them to play it again and again, such a wonderful tune:

‘The Wonder of This World’

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So, that night, I went home to embarrassing find out that they’re huge…like, massive. Grammy-winning. Appeared on Leno. Is it strange that I can discuss The Kronos Quartet with my ex (also known as she-who-taught-Aric-much), but haven’t heard of this band? Whatever - they’re good enough that I don’t feel bad…at all. Ok. A little.

I was lucky enough to be up early (9am) today and had forgotten how much I enjoy them. Granted, I was in the best of moods to begin with, threw on the jacket and scarf from last night and watched as my little city gained momentum. Everyone likes rolling the midsection of the snowman but run in terror once it becomes an avalanche. With my long strides, I was outstepped by a woman half of my size - on her mind was most likely a clock and the person who’s eye was on it, on mine was the warm coffee waiting in the cafe and the vibration in my inside pocket designating a message - my friends don’t wake up early and if they do, they know I don’t which meant it must be from the person I hoped. It was. I really felt like I was in my 30’s and enjoyed it - the age that can go thru 5 cocktails and a bottle of red wine the night before and still wake up feeling ok; is that maturity in age or alcoholism? I don’t care. I even tried to read the business section of the paper. Unsuccessfully. I didn’t even mind the microwaved eggs and sausages served with ketchup all over them. Didn’t mind them, nor did I eat them - but I didn’t care. Call it the blurb in an Oprah Book Club special - but mornings, when you have the time to outpace them, are quite promising.

Or maybe I’m just still drunk.

I’ve still been thinking about this, as on Friday night there was a lot of time devoted to talking about it…

What’s going to keep someone from fucking-up is their own fuck-ups…let me explain: Of course there will always be the wondering eye, for both men and women, it’s going to happen. At some point, I don’t care if you’re as good-looking as my friends Dan & Ed (and they’re a hot couple…Ed’s a gal, btw), the sex tapers off from what it once was, it’s simple fact. And there will always be the angst of knowing that you will never have that again, the whole first-time magical wonderment of it, that this-is-it and oh-god-please-help-me-not-to-come-early-at-least-the-first-time spell you cast on yourself a split-second beforehand, it is simply gone from the entire equation…so what keeps someone from fucking around?

Their own fuck-ups.

In this sense - waking up to, or going to bed with or perhaps sharing a meal with another who not only understands your fucked-up side and still sticks around is the biggest compliment one can have. It’s someone who hears you talk your shit and still likes to kiss the mouth from which it came that is the strongest emotional pull-back to your senses. They like you - they’re still here despite it all.

I can’t remember which film it was that this was written, but I loved it:

Premise was based on that song by the great Dusty Springfield, ‘The Look of Love’ - most assume it would the glance that pierces the dinner party, the over-done tight shot/pull back as the main character realizes he stopped talking mid-sentence, but that’s not it. That’s simply the look of lust, infatuation, call it what you want. But the ‘look of love’ has to be one of mere patience and understanding. I see it all the time in my best friends, Mel and Ollie - when I get to go see them in the U.K., he and I, we’re boys: Video games and golf, Quavers and sausages, guffing and Page 3, et al., and then occasionally, I’ll catch Mel’s slight smile in the midst of rebuking him for talking too much about Nigella Lawson’s ‘jugs’ and I see it. There’s no attempt at being anyone he’s not (which is the biggest reason I love and look up to him), nor is there Mel’s expectation for him to be anything other than himself, the lad & the loving husband. But to know, to know without a shadow of a doubt in even the worst of times that this person takes you for not only everything you are, but everything you are not, has to be what Dusty meant.

…and it starts with being honest about everything.

I tried that. I liked it. Scary as hell. But she did it first. I feel bad for not saying more.

Gonna to try it some more. I’d sure like to make someone both ex and inhale at the same time, for both patience and pride.

Spurred by 4 others.

That lasted more than 7 hours…

You’re bound to get a few gems, this however, was the best:

(Unnamed, half way through #3 of 4): “So, my girl was asking me, in bed, what I wanted her to do. So I said, ‘Let me sleep with other women?’”.

…

…

Classic - perhaps you should have been there…no, no - good thing you weren’t.

Will be ‘i.t.e.’, based on this, my most favorite story in the world:

It was the World Series. Philadelphia versus Kansas City. Tug McGraw of the Phillies was pitching. It was the fifth game of the series, the bottom of the ninth, with the Kansas City Royals behind four to three. The Royals had the bases loaded with two out. Kansas City had just won two straight games to tie the series, and now they had a chance to win a third and go ahead of Philadelphia three games to two. The game was being played in Kansas City. The ball park was packed. The crowd of over fifty thousand frantic Kansas City fans were on their feet, yelling their heads off. It was bedlam. In the middle of all that commotion, Bob Boone, the Phillies’ catcher, asked the umpire for a time out and walked to the pitcher’s mound. He said something to McGraw, turned, and walked back to home plate. You know what he said? He said, “Isn’t this exciting?”

What a wonderful thing to be able to say.

– Chuck Barris (pictured), Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind, p. 8

I love that quote, have pasted it in countless diaries and gifts to friends.

‘Isn’t this exciting?’

A wonderful thing indeed.

From a very-intense-kind-of-dream/nightmare I had last night.

‘This actually might kill her’ I thought to myself, as I tried to tell if she just exhaled or my own head had gone. I mean, maybe I’m just high myself, maybe this is simply a downside of an expensive hobby that could either ruin, or end, one’s life. If she weren’t able to handle it, I would have known right away, yeah? Like in Pulp Fiction where Mia immediately knew she had done something wrong…or can it work in other ways, could those 2 matchstick lines have, at first, shocked her small frame, and at-this-very-fucking moment her body could be trying to battle the chemical, but how long will it take before I know. And fuck, Fuck, FUCK, I need to have a plan if she o.d.’s, take her to the hospital and get the fuck out of there, ok, yeah, hospitals right down the road and I can run my ass out of there once she’s with a doctor, so…ok. But what happens if she…don’t say it-don’t say it-don’t say it, but ok, its better to have a plan and not need it right. Should THAT happen, what the fuck am I supposed to do, it’s China, and while they don’t make the news as much as Malaysia for drug penalties, I can’t see them going lightly on a 31-year old responsible for inadvertently killing one of their own, so okay…fuck. It has to go like this, she isn’t that tall, so I could, in theory, put her in that secret couch compartment…grab my passport and cash and take the next flight to Bangkok, Tokyo…anywhere. Once I’m there, I could call Scott and let him know what happened, no - wait, that would make him an accomplice. If I call the police from Thailand and tell them exactly what happened, will I be wanted in every country or just China? FUCK, this isn’t supposed to happen, not here, not in Shanghai, I’m white for godssakes, this is supposed to be my sanctuary, but now I have to leave everything and go to fucking Bangkok with the rest of the killers and perverts - shit, what the hell am I supposed to do with her phone, put it in her bag with her and put it on silent? I mean, if I was caught with her phone, that makes it a little harder to believe that this whole thing was a horrible accident and of course I didn’t know she couldn’t handle it - ok, yeah, no, leave it with her. Wait! Not in the secret couch compartment, that DOES make me look like I’m hiding something, ok, I can put her in the shower, yeah, and then claim she was staying here and I was out somewhere else and she did it to herself, oh yes yes yes. I can’t believe I was about to put her into my fucking couch like some suburban killer in a tv series - yeah, shower, good. Oh, thank god, she’s breathing some more (I even did the finger under the nose for moisture when she exhaled and it worked), ok, squeeze her hand to make sure she’s okay, oh! She squeezed back! Never , never again…ever.

Until Friday, of course.

I’m beginning to think that China annoys me more than it should - actually, am sure of it; I suppose there just seems to be a bit of annoyance I’ve acquired in my mind that’s simply used to being triggered these past few years - and this morning was another example of it…at least I think.

For some reason, I woke up around 9am and could see outlines through my window of people walking on my terrace around my (in)famous table. By the time I got outside, there were no chairs (6 in total) left. I walked out and around the little area I live in to find that the office next door were using them for a big meeting. Now, had it been Scott or someone else who I know, then no worries - but I haven’t even met these people yet and it pissed me off to no end that they didn’t knock on my door and ask.

Granted, I’m from the South and pretty easy-going about loaning out my car, apartment, whatever - but the simple lack of consideration is what gets me about life here. You can see it in everything - the way people drive, eat, drink, use the toilet, line-up…at what point does the Cultural Revolution (good luck trying to access that link if you’re here, ha ha) stop being an excuse for behavior? Of course there was a time when if you didn’t push your way onto the bus, you wouldn’t get home, and I have considerable more tolerance, if not understanding for the older generation, but for this mindset to still resonate in people my age is simply annoying - to a point of madness. When I hold doors open for people, they blankly stare at me, needless to say, it’s never done for me - is that something that is attained with Western influence? Time? Education?

On a recent travel with a friend, he told me that people in Indonesia often refer to China as ‘The Angry Country’, (granted, any country who idolizes a man who managed to wipe out 30 million of their own kind, on every piece of currency, you can sort of understand), but when does years of oppression wear off? When does the mindset go from simply waiting to be ordered to do something to taking the initiative to do it oneself?

I was raised with a constant reminder of patience - ‘There, but the grace of God, go I’, which I work hard to remember, but at 9am, when all I want do to is sit down with a coffee on my table and there’s no way to go about it, I often lose sight.

Yesterday, I ran into an indie-film director friend of mine, Juliette and got thinking of the few projects we’ve done together over the past few years.

The first was her short ‘The Love Story of Alfred. J. Pintuck’ - a few years ago, she called me up and said that she had a ‘role so perfect for me she couldn’t cast anyone’. Now, I’m not an actor, but immediately thought perhaps a super-hero, or race-car driver was in the makes. I was to later find out it was a womanizing drunk bar owner…c’est la vie. It was fun nonetheless and she did a great job with it - fusing black & white with Shanghai backdrops adding with it a gorgeous score done by the first band I produced here, The Rock Star Posers.

The other one was my failed attempt at making our local music show into television. It was great fun, everyone came out, ended up with me being put in jail for throwing a coked-up heckler through a glass window. Am still a bit bummed this never got off of the ground, but got a call from a friend yesterday who thinks we might be able to collaborate.

Perhaps that ‘face for radio’ theory is right.