[A reading from 2009 on the subject of music, culture and identity]

Singer Pete Wylie first coined the term “rockism” in 1981, and it is a word that has come to be used to describe a bias within music criticism, which treats the rock genre as normative. Although Wylie later claimed that he did not intend it to take on its current meaning, music journalists at the time had long been concerned about this issue and latched on to the new word as the perfect umbrella term for all their misgivings. Paul Morley in The Guardian claims that this development was so exciting as it was a word that could be used to “explain why Wire were better than Yes” and to “swiftly and yet fairly dismiss Phil Collins”. He does, however, go on to claim that it is an “abstract speculative idea” and that “if the idea of rockism confused you […] you were a rockist, and you were wrong.” This seems to imply that the term is unable to be used in a technical sense, but it also rightly states that it is a term to help describe a subculture that was rapidly developing with the rise of more experimental genres. Kelefah Sanneh of The New York Times describes rockists as “someone who reduces rock ‘n’ roll to a caricature, then uses that caricature as a weapon”. I will be aiming to answer the question of why this public perception of rock music and its producers has become so important, and why society currently refuses to acknowledge the artistic merits of those who step outside these constructed boundaries. I will be exploring the cultural phenomenon of ‘rockism’ and the reasons it has risen in today’s society. I aim to look at the stereotype of the rock star and band, and why it has become acceptable for them to be seen as “authentic” musicians when artists in genres such as hip-hop who reject these normative values are criticised.

Rock music originally grew from the blues and gospel music typically performed by the black working class of America in the late Forties and early Fifties. Originally these types of music were relegated to “race music” stations, going virtually unheard by mainstream white audiences. However, once these songs began being broadcast to mixed audiences, the styles were quickly appropriated by white musicians and became increasingly popular. Given rock’s origins, it seems strange that hip-hop, a relatively fledgling genre with similar roots in black working class culture, is looked down on by today’s typically Caucasian rock fan.

How much do stereotypical views of race factor in to this decision? Has white society on large become so conditioned to rock music being ‘their music’ that they are unwilling to accept new developments? Sanneh writes, “Could it really be a coincidence that rockist complaints often pit straight white men against the rest of the world? […] [T]he current rockist consensus seems to reflect not just an idea of how music should be made but also an idea about who should be making it.”
It appears that rock music has been the norm, the prevalent genre, for so long that we are unwilling to let go of the group identity we have built around it, even as rock music becomes more set in its ways and increasingly irrelevant.

As rock has developed the rules of how to be a “real” Rock Star, less room has been left for experimentation and so rock music’s capacity to grow into something fresh and once again relatable has been stunted. Sanneh goes on to write, “Countless critics assail pop stars for not being rock ‘n’ roll enough, without stopping to wonder why that should be everybody’s goal.”

Perhaps having this group identity is important. Rock stars may not be thought of as typical role models, but the experiences discussed in their songs can help shape their listeners’ ideas and perceptions in a positive way, performing an important ‘bardic function’ as described by John Hartley. Tim Riley in his book Fever: How Rock and Roll Transformed Gender in America states: “Yes, there are characters who you wouldn’t want to model your life after but the songs really tell a very coherent story. I much more trust the artist. […] Mick Jagger has not had a heroic personal life but Jagger’s songs about women are more complex and tender than his treatment of women in real life” and goes on to claim, “the best rock ‘n’ roll music celebrated sexual openness, honoured tolerance, individualism and social responsibility in a way that helped baby boomers become better partners and better parents.”

The issue, however, is that other musical genres are not given the same opportunities, for whatever reason. It is generally assumed by non-fans that hip-hop music is only concerned by the material world and engaging in the demeaning of women. Many hip-hop artists struggle against this image and use their music to send a message, but even within the hip-hop community, the battle to accept this form as a mainstream genre rages on, as they are either termed “Underground Rap” or “Conscious Rap” in order to differentiate it from the music criticised by the genre’s detractors, rather than include it in an effort to broaden the image.

Sanneh also stated “rock bands record classic albums, while pop stars create ‘guilty pleasure’ singles”. This is certainly true, although there is no reason why it should be. It is only because society has considered this to be fact for so long that we consider it now, and the idea is perpetuated and so the cycle seems to continue eternal, in a classic example of groupthink. It can be suggested that people are rock fans by default, and although some stay in that mindset because it truly speaks to their personal taste even as they develop further, some are too stubborn and habituated to broaden their horizons.

So, I watched Insidious for the first time recently and I have some feelings about it that I would like to talk about, if that’s alright with you. There are definitely going to be spoilers here, so if you’re late to the party like I was, you probably shouldn’t read on.

Insidious is a film in which a family moves to a new house and are tormented by unseen forces, culminating in their son falling into a medically inexplicable coma. The film was released in April 2011 and is written and directed by Saw creators Leigh Whannel and James Wan, respectively, and produced by Oren Peli, writer/director of the first Paranormal Activity and co-creator of TV creepfest The River. With that modern horror pedigree behind it, this was almost guaranteed to be, at the very least, a “pulse-pounding thrill-ride” to quote every review of everything ever. And it occasionally was. Let me explain:

The first hour or so is incredibly well-crafted, packed with moments of gripping tension and sincere terror. I was especially pleased that the shots are able to hold the attention without the cameramen feeling the need to swing their instruments about every few seconds, usually the mark of a film whose characters are actually worth listening to. Despite a few missteps, such as the recurring image of a large, clean, bloody handprint appearing on bedsheets and windows (whose blood is it supposed to be? I have no idea. Maybe we’ll find out in the sequel,) the scares are largely understated, taking the time to develop character and atmosphere rather than relying on cliches and jump cuts. There are moments of foreshadowing which are incredibly on-the-nose, but the fact that they are included in the first place in order to allow a buildup rather than just saying “a witch did it!” during the climax was much appreciated. 

Spoiler alert - a witch did kind of do it.

Wan deftly avoids familiar tropes by having the family move out of the house once the ghostly mayhem becomes too much to ignore, thereby setting up the film’s central marketing gimmick that it is not actually the house that’s haunted, but their son, Dalton. Although they really should have seen that coming, because who wouldn’t be haunted by a name like that? Sorry, kid. Maybe your parents were big Living Daylights fans.

Unfortunately, the feature this turns into after the move fails to live up to the potential of the earlier portion. Despite offering another good, early scare, in the form of a giggling, dancing, demon-child who consistently keeps his back to the camera, the movie takes an irrevocable leap in trying to offer a concrete explanation for the mysterious occurrences via the introduction of a pair of comic relief Ghostbuster-types and their boss, the neighbourhood psychic. Turns out, the son is an accomplished astral projector (as the psychic handily explains, “He’s been doing it for a long time - he has been since he was young!”) If you’ve watched the earlier part of the film, it will come as no surprise to you that the father (Patrick Wilson, great as always) is also a skilled astral projector (projectionist?) and it is he who has passed on the trait to his son. The problem is, Dalton got too cocky and ended up flying off to a strange parallel dream world called “the Further,” leaving his body as an empty vessel to be taken over by creatures from the other realm. As it happens, once such creature had previously followed Patrick Wilson around all throughout his childhood, a memory which he has since repressed.

The scene in which Patrick Wilson has to project himself into the Further in order to save his son is genuinely brilliant and probably my favourite depiction of a dream in any film I’ve seen. The nightmare scenes are so wonderfully conceived of and executed that it’s a crying shame when it doesn’t turn out to be a total return to the film’s earlier promise. After a fantastic sequence involving Wilson wandering around the “Further” version of his house, a territory that, although familiar to him, has become something twisted and utterly terrifying, the writer and director decide that all this subtlety is getting boring so they make Darth Maul jump out of a closet or something.

“And now for the scariest scare of all - Spooky Face!” - an actual quote from Leigh Whannell, maybe.

Maybe it’s just personal taste, but I don’t find this type of horror make-up at all scary. I don’t think that any of the great horror movies have achieved their reactions by doing nothing more than showing things which just happen to be slightly different colours or shapes than the things we see every day. Which is essentially what all such horror monsters are. As humans, we are only able to visualise creatures that resemble, in some way, those already found in nature. That’s just how our minds work, sort of like how we can’t make up our own colours, just shades of ones that we already know. Sure, we can pick and choose animal parts to make a potentially scarier amalgamation, but a squid-tentacled shark the size of a dinosaur is really only reminding us how scared we are of those individual parts in our real, waking lives. So when a film throws a red, fanged humanoid at me, all I’m really seeing is a slightly sillier version of the people I walk past in the street all the time. That, to me, is not enough.

Anyway, Patrick Wilson eventually finds his kid’s spirit and follows the sound of his wife’s voice back to the real version of his house. He sets spirit-Dalton down to go and reclaim his physical body when he is confronted by - shock horror! - the weird old lady demon who tormented him as a young boy. He screams at her to leave him alone, and then his physical form wakes up. Long story short, it’s not really him, it’s the demon, and he strangles the psychic to death and maybe his wife too. The end. 

All in all, just as there was a creepy old lady inside of Patrick Wilson, there was a great film somewhere inside of Insidious, and it’s just a shame that it went so far off the rails before we were able to find it. If Wan and Whannell had stuck to the clever suspense and the character building, they could have had a true classic on their hands. Instead, they seemed to get bored and settle for schlock, resulting in a mostly quite fun, but incredibly uneven and ultimately unsatisfying end product. If you’re a dedicated horror fan, it may be worth a watch for the parts it does deliver on, but if not, it won’t hurt you to be a little later to the party. It’s not going anywhere. 

Hello Tumblr. Michael here, back with writing. In a departure from my other work, this is the start of an article I wrote recapping the 2011 Charlie’s Angels series. I know! It was supposed to be a regular feature on an online magazine but plans fell through in the end, as they often do. So naturally, I’m sharing it now, five months after the show was cancelled, while everybody is still at the peak of caring about it.

Charlie’s Angels Episode 1x01, ‘Angel With A Broken Wing’

Thursday 22^nd September, 2011

Photo, abc.com

Full disclosure – I am, without apology, a fan of the Charlie’s Angels franchise.  The 2000 McG-helmed sequel movie was the second DVD I ever owned, and I have probably watched it more times than any other movie out there. I would consider it a guilty pleasure, except for the fact that it stars Sam Rockwell, and nobody should ever feel guilty about enjoying anything starring Sam Rockwell.  I supplemented my young love by watching reruns of the original series on television and trying to forget the 2003 follow-up ever happened.

With my history as a fan, there was never any chance of me not watching this latest take on the Angels, which premiered this Thursday on ABC.

My initial thoughts going in

About four months ago, ABC released the official Fall Preview trailer, which I proceeded to watch approximately seven million times, in order to better grasp what I was in for. These were some of my biggest concerns:

·      “Last time I cracked one of these, it was under two minutes. But that was after two cosmos and I was hanging upside down.” This is an actual quote. I guess we all know who the Samantha of the group is. Cosmos!

·      Are all three Angels reformed criminals now? I can understand having maybe one bad girl on the roster at any given time, but having your detective agency staffed entirely by convicts doesn’t seem like the smartest business model.

·      Bosley is young and sexy now. The traditionally middle-aged Bosley has always been portrayed as the asexual Uncle of the group, so hopefully this dramatic change in casting won’t mean a dramatic change to the nature of his relationship with the Angels. Can we please just have one show on television with a genuinely platonic opposite-sex friendship? IT DOES EXIST, MEDIA CORPORATIONS.

Photo, Official Facebook

“Good morning, Angels” indeed.

·      THREE LITTLE GIRLS WHO AREN’T SAINTS. Bow-danna-na-nowwww! “Whoa.”

·      Seriously, they’re “little girls” still? Gross.

·      This will be the first version of the series not to feature the late John Forsythe as enigmatic agency owner Charlie Townsend. Robert Wagner was a good choice to take over for the pilot, but word has it that he’s since dropped out of the series proper, due to scheduling conflicts. Judging by the supposedly Charlie-delivered narration, it doesn’t even sound like Wagner made it as far in the production as this commercial. So, who’s going to fill the iconic speakerphone now?

·      Speaking of speakerphones, the new prop (left), which I assume must be what fancy, high-tech, modern speakerphones look like, is not so great. Small gripe, but it’s the little touches that really count.

NOT LOVING IT, GUYS.

·      There are three “Angel” jokes in a trailer lasting only 1m35s. Four, if you count “time to fly.” I guess they’re a team of cherubic Mr. Freezes now.

·      The 90s R&B flavoured remix of the theme tune already sounds ridiculously dated. Did you learn nothing from the Hawaii Five-O reimagining, ABC executives? That show got the theme tune issue down. Say what you like about seventies-era light entertainment, but they knew their stuff when it came to credits music. As the old saying goes, if it ain’t broke, don’t add a 90s R&B flavour to your theme tune.  

·      Remake or continuation? REMAKE OR CONTINUATION??

·      Minka Kelly.

With all that said, it’s time to get stuck in. Let’s watch Charlie’s Angels, episode one.

The episode itself

The first episode of this re-launched series is entitled, “Angel With a Broken Wing” which puts us at an Angel Pun Count of one before the characters have even opened their mouths. Ice to meet you too, new Angels.

AND THAT’S WHEN WE SCRAPPED THE ARTICLE. Oh and in case anybody was wondering, I actually quite enjoyed the rest of the aired episodes. It was largely inoffensive viewing, although it is a little problematic when you have a show that could potentially showcase three strong women in the leads, yet the most compelling team member by a country mile is the revamped Bosley. OK, BYE.

All Images Copyright Their Respective Owners.

He held her letter in his hand, a letter he had not read since he was fifteen years old.

Reading it now reminded him of the days of drinking on fields and street corners. The days when nothing mattered except for schoolwork, parties, and the burn of young love. He wondered if things had really been better then. Truthfully, it had not been a happy time, but at least it was a simpler sort of sadness than that which attached itself to adulthood and responsibilities. Then, it had been acceptable for him to spend his every moment thinking of one thing only. Then, that thought had been her.

He cast his mind back to a day when he had met her on their meadow. He had prepared a simple picnic, made up of microwaved noodles and a cheap bottle of wine. She had always said it was her favourite brand, but he suspected now that it was just because it was all they were ever able to afford. Removing the makeshift newspaper cork, he had poured the wine into two plastic cups. They had drunk and they had eaten and they had laughed.

“I have a surprise for you,” she had said, “so close your eyes.”

He had closed them, and had felt her lips press against his. There had been three slow, careful kisses. She had always kissed in threes. Afterwards, they had laid on the grass for hours, telling each other about everything in the world that had mattered to them.

His thoughts turned to how she had later left him. He thought of the pain he had felt when he had first discovered that their love couldn’t last forever. How his world had ended, if only briefly. How much it had hurt then, and how silly it seemed now.

He did not think of these things often, but finding her letter afforded him a rare moment of nostalgia. He realized how fond he was now of that boy of fifteen, and of the girl that boy had loved. He was taken aback by the thought of how wonderful it was to have had his heart broken by her, and how beautiful it was to have had a heart prepared to be broken.

He was grateful to her now for the joy, for the pain, and for the still lingering memories of it all. He was grateful to have felt a simpler sadness.

I need the sun. I need oxygen. I need food. I need water. I need healthcare. I need truth. I need power. I need security. I need work. I need money. I need fiction. I need music. I need shelter.  I need support. I need connections. I need plans. I need simplicity. I need confidence. I need laughter. I need reassurance. I need sex. I need motivation. I need strength. I need the little things. I need the big things. I need poetry. I need new shoes. I need to let go. I need to hold on.  I need alcohol. I need help.

But love… love is good too, I suppose.

“You know Mara H. is having a dry spell too,” said Rochelle, taking a quaff of her German beer.
“Too?” asked Eric, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The cafe was almost empty on this Saturday afternoon, just the way they liked it. It was a favourite spot of theirs and they had been going there for brunch and conversation every weekend for a little over a year.
“I’m just saying, she likes you and she hasn’t had sex in seven months.” Rochelle poked at her meal with her fork.
“Her dry spell isn’t relevant to me,” Eric insisted, through a mouthful of vegetarian sausage, “I’m not having a dry spell. Three months is a very reasonable amount of time to have not had sex… in.”
Eric and Rochelle spent the next few minutes in silence as they enjoyed their food.
Eric had opted for a vegetarian breakfast - his usual. It consisted of two vegetarian sausages, seemingly made fresh on site; three hash browns, cooked from frozen; one sun-dried tomato, halved; two Portobello mushrooms, also halved, and a spoonful of baked beans. Despite consuming this same meal once a week, every week, for fifty-three weeks straight, Eric found it as enjoyable as ever. Rochelle had today chosen a traditional chicken Caesar salad, with extra bacon. She too had decided to make the switch to a plant-based diet but claimed that she needed at least another month to prepare herself.
“What are we doing tonight?” inquired Eric, as he finished his last bite.
“I wanted to go to Design Bar,” answered Rochelle. Eric scrunched up his nose and sipped from his half empty pint glass.
“Do we have to go to a gay bar? I’m getting so sick of them, especially Design. Every time we go there, I get my T-shirt lifted up by some creepy old bear.”
Eric and Rochelle dumped a handful of cash notes each on to the table and pulled on their jackets, ready to leave.
“Welcome to feeling like a girl in every club where there are men, ever,” retorted Rochelle, raising her eyebrows at Eric. He shook his head and pointed an accusative finger at her.
“Nuh-uh, we’ve been going to gay bars way longer than we’ve been going anywhere else. If anything, I should be welcoming you to my feelings.”

They raised their palms ‘goodbye’ at the waiter and exited the cafe, headed towards the town centre.
“Besides,” added Eric, “I was really hoping to hook up tonight.”
“Oh!” Rochelle elongated the word as if having a revelation, “I thought you weren’t having a dry spell.” She mocked her oldest friend, as she was fond of doing.
“I’m not,” he fired back, “But that doesn’t mean I have any interest in cultivating one. I do still enjoy sex.”
“Well, I’ve seen you leave gay bars with girls before. Just try and use that talent of yours tonight.”
Eric beamed, apparently very proud of this dubious accolade.
“The trick is to pick out the straight girls who think gay bars are a safe haven from sexual predators. Then, enter Eric.”
“You’re very respectful of your sex partners, you know that,” she teased.
“I do. I do know this. Come on, let’s just go to Loiter. There’s something for everyone there!”
Rochelle shook her head ‘no.’
“Lady’s choice.”

——————————————

  Eric stepped out on to the roof of Design. The area had been cordoned off as a combination garden/smoking area, and was packed tight with clubbers looking for their nicotine fix. Eric maneuvered his way into an unoccupied corner, overlooking the busy high street. The moon hung high in the sky, full and bright, illuminating the drunken, smiling faces of all the party people that this Saturday in the city had produced.
He rolled a cigarette and dangled it in the corner of his lips, imitating Belmondo imitating Bogart. He lit up and took his first drag of the hour.
Eric kept his eye on the door to the club. Rochelle would be joining him out there as soon as she was done in the toilets and he wanted to make sure he could signal her over. The door seemed impossibly far away, and Eric had to stretch his neck forwards to force it into focus. He stumbled backwards and found himself leaning jauntily against the wall. Eric had had a lot to drink. Perhaps too much, but it was a Saturday and Eric felt it was important to let loose once or thrice in a while.
“Do you have a lighter?”
The voice caught him by surprise. Eric turned to face its owner, allowing a moment for his eyes to adjust to see her face before answering.
“Sure.” Eric fished in his jacket pocket for his trusty flip top lighter and handed it to the woman. He remembered Rochelle and spun around quickly to check the club door. Rochelle stood scanning the crowd for her friend.
“Rochelle!” he yelled, waving his arm frantically. She met his wild-eyed stare and walked to join him.
“This is my new friend,” Eric declared to Rochelle, spreading his arm to introduce the woman. The woman exhaled a breath of smoke, and held the lighter out to Eric. Seeing Eric’s obliviousness to this offer, Rochelle accepted it herself and pocketed her prize.
“I’m Adrianne,” the woman informed them both.
“Rochelle.”
“Eric.”

——————————————

“How old did you say you were again?” Adrianne quizzed Eric as they they left the club behind them, “Twenty-four?”
“Twenty,” replied Eric.
“Oh God, you’re so young. Far too young for me.” She gripped his hand as he led her across the road. Eric struggled to remember how old she had said she was. He turned to face her without breaking his march and tried to take in all of her features. She might have been pretty, it was unclear. As drunk as he was when he met her, he was drunker now. He thought she was maybe twenty-six, but he always found it so hard to guess a woman’s age on sight, even when in full control of his senses.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“We could go to a hotel. I have hotel money.” He hoped he was telling the truth.
“A hotel? I never said I was going to have sex with you.”
“We both know where this night is going,” he laughed. She didn’t argue. They crossed through an alley and Eric stopped walking, bringing Adrianne to a halt also. Still clutching her hand, he placed his arm behind her back and pulled her in to a kiss. Their lips had met frantically many times in the smoking area before they had left and Eric enjoyed kissing her. Rochelle, having grown sick of watching their antics, had made new friends at the club and arranged to meet Eric at the train station in time for the first train. Eric gently guided Adrianne so that she was leant against the alley’s wall. He ran his hand up her front and paused briefly as it landed on her breasts. He could feel through the thin fabric of her shirt that she was not wearing a bra. His hand continued its journey up toward her neck.
“What happened to the hotel?” Adrianne spoke suddenly, “I’m not having sex with you in an alleyway. It smells like piss.”
“No, no, it doesn’t. Ssshh.”
“Please don’t shush me.” She continued kissing him. Her hand began its own pilgrimage, stroking around his waist before cupping his crotch. Eric unbuttoned his jeans with one hand, allowing her to caress his exposed erection.
“No, I’m not doing this,” she protested, limply attempting to cover him back up. Eric tried in vain to move her hand back to a more pleasurable position.
“Eric, no. I don’t do this sort of thing any more, stop it.”
Eric lowered his head into his neck in order to look Adrianne in the eyes.
“It’s okay, we can still go to the hotel. It’s fine.”
“No,” she sighed, “It’s not that. I just don’t want to have sex with guys I’ve just met in bars any more. I gave you my number already, we’ll go on a date and do this properly.” This didn’t sound fun to Eric, but he nodded his head ‘yes’ anyway. He moved closer to Adrianne and hugged her tightly. As he pushed himself against her, her hand returned fleetingly to his groin.
“You do have a beautiful penis.” The compliment shocked Eric and he laughed.
“Thank you.” He kissed her on the neck and began stroking the small of her back in small, soft circles.
“Stop it! God, you’re just like every other guy.” Adrianne thumped her palm on his chest.
Eric stepped back from her in shock.
“I’m not, I promise. I’ll call you.” Eric had no real desire to see her again after this night, but something about being compared to other men always irked him and unleashed a stubbornness from within him. He felt as though, actually, deep down, he was a good person. He did respect people, but sometimes the promise of sex swept him away somewhere less than cordial. He felt a strong need to prove himself to this virtual stranger.
“Please do. I have to go.” Adrianne flounced off back in the direction of the club, keeping her eyes trained on the ground in front of her. Eric watched her turn the corner as he struggled to re-dress himself. As soon as she was out of his sight, he suddenly felt as though he had so much more to say to her.
“Adrianne!” he yelled into the night. In the space of two hours, he had completed the transformation from Bogart into Balboa.
“Adrianne!”

Switch the names, and you have my sentiments also. Writing!

(Source: shortstories-oliverjhunt)

Somebody made a joke, and the girl laughed a deep, husky laugh, firmly cementing Eric’s interest in her. He stared across the circular bar at her, something he had found himself doing many times before. He and the girl both frequented many of the same beach bars, but this was the first time he had ever seen her drinking at his hotel. The outdoor bar by the pool was playing host to a Veterinarian College’s graduation party, and Eric now realised she must be a student there. Eric himself hadn’t been invited to the party, but when he saw the bar, which was rarely open, buzzing and full of drunk, happy, twenty-somethings, he knew there was no way he could go straight to his room. The crowd around the girl thinned slightly, and Eric saw his chance to approach her.

Amethyst, as he found out she was named, was a transplant from Texas and was funny, erudite, coarse, and utterly charming. Eric was drawn in immediately. The friend he was staying with had gone off with a girl who Amethyst informed him was affectionately known to the class as “Katie Herpes”, but Eric wasn’t at any risk of feeling lonely. Amethyst had a Kate of her own, Jersey Kate, who seemed oblivious to the fact that Eric’s interest lay exclusively with Amethyst.“So, what do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a writer,” he replied, “I write short stories.”
“Oh? Are you going to read me some later?”
“Maybe not. I’m having a bit of a block right now.”
“Well,” she said, stroking his arm, “Let me help you get unblocked.”

Amethyst, Eric, and Jersey Kate all half-drunkenly piled into Amethyst’s shitty little car and drove to the apartment complex where many of the students lived. Jersey Kate, still somehow under the impression that Eric was hanging around for her, awkwardly attempted to grope him as they dropped her off. She seemed genuinely surprised when he did not exit the car with her, but instead guided Amethyst back to the hotel.

Eric laid on his bed, his right arm around Amethyst as she rested her head on his chest, watching HBO on the hotel television.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Eric asked her, “I’m only here for another four days.”
“I’m not going to be out much at all, I have papers to write,” she informed him, “So I’m going to have to get up and leave pretty early in the morning. But I can see you again sometime soon? I don’t have a phone here, but I’ll leave you a way to get in touch with me”
“Definitely”
With that, Eric returned his focus to the television screen. Eric knew he should kiss Amethyst at this moment. With any other girl he would have, but for some reason, with her, on this night, he did nothing. Looking back on that moment, Eric wondered many times why he hadn’t made his move. Her name was actually Amethyst, for chrissakes; that alone would have been a green light for most guys. She was a pretty, intelligent girl, whose company he very much enjoyed, but for that night, it was enough just to chat, and laugh, and watch Tank Girl on TV. At least, that was what he told himself.
“Iggy Pop is in this,” she said.
“So he is,” he replied, drifting of to sleep.

Several hours later, still in a stupor, Eric felt a brush on his lips. In the years that followed, he came to convince himself that Amethyst had kissed him before she left. In the morning proper, when Eric had fully woken up, he saw the note she had left for him. She had written her full name on a piece of paper, like he could ever forget it, in order for him to find her online. Eric fully intended to track her down, but being prone to over thinking everything, he never did. He knew he could never recapture the magic of those few hours, and was afraid to try.

It was back to the bars for him.

“We have to jump for them,” Dale said, standing on the ledge next to me.

In front of us were twelve large wheeled dumpsters, lined up in two neat rows. The smell of wet garbage permeated the air, seeping out of the open lids.

“We’ll each grab a scrap. There are scraps in these and we’ll each dive and grab one.” Dale instructed, removing his shoes and jacket. He crouched down, poised to jump, and then sprung into the air. He jumped so high! I tried to follow his trajectory but lost him somewhere in the sky. All around me, translucent silhouettes of Dale danced around the heavens as if several carbon copies of my friend and colleague had taken flight at once.

“Now it’s your turn,” said Dale’s voice, from somewhere.

Looking down at the dumpsters, I felt fear for the first time. I chose a bin at random and leapt forward, finding myself plunging into the soggy refuse almost immediately. The container didn’t look this deep from the outside, I found myself thinking as the waste rushed over my head. I struggled to keep my mouth shut over my last breath and I knew I didn’t have long to find the paper fragment.

I dug my hands through the thick layers of slop, searching desperately. The amount of pulped paper in the dumpster was incredible, almost equalling the volume of spoiled food. The scrap I was looking for could have been almost anything I came into contact with. I couldn’t hold my breath for much longer. I felt my hand connecting with soft plastic, and instinctively grabbed hold, swimming upwards as quickly as possible. As I emerged from the pungent pool, Dale stood on the ledge where we had started, spotless and waiting.

In my hand was a transparent storage bag, zipped up to protect its contents. I slid the zip across and removed the piece of paper from inside, seeing that it had been torn from a larger sheet. Dale held up an almost identical piece of paper, perhaps shredded from the same leaf.

“I got Judy, who did you get?” he shouted across to me. On my paper scrap was written,

ELLIE
WENT MISSING
SHONE LIKE GABBRO
LOST TO THE WORLD
REJECTED ALL BASES

“I got Ellie,” I shouted back.

“Check your top pocket,” Dale laughed knowingly.

I reached into the pocket on the left breast of my shirt, and pulled out an envelope, now soaked through and covered in sludge. Tearing it open, I saw a note scribbled in Dale’s handwriting. It read,

YOU WILL GET ELLIE

Dale must have slipped it into my pocket before we had even started our journey.

“It was a trick all along, you see?” He laughed again, heartily.

I stared at the note in front of me.

How did he do it?  

I dreamt, last night, that I was eating an entire pepperoni pizza. I assume that, like most dreams, it was purely symbolic and simply referring to my latent homosexuality. Phew!

I don’t know if this counts as a recurring dream, but I frequently suffer from sleep paralysis and have done since I was a kid. For those of you who don’t know, sleep paralysis is this weird kind of state halfway between being asleep and being awake. When it happens to me, I always picture myself in the room I am actually in and am fully aware of what is happening, but completely unable to move or talk. The first time it happened, my dad was in the room and hitting me as I struggled to wake up (latent homosexuality,) but every time it has happened since, there are no other distractions.

I had a dream recently that really stirred me. In a good way, I mean. Have you ever had that? I never had it before. Here’s how it went:

I arrived at a friend’s party, which was themed on a specific movie, and as part of my costume I had brought one of the actors from that very movie! I left him to mingle, as I wandered around this multi-storey venue in which the party was being held. I found, after a while, that each floor of the building had been designed to test me for some reason. I had to face certain obstacles in order to receive an undisclosed reward. I reached one of the floors, which was actually the spectator’s section at my local public pool, and found an old neglected friend swimming around. She was angry at me for having abandoned her, and indicated that our friendship would be returned to its former glory at the end of my trials. I reached another floor – my own bedroom, actually – and completed various manual tests. At the end of each task, I received a box containing a wristwatch and a pair of eyeglasses. The styles of each varied and improved from box to box. I would try each pair of glasses on in front of a mirror, seemingly in the hopes of finding a pair that suited and/or worked with my eyes. A voice from somewhere within me declared that these items represented “The Man I Am Supposed to Become.”

And that was the end of it. Those words held a great weight as I awoke. I loved that sentence! What a grand idea. I was supposed to be a certain man, presumably one of some importance.

But what a terrifying idea that is too. Imagine living in a world were destiny was not simply conceptual, but factual. Imagine seeing someone who was powerful, important, larger than life. Someone making a real difference, saving lives like a mythical hero. Someone who the whole world looked to in times of need, and they knew they could rely on him. You would see that person, worshiped as they would be, and maybe you would think, “Why wasn’t I destined to be great? Why them?” And there would be nothing you could do, probably. Because it wasn’t your destiny.