Thursday, August 25, 2016

Fashion for the unfashionable

The delivery guy turns up to deliver the next batch of clothes to photograph five grands worth of Armani Versace and Moschino. He takes away the last batch. I have a look. It's all shirts. My heart sinks. Shirts again. I'm fed up with shirts. But hey ho it's money in the bank. People ask me if I get to keep the samples. I'd need about fifty more wardrobes if I kept the samples after photographing them, I do so many.
Actually I'd probably sell them because I have zero fashion sense and they'd be wasted on me. I am waiting for the "scruffy git" look to become fashionable.
Back in my youth I rocked the hippy look ten years after hippies vanished. Flared jeans and cheese cloth shirts and a denim jacket. Oh no double denim. That's fashion faux pas. Apparently.
I went through a phase of wearing army surplus for years. Good solid shirts and trousers that didn't wear out so quick.
Nothing really fits me. Most of my clothes are too big for me. But that's how I like them big and loose.
Now ironically I shoot fashion and I am the least fashionable person I know. I am so unfashionable I  can't even get "scruffy git" right.

No news from the Emporium today. Sorry it's gone quiet.

2 Comments:

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11:42 am  
Blogger Z said...

I wouldn't have thought that just shirts were the easiest things to photograph effectively. Is anyone wearing them?

5:53 pm  

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Wednesday, August 24, 2016

Lurching through life

Lurch marches past my gaff,  he's not looking happy. I don't stop him to ask what's bothering him and how can I help, and have you considered bringing Jesus into your heart? I figure if there is a hell he's on his way already and if there isn't, he's already living it. It occurs to me I have never seen him smile. Perhaps he knows there is no escape. His life course is set. It may deviate this way and that way. But he is where he is and that's it.
My man walks past he isn't stopping to say hello. I call him in. He looks disgustingly healthy and chipper.
"I've just seen Lurch" I tell him.
"Oh don't. I had a visit last night. He brought his brother over. Christ you think Lurch is bad, his brother is worse, savage  as fuck. He's just come out of prison."
"What did he do?"
"Murdered a dog."
"A dog? You're kidding."
"Yeah stabbed it with a  kitchen knife because it annoyed him. I think he hurt some other people at the same time who took exception to their dog being killed. Well he's out now and Lurch brought him round mine. They didn't ask if they could come in, they just came in and you don't argue with them."
"What did you do?"
"I made some excuse that I had to go out so I went out round the block made sure they were gone and went home again, sneaked in the back door for chrissakes, my own home, I'm sneaking in the fucking back door how fucked up is that?"
"Is that why Lurch isn't happy? His brother is out of prison?"
"He's never happy. His brother being back doesn't help."
"Anyway where were you going in such a hurry, that you weren't going to stop?"
"Oh fuck I'm meeting a  girl. She drop dead gorgeous."
"Aren't they all?"
"Yes but this one......"
"You'd better get going then. Don't keep the princess waiting."
"Fuck off!"


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Tuesday, August 23, 2016

The Police raid

Suddenly there's a lot of Police outside the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium. I spot Lurch their Financial Advisor strolling down the road as he reaches the corner he spots the police van, does a 180 and walks in the opposite direction pulls out his phone and calls someone.
I will have to wait until my man arrives to get the word on the street about this. It's not obvious what's going down but they have this guy dressed in black waving his arms about in a very indignant manner, as if he can't understand why the police would even want to talk to him.
Mrs Slow walks past totally oblivious to all the activity. She's oblivious to most things. Sometimes I wonder if she knows if she is alive or dead. Her body is still moving but I think she died years ago.
My man turns up almost running; he's heard. Someone phoned him. I ask him "what's  happening?"
He doesn't know yet,but he'll get back to me. You know I think he will. For the first time in ages he actually looks like he isn't going to die any second.

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Death metal on an Acoustic guitar

I drive to the Directors house, my Ovation guitar on the back seat. I no longer have a home recording studio I have a photographic studio instead. So if she wants recordings she can do the recording herself. I'll just play. It was a very intense few hours, fine tuning the story line for Act 2. Arguing about motives, plot lines and  plausibility. All my incredibly brilliant ideas trashed at a stroke and new ideas thought up. Whole songs ripped to shreds because NOW they don't work. They have to be rewritten to fit in. New tunes thought up.
I am torn between thinking that if I knew it was going to be this hard I wouldn't have started in the first place and the satisfaction of seeing something take shape. An idea developing into something real.
The Director has never been under any illusion that it was going to be easy. She has always said it's going to be hard work to put it together. But that has never dimmed her enthusiasm and drive.
"Come on talk to me. What happens before the massacre?"
"errrr what do you mean?"
"What drives them  to this point?"
"The stand off."
"Yes I know but what exactly happens?"
"Help.... I know the story it's all in my head but now you're asking questions I about stuff I hadn't even thought of."
"That's my job as Director  So come on think. Work with me. It's a great story but we've got to fill in the gaps and there's plenty of them. "
I sit with my head in my hands, my mind spinning. I've got to concentrate. She works so fast and asks so many questions it's relentless. I can't keep up. I stand up.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere I think better if I'm walking." So I pace up and down the room throwing out ideas. Some stick. We get to one of my songs. "This isn't going to work." she says  "can you rewrite it?"
"What NOW?"
"Why not?" I pick up my guitar and play the song changing it from a major to a minor key, "that's better already now change the rhythm." I'm playing something like death metal on an acoustic guitar, "Now you're getting there."
Were getting somewhere.

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Monday, August 22, 2016

Moving up the food chain

So the Director phones me up wanting me to send her a recording of one of the songs in my Rock Opera. She's working on Act 2 and needs it pronto.
All my recording equipment has gone since I stopped being a musician to concentrate on being a photographer. I might have to record it on my mobile phone. Hardly a top quality recording. But it might do for her reference. So I guess I'll have to dig out my Ovation and hope my fingers hold out long enough to play. The callouses on my finger tips have long since worn away leaving finger tips baby soft.
Last night she sent me a recording of another song she wrote as a fill in song for the hellish torture scene, she has her daughter screaming in agony in the background to her song based on a standard twelve bar blues riff. The screaming is so authentic I worry for the safety of her daughter. Did  she really torture her daughter for that extra authenticity.
She tells me also she has found the perfect person to play the part of the psychopathic "Doctor" whose main hobby is torture and death. It's an everyday story of everyday folk. Who is this guy? Why is he perfect? Is he himself a psychopathic murderer, who started off life being cruel to butterflies, then moved up the food chain, before becoming an Actor? We'll see.

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5:41 am  

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Jeremy Corbyn and the drug raids

So it's been an unexpectedly busy day. My local MP came to see me. I've got to say if he wasn't a politician he'd be almost tolerable. You could almost describe him as pleasant. But I steadfastly refuse to talk about politics with him.  So I left out the part where I proclaim Jeremy Corbyn a God amongst men, the new messiah of the people. I bit my tongue instead of telling him he had zero interest in the people and just pandered to his and his ilks pockets. Which I thought would have been a bit hypocritical being as I wanted to empty his wallet for him and trouser the contents.
So then my man came back. Twice in one day. Unheard of. Anyway I took the opportunity to ask  about the implications of grassing up the druggies to the police.
"What me? No it wasn't me who grassed them up."
"But when you were here last week, you hinted that it was you."
"Well maybe indirectly it was me."
"Go on, how does that work?"
"Well remember the guy who was in my garden shed?"
"Yes. The one you kicked out."
"That's him. Well he came back. I was really pissed off with him. Turned out he's a big time druggie and hiding from the police."
"Hardly big time if he's hiding in your bleedin shed."
"Well round here he's a big player, anyway So phoned the Police and let them know where he was hiding. They were round mine in minutes with a little tap on the door, which I opened to find three big burly Policemen. I told them where the shed was and let them go get him. Now he's the one, who when he got nabbed, started singing like a bleedin canary. he was giving out names and addresses and the police just sucked it all up. Then last week they hit. Nine raids in 48 hours. So it wasn't exactly me who grassed them up but the guy in my shed."
"OK"
"But get this, there's a twist. The guy who was hiding in my shed has a sister, she's pretty skanky, Last night the Police were round my house looking for her as well. She's done a runner."
"What for? Is she one of the major players?"
"Nah she's just a skankie druggie. They want her for breaking and entering."

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Philosophy, Alcohol and drugs

It's desperately quiet over at the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium. There are no comings and goings. Lurch the financial adviser has no one to advise right now. The supply chain has been cut off for the moment after last weeks police raids. The poor lambs don't know what to do with themselves. No drugs to sell. My man saunters past on his way to the Offy. Actually it's the corner shop, I just call it the offy. He's smiling. he has no problem. he just goes and gets his bag full of super strength lager and he's happy
I ask him why he drinks that stuff. he looks at me as if I'm stupid, "why do you breath? It's lager innit. It does the job."
"What job? What job do you want it to do?" I'm being deliberately obtuse.
"Are you for real?"  for the first time my man looks angry with me, he doesn't want to admit he needs the drink. "At least I don't do drugs." he swerves. He does, but I let that one slide. He will use what ever he gets his hands on. But alcohol is his drug of choice. Except to him it's not a drug.
"I can't drink that stuff. " I say, "It's far too strong.  Even Ice cold it's too strong to drink."
"You get used to it. Drink enough of it and it doesn't matter anymore."
"Does anything matter?"
"That's very Nihilistic have you been reading Fichte or Kant recently?"

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Friday, August 19, 2016

Apologising to the trees.

My man turns up after a few weeks of being off the grid. He's had a makeover. Gone are the combat trousers and bomber jacket. He's now sporting a look somewhere between Mad Max and  Hawaii Five-O, well it is summer after all. He's looking rather chipper for someone I never expect to see above ground for much longer. He waves. I wave back, then he does an about turn, and walks toward me a big smile on his face. Did you hear?
"The Police raids? " I venture.
"Yeah fuckin' Ay. A few more scumbags off the streets. The Police went in hard and fast with a few simultaneous dawn raids."
"But they never hit the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium.  Why not?" I ask.
"Well he's just a street dealer innee? They went higher they went for the distributors. So the emporium is gonna be light on stock for awhile."
"How long?"
"A couple of days.... hey look..." He points up the road, "ha ha the cunts, they've got nothing to sell so they're walking the fucking streets. Like fucking lost children... The bastards."
Sure enough ambling down the road come a group of the worst kind of scum, including their 7 foot tall financial advisor who incidently looks almost exactly like Lurch from the Adams family. It's like a horror version of a family outing. My man has to go hide round a corner he's laughing so much. I stand there in the street as they walk past. They don't give me a second glance.  When they'd gone my man comes out of hiding "Pathetic aint they? Trouble without a cause. Fucking waste of space the lot of them. They ought to go apologise to the fucking trees for using up the Oxygen. hey you wanna beer? I got a sack full here."
"No thanks it's bit early for me."
"Well it's never too fucking early for me. Cheers an spit in yer eye." he takes a slug. "it's a good day today." he says between mouthfuls of super strength lager. "the bastards are out of business and life is sweet. Especially gonna be sweet, when the big boys find out who grassed them up."
"Who's that?"
"The cunt squad."
"Errrr why would they grass up their suppliers?"
"They didn't, but words been put out on the street that they did?"
"Who by?"
"Who do you think?" he grins wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, winks  and says "See ya."

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Monday, August 15, 2016

Just an idea in my head

It's a strange feeling. I now have part one of my Rock Opera all written out with stage directions and dialogue etc. It's done. It's  a document. I have something real in my hand that was previously just an idea in my head. There's  a long way to go and still part two to write and get right. No doubt loads of revisions and rewrites, when we discover things are not working as we thought they would. But even so, to get this far is a miracle.

2 Comments:

Blogger Liz said...

How exciting!

5:10 pm  
Blogger Sir Bruin said...

I'm impressed. Good luck with it, mate

9:47 pm  

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Saturday, August 13, 2016

Playing with the Big Boys

So I'm just wasting time, watching the world go by outside my window, when an Ambulance tears up the road. It stops outside the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium and the paramedics leap out. Some dodgy geezer is waiting outside, looking dodgy. Nervously he points to the door of the Smack Crack and Cocaine Emporium. They go in. From this distance I can't see much more. So I just sit and watch from my chair. There's a siren and two Police cars, with flashing lights screech to a halt next to the Ambulance. The dodgy geezer sticks his hands in his pockets and ever so nonchalantly, turns and wanders off. The Police run straight in. They know the way by now. They've hit this place so many times already.
Ten minutes later the Police leave and the paramedics hang around outside chatting with the junkies. They leave as well. I think we'll never know what has just happened. But my man swings by the next morning.
"I s'pose you saw didn't ya?"
"Yesterdays action? What happened?"
"Just some new kid playing with the big boys."
"and....?"
"well he thought he could take it. But some of these guys have been doing this shit for years. They're hardened to it. But of course he wouldn't listen."
"What happened to him?"
"It was close. They couldn't wake him up. He was totally out of it. So they panicked and called an ambulance. He'll live. He wasn't even taken to hospital.  By the time the paramedics got to him he was just about coming round. He's a fucker. Have you seen him?"
"I don't know."
"I'll point him out if I see him. But he's trying to make his mark. But he's just a twat trying to join the cunt squad."
"Well looking at them I can't see the bar being set very high for him to get in."
"No you've just got to be a complete cunt. He's getting there."

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