This is not news to anyone that has known me for some time but, because I move around a lot, there are some people I’m currently close with who have not known me for some time. This message is for you.
I haven’t celebrated Xmas for a number of years now. I used to be quite (read: very) soap-boxy about my hatred of all things yuletide but throughout the years that fanaticism (like most of my fanaticism) has relaxed to more of a dulled disdain.
Embracing the holiday iconography perhaps more than peeps intended me to for an Xmas KitKat party in Köln.
There are facets of holiday celebration I’m more than happy to partake in; the parties and get-togethers and the like. I like spending time with people I like so, really, whatever the excuse – boom hells yeah lets go.
I will not decorate. I feel for the Earth, poor struggling whelp that she is. It does not bring me joy to string sparkly reminders of our diminishing rainforests from one corner of the room to the other.
I don’t do carols. They are terrible and make me want to kill myself. Or at least stab myself in the ears.
But above all else – I don’t do gifts. This is not exclusive to Xmas. I do not do gifts for any calendar occasion. I do do gifts, occasionally. . . just not when I’m supposed to.
I’m a big fan of small business. I’m also a big fan of a good gut laugh. Given that my Friday (which was already going pretty fucking well to be honest) concluded with both these things, I was a pretty big fan of it as well.
The George, an independent cinema in the heart of St. Kilda (that would be in Melbourne for non. . .Melbournians) has recently reopened. Vicky, the mate with whom I am currently staying (who clearly has her finger firmly on the fidgety pulse of the neighborhood she calls home), suggested we check them out in all their opening night glory.
The movie they’d decided to open their doors with was an Australian documentary entitled Cosmic Psychos: Blokes You Can Trust (perhaps unsurprisingly, it is about a band called the Cosmic Psychos).
Allow me to share with you a terrible, wonderful recipe. It comes all the way from the magical island of Newfoundland.
The recipe is as follows:
1 – Make bread dough
2 – Instead of allowing it to fulfill its life purpose by baking/rising in the oven, instead beat the shit out of it. Then fry it in pork fat.
3 – Because life is too short, top this delicious monstrosity with products that are either 80% fat, or sugar or both. Molasses is classic. Butter is also an option.
I like filling the last couple gigs of my iPod randomly. There are albums friends have put onto my iTunes throughout the years that I haven’t had a chance to listen to, or things I downloaded in a set that I still haven’t listened to in full. So, when I’m in the mood, I’ll play my full song list on shuffle.
So between old, familiar good tunes something new will come on and I’ll be like ‘hey, I dig this, nice’, and make a mental note to listen to it more. Sometimes something shit comes on and I’m like ‘right, will be deleting that rubbish.’ Sometimes I don’t even notice the new stuff playing because it either blends in with what I already listen to or is just very successful at being ninja background music.
But every once in a while, rarely, magically, something comes on that, from the very first few chords, makes my ears perk up and take notice and I’m like ‘Oh, hello, what are you?’ And the song just keeps getting better as it goes on and my ears open wider and wider and the song is just just right and maybe even has an unexpected rise or bass drop and if it does it’s like ‘BOOM’, like a second orgasm you didn’t see coming just 30 seconds after the first (which was already pretty fucking awesome) that you feel right down to the very tips of your twitching toes.
And the song finishes, often suddenly, done and gone like a lover who doesn’t stick around to cuddle but just leaves you still dripping with sweat under the twisted covers, covered in goosebumps and wanting a cigarette.