Mindfulness feat. wine and scotch.

Mindfulness. It’s a word that privileged white women probably drop in your Facebook feed. I have been reading books about Buddhism and mindfulness, and one of my all time favourite bloggers/podcasters Mike Cernovich has touched on mindfulness a fair bit. I am aware that mindfulness, in the context of wholly being in the present moment and not worrying about shit, would be the answer to my prayers. It would stomp out my human anxieties and low consciousness concerns. But I have been too lazy to be mindful. Too lazy to do nothing, basically. But now I’m drunk, and it’s kind of working. I am just chilling out on the deck at my parents’ place, watching some David Attenborough documentary after 3 glasses of fine, Australian shiraz and a Johnny red. I am able to actively switch off the part of my brain that idealises things, and just be. It turns out alcohol consumption is directly proportionate to mindfulness. Directly proportionate to one’s ability to exist in the present moment. Feel their ass on the cushion. Their feet on the ground. Their back against whatever the fuck their back is up against. “The breath is our anchor in the present” is what some guy said. Who? Lodro Rinzler. Maybe. I’ve read a lot of weird books.

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I am not Skrillex

I bought a MacBook Pro and started learning electronic music production around August last year. I’ve been in rock bands for years, but always wanted to go solo because I’m a prick who was always arguing with bandmates. Electronic music sounds cool, seemed easier to make than playing guitar in a studio, and was something I could do on my own. Except there’s still a learning curve. And of course, I sucked initially. I still suck. All I could think about was the fact that there were a lot of other producers out there (younger than me) who could make sicker beats than me, right now. And I held that mentality for what’s nearly been 10 months (too lazy to count). It delayed my progress and scared me out of trying to get better. Because all I could think was “man I suck, this is going to take forever to learn”. Except the other day when I was out driving somewhere, I thought “If I’d kept a consistent practice and learning schedule each day, I’d probably be starting to get somewhere with electronic production now”. So now I feel like shit for wasting all those months. Now I feel like shit for sitting around watching Sex & the City these past three or four weeks. I’ve had all the free time in the world, and all I’ve done is watch re-runs, gain weight and occasionally update this shit blog. Fear of failure can actually paralyse productivity. That’s not just some bullshit cheesy line. Stop reading this shit blog post, and go spend an hour doing something you know you should be doing but are putting off on account of a fear of not getting anywhere.

“He’s a Dermatologist I met at the Vietnamese lunch truck outside my building”

I’ve been watching five or six back-to-back episodes of Sex and the City in the middle of the day at my parents’ house this week. The title of this post is how Miranda casually described yet another muscular, financially successful man she’d been seeing. He had an impossibly perfect hairline. But she was somewhat unsatisfied with him because he was too verbal during sex. A muscular, financially successful man with an impossibly perfect hairline enjoyed her company, yet she found fault. This confirms my fears that because I am going bald at 23 and have no interest in being an investment banker or doctor, I will never date again. I will never be who Chris Noth was in the 90s. I am not Samoan and probably wont ever use steroids, so don’t console me by saying that Dwayne Johnson is bald and attractive. Bruce Willis, Woody Harrelson and Moby are not attractive men. They’re just rich and notable. My only chance is to try and look like Jason Statham. But even then, that will only look good for ten years or so. After testosterone has faded and man boobs have set in, I’ll basically be Nicholson minus the money and women. I should have not been fat and in a monogamous relationship when I had thick hair. I should have maximised my fleeting moments in the sun. But I digress. There are worse things in life than baldness. Like disease, poverty or tax. Reflecting on those helps put things into perspective. Now excuse me while I walk with a renewed sense of peace. Until, of course, I pass a mirror.

Conversations That Failed Musicians Are Bored Of Having

I saw an article today called “Conversations That Dancers Are Bored Of Having”.

I read it. It inspired me to write a similar article;

“Conversations That Failed Musicians Are Bored Of Having”

Hey dude, was wondering if you would ever do a tab of [MY SONG TITLE]? Really love that song.

Mate, I don’t put in the effort to practice often enough to play my songs well. Why would I put in the effort to teach you how to?

We would love if you would be able to perform in the form of non for profit and come and show your support for our [ORGANISATION NAME].

I am currently trying to sell a pair of used steel cap work boots on Gumtree for $25. My previous employer gave them to me for free. Do these sound like the actions of someone who can do anything in the form of ‘non for profit’? If you had any clue how difficult, frustrating, financially fruitless and expensive it is to create and maintain a band that doesn’t suck, you would never ask one to play for free.

We are exploring our interests and sharing them with the wider community. To enhance our videos we were wanting to use music from up and coming Australian bands, that we love to listen to. We are not being paid to do this. Would we be able to use your song [MY SONG TITLE SPELLED INCORRECTLY] as a backing track for a video? Full credit would be given to you at the end of our video. 

You’re asking if we’ll hand over free licensing of a song that took literally hours upon hours to write and record, and cost AT LEAST $1000 to do so? In exchange for the exposure that a brand new YouTube channel with shit all followers might provide? Let me think about it. In the mean time, are you perhaps interested in a pair of quality steel cap work boots?

Why do you have a “new” band name ? Your last name was something with “red .. ” or wasn’t it? And Sorry for my bad English!

No, it was not. Why do you message non-famous bands who have barely played a gig or released any music in two years?

There may be a sequel to this article. Also, don’t start a band. It’s expensive, demoralising and hard. Be a fucking DJ or electronic music producer. They basically get paid/laid the same, don’t have to split it with three or four other members and don’t have to lug amps and drums up stairs.

I need to go to bed.

Got up off the lounge and went to turn the ceiling fan off with the TV remote. Time for bed. But quickly, this girl who approached me after a gig I played last Friday night stopped texting me yesterday. I was playing it cool, giving way less attention than she was giving me. She seemed extremely keen to chat, initiating all text conversations. She had also creepily liked some of my facebook photos (including one almost two years old). Then bam. Gone. Mid conversation, just stopped replying forever. We’d already made plans to hang out on Saturday. But she’s ignored two spaced-out messages now, so I can’t send her another message asking if it’s still on. I have dignity. And I’m supposed to be moving overseas in like four weeks, so I don’t really know what I’d hoped to achieve by going on a date. I don’t want an Australian girlfriend. I want to meet one in the UK with a sweet accent.

I would spend more time thinking about why I may have received the infamous flake, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s not to ever try understand this stuff.

 

Dear good looking dude who works at Subway.

You have been rude and unpleasant to deal with both times you have made me a sandwich. I’ve witnessed you be short with your Indian co-worker, so I know it’s nothing personal. But still, fuck you. Why are you so sour? Like, I know you have a shit job, but you look like Matt Corby. You’re 20 or 21 and you have a better beard than me. You are not short. You are not bald, nor is your hairline receding. You have long, thick, sandy hair that sits perfectly and gives off the vibe that you don’t give a shit about anything. Women would bang you even if you had super chlamydia (a hypothetical disease that occurs when regular chlamydia resists the antibiotics and essentially doubles in potency).

Sure, your job is looked down upon by adults. But they’re fat and married and miserable and can’t afford to do anything fun because they have kids and a mortgage. Who cares what they think. They sit under fluorescent lights entering hideously boring information into Microsoft Word for nine hours a day. Every white collar job is the same. They have to work overtime for no extra money most weeks. They worry about their bosses and promotions over the weekends. You aren’t missing out on anything. When you clock the fuck out right on time at the end of a shift, within five minutes you’re probably drinking a beer and texting some hot chick with balayage hair to cruise round to your sharehouse and bang you silly. You won’t care if your roommates hear. They’ll high-five you later over pizza and beer.

You look like you’re in a band. You probably suck, but you still would get laid more than me. And I’m good. But I look like a fatter, uglier Heath Ledger. If I had your hairline and facial symmetry, I would be getting laid so often that I’d be getting tested for super chlamydia weekly. Daily. So stop being so sour you good looking jerk.