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.


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.