Not today

I’m not a morning person, and I’ve got witnesses to back me up on that. But there is one morning ritual I hope to never give up: the donning of the gear. Riding trousers, boots, motorcycle jacket. The helmet, and optimistically, the sunglasses. And finally, outside now, as the bike warms at idle, the donning of the gloves: the final signal of intention. We’re going riding now.

I do this twice a day, every work day, and as often as I can on the weekends.

Recently, there’s one final step that’s been added to the ritual. As I pull slowly away into traffic, I find myself saying a little mantra, quietly, but as mindfully as possible: “Not today”. I make sure every part of myself has heard it, listened to it, and acknowledged it. Only then do I get going.

Not today. We will not be coming down today. I do make mistakes sometimes: misreading the road surface, or coming in way too fast for a corner, or just not being fully present in the monotony of rush hour traffic. Not today reminds me to stay sharp. (I don’t want to come down tomorrow, either – I don’t want to ever come down, let alone get into a bad situation with another vehicle – but a daily commitment is more effective than some vague, perpetual intention).

One ride at a time, as it were.

It’s not all within my control. Probably not even mostly. But being mindful allows me to influence that small sphere of fate which is within my control. I get so much pleasure from riding this bike, going ever faster, pushing her, pushing myself, especially with these tires.

These tires are special. Fitting these Metzler Z8′s was like a visit to a southern Baptist church. The bike is transformed. What was heavy and cumbersome is now a glorious ballet of lightness and surefootedness. She has found a new spiritual direction, leading me to hitherto unknown states of near rapture.

This is, obviously, a dangerous turn of events. It’s become more important than ever that I remember the mantra: not today.

My ride to work and back is mostly B-roads. I can take the motorway if I like, but I don’t. The back roads are better. Hills and farms. Rises and dips and blind corners. A jump into a counter-banked corner, followed by a 1st gear peg-scraper, exhaust burbling on the downshift, and then a short-shift into second as I swing her back the other way, braking again for another first-gear corner. It’s sheer satisfaction. It’s intense.

Most of these back roads – and there are many options between work and home – have very little traffic. But there are tractors and sheep and cow-shit. And even the occasional young woman on a horse, all decked out in her riding kit, seriously sexy but very annoyed at my racing engine.

So I drive hard but restrained. If I can’t see over this next rise then I’m certainly not going to be nailing it. I drive for the sight-lines, the general road conditions, and the likely presence of human or non-human road-kill.

There are ways to increase one’s chances of survival. I’ve got more than a few defensive driving tricks up my sleeve, which I may explore in another post. Yet some would say the most effective way to stay out trouble is to just not ride at all. I could crack my head slipping in the bathtub instead of on a greasy roundabout.

When I talk to my wife about bikes she says she’d rather me take the train. Fair enough, but surely trains are just an unfortunate but necessary way to get home after a night out? They lack a certain satisfaction.

Or I could just drive slower, though that’s not the first thing that comes into my overly-motorcycled head. Driving slower on two wheels is downright dangerous. Higher revs and blurring scenery increases my awareness. Cranking that throttle a little gets me paying proper attention.

But it’s always back to the ritual. Not today, I say to myself, as I pull into traffic. We may ride hard today, but we’re not coming down. Not today.

It’s a She

It’s a she. What am I supposed to do with that? I have no idea how to feel. A son, yes, I feel I can do it, I can even imagine talking to Bruce in twenty years time without him hating me. I have so much to tell him. But a daughter? What could I possibly have to say to a girl?

She was born just this last Friday, and her name is Marnie. Excellent news, proud and happy – I feel everything I’m supposed to feel. Except there’s all this other stuff that no-one seems to to talk about.

For one, how the hell did this happen? One moment I’m floating blissfully on my once true love, Someday, and then bam, I’ve got a very pregnant Scottish blond on my arm, waddling down the hall of the maternity ward, my two-year old boy at my sister-in-law’s. Sister-in-law? I’m married? WTF?

I like my life now, but I’m also worried rife. There’s no room for mistakes anymore – especially not the big ones. I worry that this may well result in less risk. I worry that without risk I could well ossify and die.

I want to pull a Sarah Conner and send my son messages into his future. I want to prepare him for the revolution. But do I have the guts to throw down the security of this soul-destroying consumer lifestyle in order to lead my family into that righteous future that we must so obviously embrace? Can I still live this double life, where I am anguished by the unjust rulings of our corrupt, controlling governments and the greedy, sociopathic drive of our corporations, and yet also lead the very life they both expect, whereby I am just another robot gladly bending over at their whim?

I will tell my son about the lies. My passion will be boundless. He will look at me, his gaze holding, intense at first, interested, but I can see him disengaging as he takes stock of what I’ve said. He’ll think for a moment, and then I need for him to say to me: bullshit. I expect to fail in so many ways in Bruce’s eyes, but this one capacity I must impart. Have the guts. Call them like you see them. Bullshit. You’re like everyone else, Dad. You do what you’re supposed to do. You always have. You’re telling me about making a difference, you’re telling me about challenging the status quo, you’re telling to stick it to the man, but what the hell have you done about any of these things? Nothing. Oh, right, you sailed a boat that one time. Good going Dad. But you spent all your waking hours in front of a computer screen, churning out code for the man.

He has me. All my ideas and dreams peaked long ago. All I’m left with is angst and worry over my ability to provide for my family in a fucked economy. Gone is the general expectation of better things. We are many of us hunkered down now, living from month to month. We were promised the Earth, and oh, they made good on that one alright. There’s almost nothing left. My children now have to somehow heal a planet ravaged and plundered and dying. Daily I want to scream. I’m mad with anger but it’s wasted. My bitter iconoclasm has ruined both new and long-standing friendships and has made forging new ones near impossible. My heart’s voice is too loud and, even at forty three, still so unrefined that I dare not speak it.

Where does this leave me, the father, to my son, to my new baby girl? I have two ways out:
1) Accept my pitiful attempt at rebellion and allow my son and baby daughter to see what I really am: angry and spineless. I’m sorry son, I’m sorry my beautiful little daughter. I noticed, but I chose not to do anything.
or
2) Channel my awareness.

The answer is obvious, and it’s what I am provisionally calling Punk Rock. This Punk Rock is everything the original was, but more.

Punk Rock is about stepping outside of our expected behaviours and becoming more than this.  Yet it is more than targeted self-improvement. It’s about freedom and risk. It’s about finding meaning though creativity and colouring outside the lines. It’s about making life more fun.

We are a nasty, nasty people and my hatred for our species is profound. But we also have this tremendous capacity for art, through which we can find redemption, even hope. We also have free will. Combine the two and there’s the real possibility of creating something new.

We also have this tremendous capacity for love. Having children has changed everything for me. Before them my desire for change was in part inspired by my wife. Now it’s my children too. Part of me resists – I’ll change when I damn well feel like it – but mostly I realize that I have no choice, and that my excuses only serve as a security blanket that should have been discarded long ago.

So for me, the way forward is clear, at least philosophically. Instead of angry words, the letters on my banners and placards, written large, will read Big Love and Punk Rock.

Expect a Punk Rock Manifesto in the near future.

12 horses

I usually don’t mind riding in the rain, but this morning was a bummer.

My FZ1 was due her 12,000 mile service, which meant riding twice my usual commute. I was wearing my guaranteed 100% waterproof trousers, my usual double-shelled 100% waterproof jacket, thick winter waterproof gloves, and the usual waterproof stompers.

On paper I was wet-proof.

But this is Scotland. I don’t think there’s rain gear anywhere on the planet that can withstand the freaky meteorological chaos of this miserable, sodden land. The rain doesn’t come down, it comes horizontally, and sometimes even up. Staying dry – even at sane speeds – is an unattainable fantasy.

This morning I made about thirty good miles before the seeping started. This is not a nice moment. You feel that slow ice water trickle, and it doesn’t matter what you’re doing – if the front wheel is off the ground or you’re scraping the pegs – you feel it acutely, and know that the ride can now only descend into unpleasantness. Ingress has been established. There’s no way back. Come, the trickle says, come join with me and dampen what we can. Dampen until all sense of comfort has been claimed.

This time it started in the heel of my left boot, spreading out through my toes. I knew it was over. Through all the defences there was found a breach. The little fingers on my right hand were next, spreading fast. Cold, so cold – the discomfort deepens into a full-on ache.

Seeping is not just unpleasant but distracting too. I picture my destination, miles away, with the knowledge that once I’ve dropped off the bike I’ll have to get on the loaner (if I’m lucky) and then wrestle these nasty wet gloves back onto my frozen hands, and then just head back up the road, more miserable than ever. Gritting of teeth. Shaking of fist. Futile revving of engine. Out. Of. My. Way.

I made it to the dealership just seconds after crotch-seep. My day is now officially ruined. I picture walking about the office displaying my freshly-peed pants. A nice look.

There’s really only one thing I like about my Yamaha dealership: it’s the two girls than run the store upstairs. The blond – who I’ve seen in leather – greets me warmly. My boots are squelching as I walk. A puddle forms where I stop to talk to her. She laughs. I tell her how I feel. I think I even swore. She commiserates – she rode in too – but somehow she looks dry. I felt better though. She knew about seepage, and that was nice. But then I had to go downstairs and set up the gig.

Downstairs is like metal bits in your oil. The parts men moan; the mechanics scold.

The basement is an inevitable and depressing part of service. The only plus is that they have a few classic bikes sitting there unused and unloved. A 1974 Honda CB650: beautiful – I’d like one in my living room. And the 1980 six-cylinder CBX – I’d like to ride it, hard. But I don’t want to be there. The parts man is frowning. He answers the phone and addresses the unseen caller as “friend”. It smells of burnt oil and dirt and unwashedness. Close overhead the neon bleaches everything. I feel awkward too, at a disadvantage, because I know that no matter how friendly I am, I will still be quietly judged. They don’t like me much there. Mostly because I don’t wash my bike enough.

When I finally get back upstairs I ask the blond if I can borrow a bike for the day. She’s happy to see me again (how long does it take to just hand over the keys?) and tells me: “Of course!”.

All that I am hoping for at this point is a Yamaha Diversion 400 like they gave me last time. But then the dark one comes along – usually just as accommodating as the blond – but this time she’s arctic. She looks at the blond and then back at me. “Nope. We have a test on Wednesday, so everything’s out. Well, unless you want a YBR?” The blond has left quietly. But everything’s still OK – I’ve been offered a bike and I have many miles to go.

She tells me it’s a 125. I say sure, that sounds like fun. Little did I know. I sign some papers. I’m given the keys by the new guy, and he’s telling me how to press the different buttons, which are exactly the same as every other bike on the planet. I’ve just stepped off a 150hp motorcycle and here he is telling me this wee shiny beauty only has 12.

12 horses! Was he serious? How was I going to get to work on this?

I decided against the motorway. I quickly planned a route that would bypass the M8, leaving me playing in city traffic with not much more than a motorized bicycle. Through lovely Paisley (a shit-hole, as most Scots describe it, and so far I’ve seen nothing to the contrary) and on to my destination.

I donned my helmet and lovely sodden gloves and pulled into traffic. I immediately realized what a different game I was now playing. This was not a beast I was driving, it was a vole. A blind, fragile thing that I knew nothing about and that I could not trust. I couldn’t even pass a bus.

When I finally got to work I had a new admiration for all the poor suckers who have to go through graduated licensing. I also had a headache, due to the unique engineering of the suspension.  That thing was dangerous in traffic. No acceleration, no brakes, no traction. Yet I also had a feeling that I just didn’t know how to ride it yet.

Fuck, I said to myself, not for the first time that morning. I was now at my desk, trying discretely to pull off two layers of sodden socks. I spent the day barefoot in my office slip-ons. I hoped no-one would notice, but at the same time I didn’t care. It’s hard feeling torn all the time.

At day’s end I was still cold and it was still raining, but the ride back to the dealership wasn’t so bad. My work day was over and I would soon be riding my proper machine home to warm socks and cold beer. I was starting to get the hang of the 12 horses – you basically just keep the throttle wide open and change gears like a trucker. When you need to slow down, you don’t: instead just find your way past all the traffic without losing momentum. That bike was stupid on the trunk roads – I struggled to reach her top speed of 57mph – but once in 30mph traffic she was a blast. I was zipping and deking and dodging and just wringing that little bike’s neck. I was loving it. I brought her back to the dark-haired one with a grin. “Man, I like motorcycles”, I said. She was surprised, but I think pleased that I liked it.

After a load of abuse from the dour crew downstairs, I was back on my own bike, that monster that does 85mph in in first gear. It was nice to be back, and although she felt a little unwieldy, I was amazed by her stability. I drove slowly at first, relishing the easy power, but I was soon spinning that engine up to the erogenous zone. The 12 horses were an interesting diversion, but I do believe I’ll stick with my 150. Even in the rain.

The sneeze

I am having a problem with my wife. Well, maybe it’s not a problem. More like a mystified incredulity that sometimes leaves me in a tight spot.

It’s the toilet paper. Whenever she changes it she puts on backwards, so that the next sheet is hidden, hanging behind somewhere. There ceases to be any dispensing action – instead it’s all mucking about, twirling it around, trying to get something going. Why does she do it?

I’ve not actually brought it up yet – I don’t want to start down that quibbly road whereby we become a caricature of that long-married couple perpetually arguing about inconsequential domestic peeves. But after much study I’ve concluded that there is more than chance at play here. She puts it on backwards on purpose.

Maybe there’s another reason I haven’t mentioned it. Maybe I don’t want to know the answer. There can’t possibly be any rational explanation for it – anything she says is bound to make me revise my long-standing (and probably delusional) understanding of that which makes her tick.

So if I spot it in time I just quietly shake my head and put it right. But sometimes there’s no time – sometimes my need is desperate.

But it’s not bowels I’m talking about here – not this time. The real issue is trying to catch a sneeze before it’s too late.

I can’t sneeze. Well, I can sneeze, but I try like hell to avoid it. My sneezes come from a different place than other people’s sneezes. It begins at the base of the spine and travels swiftly upwards, gathering commitment from as many primary and secondary physiological systems as can be roused. And they do rouse.

This sneezy weasel is quick, sometimes so quick I don’t even realize what’s going on, too late for action, even if I could somehow unravel the toilet paper. Most times I can head it off, but when I fail, I am wholly taken by it. I can’t pull back. A great eruption of sound and ejecta ensues. My lungs, my sinuses, my throat and vocal chords, and then finally my nose – everyone jumps into the fit. And it’s never just one – it’s three, four, five uncontrollable spasms of hateful disruption. My son stops what he’s doing and stares in horrified fascination as I convulse again and again, the sound like the startled bark of some sick beast.

Afterwards I am thoroughly shattered. Random muscles are now sore – muscles that had no business being involved in what should be a simple bodily function. Three layers of skin have been scraped off the back of my throat. My head is pounding in pain. My eyes are watering. And my hands are full of the unmentionably disgusting contents of my innards.

Life was fine just a moment ago; now I am recovering from the train wreck of multiple involuntary seizures. I feel stomped on, the life beaten out of me. Whatever I’d been doing, however I’d been feeling is now gone, replaced by a shell-shocked exhaustion. My head pounds. The back of my throat is raw. All energy is gone. I feel sick, confused, and thoroughly defeated.

For some people a sneeze can be a pleasurable interruption to their day. I read somewhere that some lucky women can even experience orgasm during a sneeze. Life’s not fair.

I’ve tried things. Like pinching my nostrils, or blowing my nose vigorously, or reciting verse backwards. No result. I’ve tried just going with it – offering no resistance to the oncoming surge, but this approach just intensifies the shock. Afterwards I must lie down in a dark room for an hour.

Well, there is one thing that helps, but it’s a bit silly, and I don’t really get it. It’s my wife again. If she’s nearby and senses an upcoming attack, she does this weird magic waving motion thing with her hands. If I focus on her waggling fingers, the sneeze just backs down, defeated, and the crisis is over. It’s not as good as an orgasm, but it beats the alternative.

There are some things about my wife that I just do not understand. The backwards toilet paper is one, the waggly fingers another; there are many more. My instinct is to not question these things. She knows why she does it, and although it mystifies me, I love her for it.

The month of the novel

It’s NaNoWriMo, or, in other words, National Novel Writing Month. (They don’t say which Nation, but I have a feeling it’s a certain self-entitled Nation.)

So, within the thirty days that make up this miserable month of November, I’m supposed to write a novel of at least 50,000 words. And then, if I finish on time, I win! And, just by finishing – and no matter how crap it is – a panel of award-winning authors from around the world pore through every brave and lyrical utterance, shaking their heads in wonder: how could such a talent have eluded them for so long? Society has surely been the poorer without this masterwork of insight, exposing as it does the weepy workings of our brittle human souls.

Well, no. There’s no prize. Not even a tee-shirt. In fact, no-one even reads it.

There is a website. You tell them how many words you’ve written, and they take your word for it. You can type “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”, over and over again, if that’s your thing (and it sure was Jack’s). And then you submit it. And then it’s over.

Last year there were 120,000 starters, 21,000 of whom finished on time. Impressive. Some of them have even been published, and, of those some, a few have even won some award or ended up on a best seller list somewhere – Kazakhstan, maybe.

Myself I’m now just shy of 24,000 words*. But then, last weekend, one of my characters did something I wasn’t entirely happy with, and I haven’t written a word since. I spent days worrying about it, trying to find a way out of the dead-end situation she’d gotten herself into, but I couldn’t find an out.

So I stopped writing and bought a new video game instead. I’ve been playing it ever since, every chance I get. Words? Novel? I couldn’t face it.

It’s ridiculous, really. The excuses. Because I really was quite enjoying it. Sure, I had no outline – just a couple of characters and a vague idea of a plot – but things were happening, new characters were appearing out of nowhere, fitting in perfectly and helping to drive the main characters’ delusions that there is some meaning to be found in life.

I started worrying about the logistics of it all. Everything must be neatly and logically tied together. I panic as soon as the threads start to fray. I find reasons not to continue.

It is a resistance I’ve mastered over the years. The better I can thwart my potential, the happier I am.

50,000 words is a lot for one month, what with work and family and rock band – and my new video game. The only way to achieve it is to write without stopping to edit and pretty things up. I find this difficult.

I’ve been thinking about it, and I realize that my comfort with the status quo just isn’t Punk Rock at all. So I’m going to continue with this pathetic dead-end attempt at a novel. And that corner I wrote Ruth into? It’s just logistics. I’ll figure it out later. I can leave that bit and jump straight into the action of what happens next. Who cares how she got there? I can fix it in the mix.

In writing fiction, the only brick wall is the one you erect yourself. Mine is a good wall, and my bleeding head has become familiar with the comfort of its unyielding brick. I know I can’t remove it – that would probably destroy me. But I think I can sneak around its side.

Enough. Back to the novel, yes?

*That’s a self-motivating lie. It’s closer to 12k.

Emergency bike wash

I washed my Yamaha FZ1 today for the first time in weeks. Months, probably. Cue shock and awe among the general biker population. What kind of a man? Not washing means not loving, means not caring, means, in the end, neglect. Poor Yammy.

My rear tire challenges this conclusion. 4,000 miles and it’s down to the steel belts. Neglect? We doubt this.

We say that driving the snot out of a highly-rated tire suggests enthusiastic usage of the machine – within, of course,  its recommended operating parameters. I drove that tire to the dealer carefully, paranoically, though that wasn’t my primary purpose there. The brake disks were getting replaced again. Problems at the factory with their lathe or something. I’m now on my third set on the front and second on the rear. I change them more than I do my tires.

But that’s not why we’re here. We were talking about not washing motorcycles.

The emergency bike wash was necessary to suck up to the head mechanic at the dealer. He’s given me trouble in the past. Says they can’t honour the warranty unless I look after it. A fair enough statement, but I don’t know. Have you ever seen what a bike looks like after two or three weeks of winter driving in Scotland? Not so shiny anymore.  But he didn’t see it quite the same way. Gave me a stern talking to.

This is the only Yamaha dealer any where close to me, so I need smiles and goodwill, especially as these warranty issues gather steam. So I did a quick rinse with the hose, a quick once over with a soapy sponge, another rinse to finish. Quick and lazy. I tightened and lubed the chain, too, while I was at it – he might really have had something on me if he’d seen the shocking state of it.

I washed the Dragon often and with due respect. Those lingering, soapy moments were perhaps my favourite thing about that beast. But this Yamaha is no dragon. She’s a beater. A fun beater, full of warts and cramps, freaky fast for sure, but certainly no looker. So why bother spending two hours of painstaking scrubbing of rims and spokes when I really just don’t care? Sure, I want her to last, so I spray her down with anti-corrosion when I think of it. I maintain tire pressures (at least semi-annually) and adjust and lube the chain. I may not trail my fingers over her like I did the Dragon, but that doesn’t mean I ‘m just going to throw my money away.

Some guys spend more time washing than riding. It’s the same with boats, too. Yachties down to the marina of a Sunday just to scrub and polish, leaving the dock maybe once in a season. Someday may have not always been the most polished of boats, but I kept all her systems in good working order. And I left the dock. Surely that’s the point?

Go to any bike meet. Aside from the grunge they picked up on their way there, every last one of them is spotless and gleaming, no matter what gutless thumper is cradled within. Car owners across the UK can relate. Here, if you have a motor, no matter how pathetic, you wash it. At least as often as your neighbour.

I used to ride with a guy* that brought two terrycloth towels with him everywhere he went. Once we stopped – for a coffee, a beer, a vista – he’d pull out the damp one and begin cleaning off mostly-invisible spots of dust, followed by a careful but furious polish with the dry one.  I didn’t understand. Me, I’d park my Vera within line of sight, then stand back and smoke, taking in the vista, my emotions heightened by her silhouette. She was something to look at, especially dirty. That was Vera’s thing. She was better dirty.

Bikes are for riding, not cleaning. But maybe, in most biker’s eyes, the one they’re on right now is their own Dragon. Who am I to say?

I used to drive a gorgeous Kawasaki ZRX11. I had her for five years and didn’t wash her once. It became, almost, a matter of pride. When I lived In South Carolina I’d park her on the dock close to Someday. Convenient, but salt water and metal fall madly, sickly, in love. A parasitic relationship going nowhere good. Sometimes I’d see another ZRX and I’d think, wow, that does look good. Seems every ZRX owner but me was obsessive in their worship. Oh well, I’d think. It was too late anyways, and surely not worth the effort.

Washing a bike is fundamentally different than washing a car. The innards are inside-out, so it’s not just body panels – it’s every metal bit, especially their fasteners. Nuts and bolts get fuzzed with corrosion, rusting at the faintest smell of rain. I ride every day, no matter the fickle Scottish weather. A proper wash is a compete detailing job that takes a certain sick level of devotion that I’m glad to be lacking.

In the end, the head mechanic didn’t say anything, at least not about her filth. It was the steel belts in the tire that caught his attention. I don’t think that impressed. And the parts man continued his gradual distancing – I think I make him uncomfortable. Too many questions, demands.

I understand the obsession. I’ve flirted with it myself. But for this bike – for all the bikes I’ve ever owned – I’d rather ride than polish. And besides, a little road spoodge speaks to the motorcycle’s true purpose, which is not about short skirts and lip gloss.  It’s about you, the machine, and the road. The spoodge is a bonus.

*Chris, if you’re out there, get in touch.

Children’s books

Our little Bruce is growing fast. He’s got loads of energy – running, climbing, yelling, shouting… especially the shouting. He likes asserting his ebullience and notifying his maker that he’s still here doing His good work. Sometimes he’s like a Scottish squall – you’re sitting there in a peaceful, thoughtful mood and all of sudden this fast, ferocious dynamo comes tearing through and completely shatters your ruminations. The only difference being that the squalls here aren’t anywhere near as amusing.

He’s only a year and half but his presence is constantly felt. He’s loud, sure, but I suppose I’m getting used to it. But the whining. Oh the whining. He just went through a phase (at this age a "phase" lasts at most a week) of constant whining. For something, anything. It was probably something else bothering him and he couldn’t tell us. He’s got loads of words now, but his monologues are still pretty much incoherent.

But there are quiet moments. You’d think these would be a god-send, a moment for me to relax and actually read an entire paragraph in one go. But that doesn’t work. It’s worrisome. It’s better when you can hear him, because you know more or less what he’s up to. Running around screaming lacks a certain serenity but at least you know all is well. Banging and smashing from the other room is also usually OK. And a few moments of silence, followed by a mad mirthful cackle? Usually not so good.

It’s complete silence which is the most concerning. He could be up to any amount of sneaky trouble. Climbing up onto the roof for instance. Or up in my room smoking. I wouldn’t put it past him.

But usually the sudden and welcome calming of the atmosphere is just him gone to his room to read. I watch sometimes through the crack in the door. He’ll go over to his bookcase, pull out a book, take it over to the one clear spot on the floor, sit down, and start reading.

Ok, so it’s not proper reading just yet, just looking at the pictures, following the story, pointing at things and talking in his own language with a few intelligible words thrown in. But that’s reading, right? Sure it is.

He’s got some good books. But he’s got some weird ones too.

Alligator Pie
If I don’t get some I think I’m gonna die. I like all the poems; they’re all silly and fun, and I remember them from when I was a kid. But the pictures are just one bad dream after another. The artist was clearly on acid when he drew them. Bruce is OK with the rhymes but struggles with the bad trips.

Bigger Digger
Now this one is just stupid. A little digger gets stuck, and then a bigger digger has to come – but guess what? It gets stuck too. Any guesses as what’s next? You got it – a bigger bigger digger. It’s all just idiocy. I cringe when Bruce chooses this one. Repetitive tongue twisters with no real story or good things to look at – it’s no fun for either of us.

The New Baby Train
New babies come from… trains. Kind of confusing when you think about it, but the art is excellent and there’s lots of choo choos. Always popular for that train-crazy kid.

My Seasons
The kids in this book are obviously retarded. Every last one of them has this dumb little smile on his face. This is not unusual in kids books, and I don’t like it. I don’t see the point in condescendence. The common denominator isn’t interesting to children. More blood and guts! I think he’s almost ready for Jacob Two Two and the Hooded Fang.

Scarface Claw
A good story but soon gets repetitive. Bottomley Pots all covered in spots – you’re made to say this about a dozen times through the story, not to mention all his buddies with their own personal rhyming nicknames. However, if you can slog through the silliness there’s an awesome scene at the end: SCARFACE CLAW! Very frightening, and always something to look forward to. It’s a great formula for kids books – some good and scary action as a focal point.

My Babies Faces (or something – you get the drift)
A Canadian picture book full of pictures of ethnically diverse babies. Annoyingly politically correct. I think there’s one white baby in there. It’s not that I mind black babies – some of my best friends are black babies – I just don’t like kids books that preach and teach as if they’re on some kind of mission.

Hop On Pop
Dr. Seuss has some good books, but they’re too full of tongue twisters. Maybe kids like them but I don’t enjoy reading them. There is one good lesson in this one though: You must not hop on Pop.

Goodnight Moon
A classic. I remember reading this to my little sister when she was a baby. Beautifully illustrated. But who’s the old lady whispering hush? If it was his/her grandmother, why don’t they just say so? I have suspicions.

The Tiger Who Came to Tea
This is a good one. There’s a playful whimsy about it and a distinct lack of preaching. Sure, it’s a bit dated now, with Mommy staying at home cooking and shopping while Daddy goes to work, but hey, doesn’t sound bad to me. I guess I’m a little old-fashioned myself.

Curious George Takes a Train
I used to love curious George books as a child. But the one thing I always wonder about is: who is Mrs. Needleman, and what is The Man in the Yellow Hat going to do to her when they get to where they’re going? There’s always something a little off going on in the background. This I like.

The Hungry Caterpillar
An excellent little baby book, with a good story, with counting and lots food items to learn and identify. I like this approach to combining a bit of learning with a good story – the story still comes first.

Pat the Bunny
This is one sick little book. Every page has some kind of obscene insinuation.
"Judy can pat the bunny. Now YOU pat the bunny. How big is bunny? Sooooo big!
Paul can put his finger through Mummy’s ring. Now YOU put your finger through Mummy’s ring."
And so on. You’ve got to see some of the pictures too. It’s downright dirty. Was the author having a little joke with us?

Writing a good children’s book is a lot harder than you’d think. It’s a careful juggling act, balancing children’s perceived intellectual capacity with adult concepts. There must be humour, and whimsy, and maybe a fright or two. Learning is a bonus but must come second to the story.

If I could find a willing artist, I might just give it a go.

Public Toilets

I hate public toilets. No matter how recently it has been cleaned there’s always a wee piddly puddle on the floor in front of the toilet or urinal. Fuck, I say, spreading my feet so I’m not standing in it. Sometimes, after I’m done, I notice more piddles than when I started. Fuck, I say again, then zip back up and go.

Or when I enter what I know to be a perfectly functioning toilet to find someone’s crap floating there, or worse – the seat all covered in splatter. Why can’t people sit down when they’re doing that? Sometimes it’s vomit, of course – not unusual in Glasgow toilets, no matter what time it is.

But this isn’t as bad as the urinals, especially in this country. They are often just a stainless steel trough, wide enough for four men to relieve themselves together in a jolly line. Here the piddle pools are everywhere. It stinks. It’s gross. There’s a stupid vandal-proof ad affixed just so on the mildewed wall. I hate ads. You can, if you like, look down at the goings on below, but there’s something off with that. When I see other guys do it I wonder what they think of it, their relationship with it. I prefer to stand ramrod straight, staring dead ahead, cringing if my peripheral vision catches a milker. I hate these guys. They make a big show of how difficult an operation it is to pull our their equipment, then take its length in their hand and start to pull. (Now, for you girls out there, you must remember that we’re not looking, oh no, that would be the worst imaginable breach of etiquette. We don’t look, but sometimes we just can’t help noticing, as we’re staring dead ahead, that the next guy is really getting into it.) At this point I know what’s coming so I’m hoping I can finish up first – but no, too late. He starts milking it, getting right into his disgusting ritual: milk, squirt, milk squirt – and he’s not even halfway though. Man. I just hate it. Why can’t you just let it flow? It’s not gonna come out any quicker doing it like that. Is it some kind of autoerotic thing? Is he getting off on this?

The thing with these guys is that if I’m still going (those last few pints can really build up) I’ve also got to witness the ending. I want to look the other way but there’s a new piddler just joined the festivities. I’m not going to look down like he is – this is a fucking public toilet man! – so I stare at the perfect Budweiser girl in her red and white bikini, this vacuous look on her face that reminds me of the women in South Carolina. My memories distract me for a moment, and now I’m just finishing up – but, fuck, so is he. Getting his shoulders right into it as he waggles it for all it’s worth. He’s gonna give himself whiplash at that rate, soil his clothes. Dude – what’s the deal? My imagination paints a picture for me, of what kind of man he is, with this friends, with his women. What kind of paper he reads, what he talks about. The picture doesn’t turn out pretty.

And then he tucks it back in – an even more elaborate a performance than when he brought it out. What is all that about, Sigmund?

I studiously avoid any form of interaction in a public bathroom. Eye contact is bad, but talking is even worse. There’s one particular type of offender which makes me shudder. “Hey! How’s it going?” the dude says, as he ensconces himself in a cubicle. I mutter something, trying hard to convey my discomfort at his verboten social faux pas. But he carries on, louder now, “Hey, that’s some bike you got there!”. Before I can respond he’s noisily started his proceedings. A disgusting squelching sound is echoed and amplified by the toilet bowl. He keeps talking, punctuating with groans and unmentionable awfulness. Oh, the horror.

A pubic toilet should be a quiet, calming environment where a man can enjoy some solitary down-time. A place to relax, read the paper, perhaps even mutter to one’s self quietly. Some people just don’t get it. Jovial frivolity and exhibitionism ahead of quiet contemplation.

Workplace toilets come with their own set of problems. For instance, there’s the washing of the hands dilemma. Me, a pee is just a pee and I’m fine just getting on out of there. But there’s an unwritten decorum in professional toilets: wash your hands, no matter what. Skip this frivolous ceremony and you’ll be the topic of office gossip forever more. Believe me, I know.

And can’t I just have a private moment? Please? I’m pissing here – or worse. And buddy there is asking for my thoughts on yesterday’s company meeting. Come on. I sit right next to you, why don’t you wait till we’re back at our desks? I can’t tell you how much this bugs me. It’s so intrusive.

I hate public toilets, but I suppose I can take comfort in the fact that they’re not all like the one in Train Spotting. Then we’d be in real trouble.

Rocking

I’ve recently joined a rock and roll band. Every rocker’s dream, right? Actually it is pretty cool – I’m really enjoying it. I’m wondering why I waited this long.

It’s a bunch a guys from work, getting together for a bit of fun. The plan is to put on a fund-raising charity show sometime around Christmas. Some of us are experienced musicians, some of us not so much.

It’s a bit of an odd group, actually. We’ve got people in their twenties all the way through to their mid-forties. Our tastes, musical experiences, and skill levels differ wildly. We’ll not be making any records I don’t think, but there’s a certain safety element in such a configuration. We all work together, we all like music, and we’re trying to create a passable sound that might entertain for an evening. At best we’ll be an entertaining cover band. At worst it’ll be a decent team-building exercise.

This being a bunch of workmates, there are additional professional considerations to keep in mind: the singer can’t throw a temper tantrum and walk out in a huff; you can’t just fire the heroin-addled guitar player; and the drummer can’t die by choking on someone else’s vomit.

Groupies are probably out too, as half of us are married. This is a serious bummer. Likewise, extreme drunkenness is probably a bad idea, as are hard drugs. What are we left with? The glamour evaporates. Maybe I’ll just knock over my drum kit at the end of our final set – surely that’s allowed.

I’ve been practicing the same six songs for weeks now. That’s all we’ve managed – six songs. Our goal is two 45-minutes sets, so that’s probably 12 or 15 songs all told. We have a lot of work to do.

The bass player is tight, which makes my job a lot easier – now I just need to reciprocate. Actually I thought I was doing ok until I recorded my practice last night. My favourite song from our set – The Clash’s I Fought the Law – sounded a mess. I was all over the place. The heart was there, sure, but it was a train wreck. Well, maybe that’s ok, maybe even a bit Punk Rock. A train wreck with heart.

It’s fascinating to me, how seriously I’m taking this. I know it’s just a lark really, but I have this drive to excel with this project. Realistically, all I can hope for is competence.

Fear of failure is a constant companion on most of my adventures. Sometimes it’s an expectation of failure, which ends with us both rolling in the gutter, blaming each other, but usually the fear’s presence motivates me just enough so that I can do what I have to with a certain kind of flaky competence, rough around the edges but the heart in the right place. Put another way, I can get by with most things I put my mind to, but I’m not particularly talented in any one discipline.

So, for me, any attempt at excellence takes a full and continuous commitment that must be nurtured and constantly renewed. I’m not much good at it, but I’d sure like to be.

Such it is for the drumming. When I first started I would just play the songs I enjoyed playing, cranking up the walkman and getting my ya yas out. And I suppose that’s been pretty much the pattern for the last twenty years. (twenty?? Where do they go?) I’ve been just playing for pleasure, once in awhile practicing a new pattern because I liked its sound. Yet despite always having a drum kit around, I don’t even know if I’m holding my sticks properly. I’ve never practiced the rudiments. I’ve never played to a metronome. In short, I’ve never really practiced. It’s all been about fun rather than hard, focused work.

I do have a certain style on the drums, developed over years of listening and hacking about. But it’s a messy style, and I’ve had to rein it way in for these rehearsals. Tight over flash. My number one priority here (as it should be any drummer’s): rock solid timing.

I think it’s mostly going pretty well, but only a recording of the rehearsal will really tell for sure. It sure is a kick. As we progress from week to week I’m offering suggestions, getting excited, animated, last time even showing the guitar player how to do a Pete Townsend windmill. It’s a weird layout, too… the drummer is at the back, but everyone sets up across the room in a wee semicircle, facing me. It’s cool. I’m the man. By the end of the session I’m energized, sweating all over like good sex in South Carolina, and near deaf.

Rock on, dude.

Lost in MaryHill

I got lost in MaryHill the other night. Well, maybe lost is the wrong word. I knew where I was, I just couldn’t find where I was going. Not that that’s anything new – I get lost all the time in Glasgow. And Edinburgh. And Sterling – any UK city really.

Part of the problem is the strange signage they use here, or lack thereof. There’s no norm, no pattern you can depend upon. Sometimes you’ll see a street name on the corner building, sometimes on a low sign on a little brick wall. But no standard signpost with one sign showing the road you’re on, and the other showing the crossing road. And even if you somehow find out the road you’re driving, its name changes every few blocks.

Roundabouts are worse. At least with the intersection you have a chance of finding a street sign, but on roundabouts all you get is either a numbered roadway (B707; A81) or the neighbourhood which lies beyond. If you take the neighbourhood sign, there’s no further sign to let you know you’ve arrived there. Just another inevitable roundabout giving you entirely new names, which means either you’ve just gone through it or you’re lost again. (Or both, which is my usual).

So here I was in MaryHill, my Google printout having directed me to an abandoned lot in the middle of a council housing estate. I was looking for our new rehearsal space. The rest of the band was waiting. I was already 15 minutes late.

MaryHill is not the worst place to be lost in Glasgow, but I can think of better. It’s a sad, run-down section of town, full of litter, boarded-up council houses, closed shops, and zombies. As I tucked my Google map printout back in my pocket, I noticed a mother with a buggy walking towards me. Well, sort of shuffling actually. She had this pinched, weathered look, as if her life thus far had been hard. Maybe I could ask her… but I thought better of it. It’s not that I didn’t think she could help – it was more selfish than that. I didn’t want her to confirm the rapid (and quite possibly unfair) judgment I’d already made of her.

So I tucked the map back in, zipped up my pocket, put on my gloves, and got going again. A tank bag with map pocket sure would help me now. But that’s just more kit you’ve got to secure…

I knew the place was close, I just couldn’t find the street. Up and down the side streets, creeping up on past the traffic at stoplights, frustrated at the interminable waits (this is a problem in the UK, the long red lights due to the separate pedestrian cycle), going up the same street again, down the other one, around and around, U-turns and everywhere the traffic.

Now, I did have their number with me just in case, so I headed back down to the high street in search of a pay phone. More stop and go, but finally, now miles away from where I think the place might be, a phone booth! But traffic is heavy, can’t get across, gotta keep focused – this is the worst time to get frustrated. I visualize what would happen if I lost my situational awareness. Drive enough on two wheels and this morbid visualization process becomes quite graphic. I see three tonnes of metal hurtling into the space that should be empty but is now occupied by me and my bike. I have made a mistake. Here comes the hurt.

I managed to keep my cool and got my bike up onto the sidewalk to park. More time wasted as I take off my gloves to hunt for the phone number and a handful of change. Pen might help – but fuck, it’s in my trousers, under my motorcycle trousers, so I gotta stand there in full view of everyone and unzip myself to get to it. There’s two rough-looking pubs just across the street with a bunch of MaryHill types standing outside smoking, making no pretence about studying my plight. Fuck you. Into the phone box. Wait – the helmet’s probably gonna have to come off… where to put it… Sometimes driving a bike can be a big pain in the arse.

The phone doesn’t work – says credit only. Good! Just what I needed. Ok, there’s another one right next to it, let’s try again. Prop up the helmet, put the change on top, get the pen and paper out for directions, and start again. Nope. This one looks like it’s working but the coins go right through it and the dial tone changes to a shrieking feedback loop. Nice.

Fuck it. Gather my stuff, back in the pockets, close the zips, helmet and gloves back on, find the key for the bike, back to play in the traffic again.

The next phone booth has its coin slot glued closed. Nice neighbourhood. That’s enough – I’ve given up on the phones. I asked a few people but no-one really knew anything or wanted to talk, except for the drunk I tried to avoid: "Whashe go at?" Ah, damn. I don’t want to be rude, so I say, "yeah, she goes pretty quick right enough." Not good enough, he wants to keep at it: "Shagood’un – washe top out at?"

I told him I gotta go, and I did.

It occurred to me that a mobile phone could really save the day here. All sorts of normal people have them, but I long ago swore an oath to remain mobile-free. They’re too annoying. Or rather, their users are. They can be entirely nice, interesting people, but armed with their gadgets they become selfish, rude, and obnoxious. I guess I could give in and buy one, but that would go against my principles. I guess I just like to make life difficult for myself.

By now it was starting to rain, though the sun was shining and what I could see of the sky was blue. The rain is actually falling from clouds several miles away, but the Scottish squalls send it far and wide, resulting in a thoroughly unpleasant horizontal assault. The top of my helmet remains dry; the rest of me is soaked within seconds. Just then there’s a rainbow…

Finally, I was given solid intel from a gas-meter guy in another wrong street. I still managed to fuck it up a few times, but finally, there it was: a shithole of an industrial complex called GLASGOW NORTH. I had found it, and I was only an hour late.

I grabbed my drumsticks and headed in to rock.