Big Rock Candy Mountain - Recent Messages

A glimpse behind the scenes of $2.1 billion illegal business

2010-08-08T19:03:00Z

My fourteen hour overnight bus ride from Odessa finally arrives in the Southwestern Ukrainian border city of Chernivtsi. Due to its colorful past, formerly the principal city of Bukovyna (now Moldova), then apart of the Hapsburg Empire, and finally a brief stint in Romania after WWII, Chernivtsi has an unquestionably unique populace. This inimitable history, and youthful vibrancy drawn from the numerous Universities dispersed across the cityscape, creates an unavoidable charm.

Today, however, Chernivtsi will only be seen through the windows of local buses. I am trying to hop the fence into Romania. Unfortunately I arrive fifteen minutes too late to the bus station and miss the 7:10am bus I need to Suceava, Romania, a small city on the other side of the border with a train station that services the whole of the country.

The heat from the early morning sun creates steam on the wet parking lot outside of the bus station. I buy coffee and peroshkee (deep fried dough filled with either mashed potatoes, cabbage or meat) from a middle-aged woman pushing a wobbly tin cart across the crowded platform. I sit on my bags and lean against a wall, calmly dissecting my current situation. Before my travel weary brain can develop viable options, a taxi driver approaches and intuitively asks me if I want to go to Romania. It continues to surprise me after spending more than two years in Ukraine, clothed often times with items I’ve picked up in local bazaars, how obviously foreign I am.

The taxi drivers here make their living finding the right customers, meaning those that will pay the most. These circumstances have bestowed them with an especially good eye for those that appear unacquainted with local prices and ways of business. Unlike America, the price of a taxi ride in Ukraine is not based off of a meter and is usually agreed upon before the trip. This leaves the inexperienced as helpless bait for ambitious drivers. From Chernivtsi to Suceava is about seventy km, with a border crossing in-between. The common price for a taxi in Ukraine should be three UAH for 1 km. With the exchange of USD to UAH at about one to eight, and considering the border crossing, I’m prepared to pay at most thirty dollars for a ride all the way to Suceava, Romania.

My Ukrainian language kicks in and the taxi driver and I begin to bargain.

“Do you want to go to Romania? I can get you to the border, no problem. Very cheap.”

“How much?”

“Twenty dollars to the border.”

“Twenty dollars, no way. That’s too expensive, and I don’t want to go to the border, I need to get to Suceava.”

A ride to the border would mean I would have to flag down another van or taxi to get me across. Since I’m in no real rush to get to Romania, I have a decisive advantage in bargaining.

“To Suceava is eighty dollars.”

“Eighty dollars? Very expensive, I don’t need a taxi, I can wait for the bus tomorrow.”

With that I pick-up my bag and go into the station to check the bus schedules and look at a map for other possible options. Also this is a good bargaining tool to lower the price of my trip. I re-enter the steadily warming day outside, and the taxi driver approaches me again, this time with a salesman’s grin.

“Hey, I’m a good businessman. I have a colleague (the taxi driver is referring to his smuggler friend sitting in a van across the street) who will take you all the way to Suceava for twenty Dollars, just pay me twenty-five Hrivnia for the introduction. I’m a business man.”

Finally with a price I’m comfortable paying and the intrigue this man evokes I decide to give it a shot. Why not?

“Ok, let’s go.”

We cross the street into a parking lot opposite the bus station. The taxi driver’s “colleague” is a Romanian man named Vlad who appears to make most of his money smuggling cigarettes, and laundry detergent. Both items are considerable cheaper in Ukraine, and can turn a nice profit across the border. After I load my bags up and further observe the situation, I can see no real threat to my safety and decide at least it will be an entertaining story to tell. I pay the Ukrainian for his services in introducing me to his friend, and hop in the van with the grizzled Romanian driver. Before we depart, a man opens the passenger door, fills up a bag in the front seat with carton’s of cigarettes, adding to the already visible contraband, and more money is exchanged. Finally we pull out of the parking lot and begin making our way to the border.

I’ve witnessed the smuggling of cigarettes several times before and spoken with people that make their living crossing over into the EU everyday with illegal cigarettes. I’ve been on a train from Ukraine to Budapest where the Conductor was found smuggling cigarettes under the floorboards. Every bus I’ve been on from Ukraine to Poland has at least one person trying to smuggle cigarettes across the border. Usual a monthly bribe is negotiated with the border police, allowing the smuggler to operate freely.

After the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, the big multinational tobacco companies descended on countries like Ukraine to acquire the state-run cigarette factories. Now Ukraine boasts the smallest cigarette tax. Ukrainian made Marlboros (one of the more popular brands for smugglers) cost about one dollar and five cents where the same pack will sell for nearly ten dollars in the United Kingdom and five dollars in Germany. Really the smugglers are buying cigarettes at the same price as legal wholesalers. The illegal trade is modestly estimated to be worth two point one billion dollars annually. Organized crime has been on the rise due to these huge profits and light penalties.

This is the first time I’ve been the sole passenger with a smuggler going across the border, and because of this intimacy I am provided with a behind the scenes look at this multi-billion dollar illegal business.

As we near the border I observe Vlad exchanging hand-signals with other vans headed away from Romania. All the other drivers respond to his inquisitive gestures with a ‘thumbs-down.’ This seems to displease the Romanian and he begins making phone calls. He remains on the phone until we arrive at the border. We pull off the rode in front of a string of dimly lit cafes hundred yards from the first checkpoint. Vlad gets out of the van, after a curious glance and nod in my direction, and joins a circle of men gathered outside of one of the cafes. After about five minutes he walks out onto the road and flags down several vehicles that have just entered Ukraine. He appears to be friendly with everyone he talks with. I notice they all share the same dodgy and restless eyes, leading me to believe their career paths run parallel.

Vlad appears to be gaining information regarding the border checkpoints, and more specifically which guards are on duty. He constantly is on his phone, making and receiving calls. After about an hour of waiting he returns to the van with a vagrant looking man. Neither of them addresses me, nor provides any information concerning what is happening. The van fires up and we roll to the first checkpoint. After a brief exchange, Vlad hands the guard several folded money notes, which only adds to the wad of cash in the man’s hand.

We continue to the next checkpoint where I hand over my passport and Vlad steps out of the van into the Ukrainian customs office. I try to break the silence with the new man sitting in the passenger seat. I offer him some of the pastry I had purchased in Chernivtsi. He looks at me suspiciously, but accepts. The silence quickly returns to the vehicle. Soon the van door swings open. Vlad looks at me and points to a lady sitting at the window of the customs office. Not knowing what else to do, I wave and can see through the weathered glass that she is comparing my face with my passport photo. After she gives a nod, Vlad slams the door shut. I can hear him continue to talk with the attendant in the window. Her name is Valya. Apparently this isn’t the first time they’ve met.

The Romanian customs officials are a lot less friendly, but also seem to know Vlad, as well as the gruff passenger we picked up just before the border. Two police officers open the side door with a German Shepard drug dog at their heals. All of this intimidation seems to be for show because they never actually search the van. I can feel a stack of cigarette cartons against my heels. The Police do however pat down the other man and find his jacket’s sleeves are lined with cigarette packs. All they do is berate the man with insults, while he stands dormant. Nothing is confiscated, however, and the police send us on our way.

The hand signals continue in Romania, except now we are the ones giving the signals the other drivers receive. I assume this is because we just crossed over. I notice, with a van load of cigarette cartons and laundry detergent, Vlad gives everyone we pass a ‘thumbs up.’

Lime Street

2010-08-08T17:35:00Z

I couldn’t go into the rooms I had rented because I had locked the key in there.

There was a lady who owned the florists downstairs who had a key but she was not open this early. She had a round face and always sang Danny Boy because I was Irish, but the flowers were garish and I had no pride in where I was from.

I couldn’t go into the rooms I had rented because I had locked the key in there.

The train station was a street away. I walked past the rubbish skips and sat on a bench. Screens said many things about times and places but I had no money and didn’t give a fuck about Birmingham or Norwich.

People swept up things and dust and I pulled my denim jacket around me and looked at some old people who were arguing about time. The old man seemed like a bully who used his nose to make points, and I decided to hurt him if he made any more claims. Their train arrived and I saw them board. They sat in a window near me and he wasn’t talking anymore. He had lost.

Two women with holes in their arms asked me if I wanted business. I told them I had no head for math. They walked off saying “Thick Scottish Bastard”. I liked that. I was a spy assuming nationalities and their geography was the reason they put the holes in their arms. Bad smells sometimes came from the toilets but it was colder to sit by the main doors. A man carrying some type of handbag sat down next to me and asked about the ten AM to Manchester. I told him he had all the information he needed in that question. He left.

The trains had an oily stink and I wondered if the florist lady had opened her shop.

Too early. It was always too early or too late.

I was twenty-two and I did not like Liverpool.

Conspiracy Theory

2010-07-12T02:50:00Z

It’s a conspiracy!

The Illuminati, New World Order, aliens, mind-control beams, ZOG, the anti-christ and fiendish, fucking flouridators – they’re all out there, and they all want to destroy our way of life.

It’s a conspiracy!

The Illuminati, New World Order, aliens, mind-control beams, ZOG, the anti-christ and fiendish, fucking flouridators – they’re all out there, and they all want to destroy our way of life.

Yeah, right.

Fact is, one or two of them are out there in one sense or another. (If you can’t figure out which ones, start using your fucking brain when you read.) Backroom deals and murky alliances happen all the time, and there are certainly lodges with staggering amounts of influence. Media and political spin does control the public mind to some extent. The problem is that this is all part of reality – it’s all as mundane as vomit. It’s also complicated, which makes it all too much to take in for the enfeebled celebrity-junky mind.

This is where conspiracy theory comes in – not as mind-blowing insight, but as a fucking cop-out.

There are three things common to all conspiracy theory: an element of the fantastic, simplification of reality and projection of blame.

The fantastic element is the hook; it’s what pulls you in; fascination. It’s clearly horse-shit, but you accept it anyway because you want it to be true, and once you’re in and gathering “proof”, it becomes the barrier towards mundane reality; what they just don’t see.

For any of it to make any sense, of course, you need to “connect the dots”, which is easily done by ignoring context and complexity in favour of dopey, shortsighted pattern recognition. It doesn’t matter what you use to link things together, as long as it stands out once you’ve seen it; as long as it sounds right. In this, it has a lot in common with pseudo-science – it bases itself in fact, but makes all kinds of idiot presumptions by ignoring most other facts as well as logical reasoning. It’s a fun and easy exercise – it’s just that some of us are bright enough not to actually believe in every crackpot hypothesis we may come up with.

Finally, there’s the psychological addiction – the projection of blame. If it’s all their fault, it’s not your fault, is it? If the Illuminati are controlling the world, then it’s not our fault that the world has gone to shit. We’re not to blame! If this sounds hauntingly familiar, I refer you to some very widespread religions which use very similar lines of reason. It’s very effective and it turns your neurons to mouldy snot.

The main problem with conspiracy theory – apart from the effect it has on people who actually believe in it – is that it masks the somber reality. People in power do atrocious things every day, and conspiracy theory is one of the things that lets the fuckers get away with it. It muddles the water so that it gets harder to see what the real “conspiracies” are.

In short: accept it, fuckheads – we’re all to blame. Let’s move on and focus on bringing down the bastards who really are trying to brand and control us.

Front Line Assembly - Improvised Electronic Device

2010-07-06T23:03:00Z

A thud… metallic screams and electronic clicks, drowned in reverb. Something is coming. You know its there, but not when it will strike. The tone deepens. Another thud… then another… another… rhythm – aggressive military rhythm, angry whispers… here it comes…

BAM!

”no future
no life
no sunshine
no rights”

Here it is; the new Front Line Assembly album – and this one is going to grab you by the genitals and drag you along whether you want it or not. Improvised Electronic Device, like the classic FLA albums, is not something you can put in your speakers and expect to ignore. It’s solid and angry – the butt of a gun against your hip, urging you to look into the violent maelstrom of existence and see. This is music for grim, necessary violence.

The title plays on Improvised Explosive Device – otherwise known as a roadside bomb. Yeah, that’s right – that should give you an idea of the payload in this one.

Jeremy Inkel is still around, now backed by Left Spine Down mate Jared Slingerland. They join commandant Bill Leeb and marshal Chris Peterson in this all-out assault on comfortable devolution. Rhys Fulber has apparently stepped back to focus on Conjure One. No doubt, he will return on future albums. We know he can’t stay away.

”sterilise all contact points”

The style of the album is a splice of Millennium brutality and distortion with [FLA]vour of the Weak analogue experimentation and Epitaph beats. The result is the hammering, sweeping and grinding behemoth that is Improvised Electronic Device – the hardest FLA album since the mid-nineties. I kid you not.

With this heavy emphasis on foreground beats and crisp synthesizer sounds (in contrast to the meticulously balanced soundscapes of Fulber’s mixing) the album is not just hard as hell but also notably danceable – particularly in tracks like I.E.D. and Shifting Through the Lens. I don’t know if this is a conscious move, but it will certainly help in getting exposition on the EBM/industrial club scene.

”burn… burn all the icons”

Signs of the members’ backgrounds are apparent throughout. Laws of Deception and Pressure Wave bear evidence of Peterson’s savage industrial band Decree. Also, much of the guitar work unsurprisingly sounds similar to that of Left Spine Down. Always, however, the influences rise within the greater context of what is unmistakably Front Line Assembly aesthetics.

Two slower tracks mark the end of the album, juxtaposing what I can only describe as the novelty track. This is the only bit about this release that falters. The final trio are all great tunes, but they’re in the wrong place. Afterlife – a kind of electronic ballad – should have come earlier in the tracklist; Stupidity – featuring Al Jourgensen and brazenly straddling the line between the FLA and Ministry – is great, wild fun, but it doesn’t mesh with anything else on the album; finally, Downfall – a wonderful, epic, atmospheric FLA track – is technically in the right place, but sounds strange after the hectic onslaught of Stupidity. The effect is that I keep wanting to start the playlist over to get back to those glorious first two thirds.

”this lifeless city dissolves in rust
no life-forms left – what happened to us?”

Conclusions, well… if you haven’t guessed the fact that I love this fucking album yet, you need better drugs.

If you’re in the anti-guitar camp, you’ll have figured out by now: you’re fucked – you’ll hate it. While its a far cry from Fear Factory, Die Krupps or KMFDM, it’s the most clearly metal influenced FLA album since Millennium.

If you do like the rougher sampled-guitar influence, and if you’re prepared to try new mutations of the FLA sound, this one will knock you flat. Personally, I think it’s one of the best FLA releases, period. It may have its flaws, but on the whole, it’s one seriously potent piece of aural explosive.

”kampfbereit”

Out

2010-07-05T14:23:00Z

It was early and I stood at the window beside the curtain with the dust.

It was warm and I began to cry as though I had been told something and it yanked and twisted.

That wasn’t it.

So I sat down and looked around at all the pointless people and all the broken things that made up the morning. A bottle rolled by out on the street and I hoped something real might happen.

It wouldn’t.

There was a nice sweetness in my stale vomit and I smiled that it cared enough to fill my lungs. I couldn’t cry anymore, I had no tears or reasons, and people could see me if they looked up. I didn’t feel like sharing what had come over me. They didn’t deserve it, and I felt like having a drink anyway. I opened a beer and watched the crows and seagulls and wondered if they would like to move away. Where I lived wasn’t the point and I waited for whomever she was to wake up and leave me with the beer.

I heard her murmur in her sleep, and I hoped she had pretty dreams.

The Signal

2010-06-29T19:58:00Z

“Do you have the crazy?

An independent psychological horror film. It was originally conceived as an experimental film project called Exquisite Corpse where one filmmaker would begin a story then hand it off to another filmmaker to continue and then to another and so on until the movie was complete. The story eventually took shape and evolved into the the apocalyptic, science fiction psychological horror film The Signal. Written and directed by David Bruckner, Dan Bush, Jacob Gentry and produced by Alexander A. Motlag (four filmmakers who have been collaborating since 1999 in Atlanta, Georgia). The movie was completed on a budget of only $50,000 and shot over the course of thirteen days.1

It’s New Year’s Eve in the city of Terminus. All forms of communication have been jammed by an enigmatic transmission that preys on the mind, driving everyone in the city to madness. That is all you need to know going into this film.

I discovered this film online a few years ago. I came to it knowing nothing bar the briefest blurb and I think it sat unwatched until late one night drunk. It was at that, several films in, two people beginning to drift toward sleep stage of the morning. It quickly snapped me from that and sat me up, alert and completely taken by the film.

Told in three “Transmissions”, The Signal roars to sudden life with an opening that will make you both sit up, wonder if you put on the right film and have instant second thoughts. The first Transmission changes gears a couple of times and scores as a fascinating opening to a film that is a blend of genres. The acting in most parts is superb and at times feels less like cinema but theatre. The dialogue works well and is often quick fired between the characters to great effect in the proceedings of a total break down of society.

While reminiscent of other films where most if not all of humanity loses its mind in some shape or fashion and the subsequent chaos that erupts. The Signal does very well to carve its own niche in the genre and in many ways seems to have set much of the tone for what would be some of the tweaking to the mechanics of the how the madness works in the remake of The Crazies.

While gory in parts, the violence is often sudden and its jarring quality allows it to never step across the gratuitous mark. Tense yet at the same time, comedic, you will find yourself laughing at the madness of a scene as you will be laughing nervously at what is being said or about to happen. The signal in the film; from the cacophonous blur of images to its undulating near techno-organic thump is used to great effect throughout. Nothing in the film gets tired or feels over worked, it paces itself well and manages to keep rushing toward a great finish.

The Signal has all the hallmarks of a cult classic waiting to come into its own and I can easily see some of its more catchy scenes being acted out by people. They just have that sort of pull.

Try it, but don’t read the media.

The wikipedia article gives too much away, their own website does not even give this gem the justice it deserves. As the last person I showed it to said, “That was fucking awesome”.

Mario's lack of basic hygiene and my distinct lack of style

2010-06-29T15:19:00Z

When I wasn’t drunk and sad, I was hateful and drunk and when I was neither of those I was drunk and asleep.

Downstairs they held illegal gambling bouts all night between a cross-section of races, and would scream at each other and pull knives.

When I wasn’t drunk and sad, I was hateful and drunk and when I was neither of those I was drunk and asleep.

Downstairs they held illegal gambling bouts all night between a cross-section of races, and would scream at each other and pull knives.

Sometimes when I would roll in incapable; I would go and sit among them and drink stubby bottles of beer for fifty pence. It tasted like death and madness and the money would pile up. As it did they would become angrier and say terrible things in a variety of guttural tongues. Mario was my hall-neighbour from Cyprus and was their gimp and drinks-boy. He slept all day and not once in my time there asked for the only key to the shower.

He was a dirty young vampire. He lived across the hall from me and would often suck my financial blood. I was afraid of Ali his uncle and my landlord, and so I gave often and plenty. He would promise returns but they never came.

I had a routine in the day. It was foolproof. I would walk up to the College and look through the windows, then I would go to The Augustus and drink pints of beer for a quid a hit. There was a man in there who believed he was David Bowie and dressed in a leather trench coat and an old woman with four dogs who had ten degrees and could recite whole books. I encouraged Bowie but not so much the old woman.

If it were cold or warm I would still get some bottles to go and sit in the University Park afterwards. They all talked fast and pointed at files and each other’s clothes. They laughed and made friends and I would suck on a bottle and stretch my legs.

There were always birds singing in there but I liked The Augustus better than the park. I made David cry on a November evening. He had made a fool of himself in the eighties I had said. On the way back to my musty rooms in Hell, I would look through the windows at the sincere faced lecturers giving evening classes, and knew they would like to strip and fuck the young women and maybe the men. “It’s imperative you suck this Lucy, your further education depends on it.” I had no time for any of it and felt very old.

There was a disgusting café and I would eat a disgusting sandwich before I stopped at the off-licence and bought my nightcap. VP Sherry was two pounds a bottle and I would get two. My routine cost twelve pounds a day. This was all I had ever wanted or aspired to. I had been given two thousand to further my studies and in a way I was.

Sometimes if I felt good, I would ask the homeless people for spare change as I went through the station. They would scream or their eyes would fill up. I hated every living thing on Gods aborted earth and my kicks were sometimes cruel.

When I would arrive back at the rooms (usually around six) Mario would often talk to me on the stairs, usually about the possibility of a loan. I might say yes or I might make an excuse. I would always wait until I could hear him downstairs cleaning up for the night’s gambling and piss a little into his mayonnaise in our shared kitchen. This would be stirred in thoroughly and over the course of our domestic bliss he must have drank the volume of my nightcap twice over.

One bottle of VP would go on top of the television that did not work and I would open the blinds, switch off the light and get in bed with the other. My room had once been an office and the window went from ceiling to floor the whole length of it. Twenty paces. I would lie there, drink the sherry and watch Liverpool puke, stagger, shit, cry, dance and swirl from the bottom of London Road right up to the lights beside the hospital.

There were a lot of things that made no sense and I once saw a pack of men stamp a lone man until the ambulance came. Bystanders were crying and holding each other. There was a lot of blood and I later heard he had died. He had just wanted a kebab. I knew Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane existed only in the acid-fogged minds of long gone hippies and I couldn’t listen to the Fab Four anymore. Nothing was fab. It was shit and it knew it.

The feeling I had been born to do this was a lonely but strangely comforting one. I had never wanted anything as badly as this room and this bottle, that bottle, all the bottles, and now I had it.

If you stand drunk at the docks in Liverpool at night or anywhere else and look out across the sea, listening, there’s a low moan on the wind and you will hear it. That’s them, and you and me and it’s not hard to guess why we’re crying.

Some people

2010-06-22T23:13:00Z

I woke up and my head and hands were numb.

It was freezing, the heater didn’t work and i sat on the side of the bed with the duvet i never liked.

I woke up and my head and hands were numb.

It was freezing, the heater didn’t work and I sat on the side of the bed with the duvet I never liked. There was no light in the room so I felt around, found my lighter and lit it. On the duvet was some blood and I knew I had been ill again or killed somebody. That was a sad thought.

My legs felt numb too and I wondered if I had a stroke in my sleep. This was unlikely. I felt thirsty and got up to put on the light. There was someone on the floor but I could hear them wheezing and snoring so I had not hurt them. It was a young man with curls falling over his face and I woke him roughly. He looked afraid so I stopped shaking and asked him about drink. His keys had been lost he said and I had let him stay.

This tired me, everything here seemed to be about keys. I went into the kitchen where there was whiskey. The young man followed, said he was cold and could he have some. I told him to fuck off and go back to sleep. There was no reason to be pleasant. He bored me and I hoped if I was rude enough he would kill me.

After waiting a few minutes and drinking, I missed him and went to the room. He was over at the window and said it was snowing. This bored me too and I told him so. He seemed happy about that and asked for a drink again. I held the bottle and poured some into his mouth. We were friends now and I really hoped he would die so I could carry him into the street and tell them all how close we had been.

We looked at the snow and sang a little song about snow, he was a better singer and I felt tired again.

The whiskey was good, I told him we would never be like this again and when he left I gave him the bloody duvet.

Croatian Breakfast: eggs and bacon with a side of, "Don't fucking touch me!"

2010-06-22T23:08:00Z

I set the alarm on my phone for eight thirty to get an early start on our first day in Zagreb.

At seven forty I wake up to highly accented, belligerent arguing in English downstairs.

I set the alarm on my phone for eight thirty to get an early start on our first day in Zagreb. At seven forty I wake up to highly accented, belligerent arguing in English downstairs. For the next fifteen minutes I’m in and out of sleep, a turbid state of mind; wondering if the hostel staff are really threatening each other with physical force, even a bullet to the head. At this point I realize I’m famished and must eat some breakfast before I even begin to process what is happening on the first floor (and on occasion spilling onto the stairwell and second floor).

I open the door to my room and step out into the well-lit and spacious kitchen on the second floor. I reach into the refrigerator and grab eggs, milk, and the oddly colored bacon we bought at the store the night before.

“…with your friends smoking weed while guests are here! That is not how you run a business, you fucking don’t know anything.” (Imagine a 350lb Dutch guy.)

“Don’t talk to me asshole, you’ve only been here for one week, you don’t have a clue! What the fuck do you ever do here except sit on the computer and yell at people.” (Think a 120lb attractive Croatian girl.)

I start with the eggs, first spreading butter across the pan then cracking the shells spilling the yolk out with a hiss as they immediately begin to fry. I hope Werd is hungry because I’m making two big plates. I push down four slices of bread in the toaster and start cutting through the packaging wrapped around the bacon.

“J brings her dumb ass drug dealer friends over here while she works. You and her do whatever you want, that’s disrespectful to T, and you’re a bitch and have no idea what you are doing.”

“Oh yeh? How many times have you threatened J or me, and you spilled beer on the computer yesterday you fucking idiot! We have to buy a new one. Don’t talk to me like that. I can’t deal with you right now, just leave.”

I’m able to find some crushed red pepper and salt in the pantry. I start boiling water and pour coffee grounds into the French press. I flip the eggs and sprinkle on my newly acquired seasoning. The toast pops up golden brown. I put two pieces on each plate and spread butter across the top.

“I’ll come back here and kill everybody! I’ll fucking shoot you in the head!”

“Just leave, you’re crazy!”

With difficulty I separate several slices of bacon and carefully lay them parallel across the pan. Quickly the room begins filling with smoke and I start to wonder if this bacon is cured and not meant for frying.

“You don’t know me! I went to jail for six months for assault. I’ll shoot you in the fucking head!”

“Get out, you’ll never work here again. Get the fuck out!”

A layer of smoke hangs visibly from the ceiling. I decide to put an end to my bacon project, and begin to serve up the cooked pieces onto the plates. After the water boils I pour it into the French press and let it sit for a couple minutes before I press the grounds to the bottom and pour two cups of black coffee. I take a sip and steal a piece of bacon off of Werd’s plate. Suddenly I am able to begin dealing with the day just as the maelstrom on the first floor makes its way towards my breakfast in the form of 350lb tire-stack figured Dutchman P, thundering up the stairs.

I lean against the counter and coolly sip my coffee.

“Hey man how are you doing? How’s your stay?”

P reminds me of a cocaine freak at the end of a twenty four hour bender, desperate to continue feeding his addiction, and so whacked out of his mind he asks questions about the weather, sports, my girlfriend, and other unimportant bullshit, all the while trying to avoid the giant elephant in the corner (in reality the death threat he just dished out to the girl downstairs), which is the fact it’s four am on a Sunday and he’s buying two grams of powder.

“Oh it’s good man. This is my first time in Zagreb. I want to check out the city, maybe take a trip up the mountain. Who knows?”

“That’s great man. Hey, have we met before? I’m positive I’ve seen you somewhere. Have you ever been to New York?”

“Yep.”

“That’s it! I was one of those guys in Central Park trying to get you to join the gym.”

“Is that right? Small world, eh?”

“Yeh, that’s funny.”

This guy is completely off his rocker.

With that P heads back downstairs.

“What are you doing? Who are you calling?” Patrick queries.

“I’m calling T. He needs to know that you are going crazy at his Hostel.”

“Put the fucking phone down! Don’t bother T with this. Hey DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME! DON”T TOUCH ME!”

“You are crazy!”

The door slams.

I stand at the top of the stairs wondering when this work dispute turns public and I can run downstairs and hit that lunatic across the face with one these folding chairs.

I take a quick inventory of the kitchen counter for viable weapons, and decide a hot toaster thrown accurately from the stairwell would suffice if I need to intervene.

With a somewhat plausible plan constructed I have a sip coffee and continue breakfast in Zagreb.

How to Destroy Angels EP

2010-06-21T15:00:00Z

I guess not many of us really believed Trent Reznor when he said he was going to step back and focus on production. Well, it turns out he did and he didn’t. He, uh…

…he started a family band… of sorts.

No, really. Stick with me. Don’t panic. I’ll ease you through it.

I guess not many of us really believed Trent Reznor when he said he was going to step back and focus on production. Well, it turns out he did and he didn’t. He, uh…

…he started a family band… of sorts.

No, really. Stick with me. Don’t panic. I’ll ease you through it.

Now, you may have known that Reznor is married. I didn’t. I’m not that kind of fan. I tend to stick to the music and let people worry about their own personal lives, but hey – whatever floats your boat… as long as you leave well enough alone and refrain from sending them bits of yourself, I’ll leave you to it.

What you may not have known is that the wife in question – one Mariqueen Maandig – is actually a talented musician in her own right, having sung with laid-back alt-pop band West Indian Girl for a heap of years. Anyway, she’s got a gorgeous voice and seems to have some seriously sinister streaks buried deep beneath the soft, angelic sentiments she voiced in WIG, because in How to Destroy Angels, she is fucking menacing. Softly, angelically menacing, yes – but that only makes it darker!

The third member of the group comes from Trento’s other family – that select group of musicians and producers who have loosely gathered around Reznor and producer Flood since the nineties. His name is Atticus Ross, and he was involved in most of the latest NIN offerings as well as Saul Williams’ epic The Rise and Fall of Niggy Tardust. He’s also worked with KoRn, Bad Religion, Zach de la Rocha, Jane’s Addiction and… well, the list goes on. He’s one of those semi-covert big names of the scene and comes with a vigorous stamp of approval from those in the know.

So what kind of beastie is this? Well, the name should give you a hint. If it doesn’t ring a bell, you’ve missed possibly the greatest ambient industrial act in existence. How to Destroy Angels is the name of the 1982 debut EP by esoteric, British nightmare peddlers Coil. Yes, you read correctly: ambient industrial, and even though this project is infinitely more groovy, vocal and accessible than the murky rumblings of its titular origins, this is a gloomy piece of witchery. Making the obvious connections would place it next to the slower tracks on NIN’s Year Zero and Ghosts – both of which Ross were involved in.

Well then, is it any good?

Hell, yes.

It is, in fact, very good.

The one thing that might work against it is that it isn’t immediately apparent that this needs to be played loud. On lower volumes, it tends to meld with your subconscious and become entirely atmospheric, but to leave it there would be a shame, because this puppy here has some pointy, fucking teeth. Crank it up and it will emerge as a seductive demon with an an almost uncanny sense for when to stroke, when to shake and when to cut deep into the muscle.

Affix a good pair of headphones to your skull, pull the curtains, turn down the lights, crank the volume and lean back into the current. Just let the sound envelop you.
This may destroy angels, but we’re not angels, are we?

I don’t know if the trio intends to release more stuff, but I gladly welcome the prospect.

How to Destroy Angels is available for free download via the official website. You can also spend $2 and get it in entirely lossless formats, something I emphatically urge you to consider.

I’ll just listen to it one more time, now. Just one more.

One more beer in Belgrade

2010-06-16T21:45:00Z

We decide to stop in Belgrade for an evening.

We are armed with an address and a map that I drew on a piece of paper. We are not worried. This is what we do…

We decide to stop in Belgrade for an evening. Booking a hostel online, we ensure ourselves at least a bed to sleep in for the evening instead of another train. We hop on a bus and travel the short one and a half hours south to Belgrade, arriving at the bustling bus/train station as a steady blanket of rain covers the city. We play our usual game of broken language ticket buying, find that people speak great English here (as they do all over the region), exchange smiles at even the slightest form of customer service, and orientate ourselves with the city.

We are armed with an address and a map that I drew on a piece of paper. We are not worried. This is what we do.

Thirty minutes later, we are drenched in rain and at odds with each other about which way to turn. What we don’t realize is that this is how we always do it, walking around slightly aimlessly, using out intuition and knowledge of how cities work to eventually find our destination. Google maps are for suckers (and they don’t have them in Ukraine anyway).

Problem is, it’s now really starting to come down, and I, armed with the “map” feel like we are going the right way. Nikko does not agree. Since walking around aimlessly is out of the question, we decide to ask someone, a kind man in the park strolling along with his dog. He speaks better English then he’ll admit, and shows us that we are indeed not far from our destination, and in so doing proves that I am in fact the sucker. I had wanted to go the other way.

Five soggy minutes later, we arrive at the hostel, take our welcome shot of local raspberry spirit, take showers, and then head down to the supermarket right next door. Forty minutes later we are snacking on delicious deli turkey breast and Gouda, topped with tortilla chips (all things we can’t get in Ukraine), all for about six bucks. Topped off with some strong coffee, we are in Heaven. Evening plans begin to take shape as I unabashedly flirt with the cute hostel receptionist under the guise of information acquisition.

Although our spirits were slightly low as the prospect of trudging through a damp city crossed our minds, the Tourism Board had apparently received our pleading emails and relayed the message up to the weather spirits, who turned off the faucets and gave us an absolutely magnificent evening to step into. The air was brisk, yet pleasant, filled with that serene silence that only comes after a great rain. Our noses were filled with the receding smell of wet pavement, and a reflective glow that gave the entire castle grounds we explored a whole other dimension of observation. And because it had just rained, and it was winter, we had the whole city to ourselves, something we’d really come to appreciate on our travels, and the true beauty of travelling off season; instead of having to ward off crowds who completely diminish the sacred and special feelings you get at historical sites, you get the whole place to yourself, to help bring home the feeling of how things might have been during the sites heyday, instead of having to elbow groups of screaming little kids in the face to get a good picture.

Of course, the grass is always greener, and as we traversed the city in search of libations, we exclaimed to each other for the fiftieth time on our trip so far (and what would become our mantra), “I bet this place GOES OFF in the summer.”

Our sightseeing complete, we ducked into a bar called “The Idiot,” and told each other our favourite stories of yore as we enjoyed some locally brewed beer and some Star Wars Pinball. We had decided that the last week had exhausted us, and we’d grab a beer or two and then call it an evening, our train the next morning departing at 10am, and us wanting to salvage some sleep.

Three pints later and we decided we’d go check out one more bar nearby before we went home. Just one more bar.

Nikko mentioned he had seen a lot of people in a bar nearby, and as we walked back up the street, we noticed that the bar in question was named, “Mercedes Bar,” and was apparently having a salsa night. Nikko shot me a questioning glance, I shrugged my shoulders, and in we went.

As we sipped on our overpriced beers, Nikko turned to me,

“We can’t leave here without dancing with some of these girls.” The small dance floor was full of young Serbians dancing to salsa, an interesting sight in itself. Though, truth be told, they obviously knew what they were doing.

Nikko continued, “You know a little salsa, I know how to dance, we should be fine out there!”

Our beers finished, and our confidence high (we were Americans, they HAD to like us, of course anyone with a bit of history would be laughing at us) we set out in search of dance partners.

You can swallow down your bile. Don’t fret. This is not a story about two Americans successfully picking up women.

Nikko comes back to me shortly standing tall despite the fact he just got flatly turned down twice without even a chance. We’re not fazed.

My turn.

I ask a few girls if they’d like to dance. One of them begrudgingly acquiesces, and we step onto the dance floor.

Less than one minute later:

Girl: “Do you know how to salsa?”
Me: “A little bit.”

Girl: “Um… I’m going to need more than that.”

End of dance scene.

Now it’s personal. Nikko and I meet again and play peacock.

“We’re both reasonably good looking guys, and we know how to dance, what the hell is wrong here?!” Nikko complains.

“I just don’t get it, it’s like they don’t even want to dance at all unless you are some kind of professional or something. This is really pissing me off.”

I have hit my limit. I KNOW that I can dance at least a tiny tiny bit of salsa, and that should be enough to put me in that cute, “he knows a little salsa so I can teach him some new things” kind of category. I am fed up, but will not give up.

I say to Nikko who is ready to leave, “Ok, last chance. I’ve had enough, I’m going up to the most beautiful girl in here, and will not take no for an answer.”

“’Atta boy. Go get ‘em.” Nikko sees the fire in my eyes (more likely the beer and testosterone) and I can see that he believes in me.

As I glance around the room, Nikko sets off and finds a girl who explains to him that she can’t dance salsa, to which he responds, “I can’t either!” and takes her out on the dance floor. Things seems ok, but inexplicably after about two minutes, she just walks off without so much as a word. It just doesn’t make sense.

Meanwhile, I have found a gorgeous female young Serbian standing with her friends on the wall, too beautiful to need to dance in order to prove anything. She is obviously content watching the action and looking pretty. I will not have this.

I walk up confidently, say hello, and grab her hand and ask her to dance as I lead her onto the dance floor. I seem to get points for confidence and she puts up no protest (maybe she thinks I can dance). We start to dance, exchange a few pleasantries in English, and things seems to be going alright. (Nikko tells me later that from his perspective everything looked like it was going great). High five Werd.

Then the beer started talking to me. It said:

“You can dance better than this. I know the dance floor is small, but you dance your best when you have some room. You gotta show this girl what you’ve got. Do a spin!”

The beer was right! I could spin. I knew some moves. That’s what I’d do. So spin I did.

Three quarters of the way through the spin, and I realize that I haven’t spotted. I step over my other foot and headbutt a scrappy looking Serbian dude in the shoulder.

The beer tricked me!

I immediately turn back to the girl, ignoring the Serbian, and, seeing the look on her face, realize that our dance is now over. I apologize and scamper back like a sad puppy back to Nikko, tail between my legs. (Nikko explains to me later that the Serbian dude looked like he was going to kill me, except he was only about four feet tall).

I look at Nikko, Nikko looks at me. Without a word spoken, we exit the club Charlie Brown style; with our heads down and sad music playing, not looking at anyone, but knowing that everyone is looking at us.

Remember high school. That’s what this felt like. Two band kids showing up at a football party after stealing some of their parents liquor. Everyone at the party knows each other. And to their credit, the two band kids take a shot at it, strutting right up to some girls and making an effort. It is almost commendable, except one of them walks up to the quarterback’s girlfriend and spills a drink on her. *record scratch * music stops, silence ensues.

It was like that.

“Crossing borders, changing lives,” Nikko offers as he puts his arm around me, and we head off in search of one more beer before calling it a night.

Angels, puppies and bulldozers

2010-06-16T03:11:00Z

We at the Mountain would like to raise our hats, glasses and various appendages to…

We at the Mountain would like to raise our hats, glasses and various appendages to the Bavarian student who on the fourteenth of June, 2010 gave a Hell’s Angels posse the finger, threw a puppy at them and made his escape in a stolen bulldozer.

We feel that these actions deeply resonate with our core values here at BRCM, and would like to give the man the traditional bawl of encouragement.

Here’s to you, man. Here’s to you!

Down & Static X @ The Academy, Dublin (16th & 17th June 2009)

2010-06-16T02:42:00Z

Down and Static-X are playing. Though there appears to be no hint of a double header, and from the look of the queue. which began to form at eleven am on Tuesday, Static-X were not the most welcome quests. Which on the whole is not too surprising, the choice as support is seen as quite unusual and its far more likely that after download in the UK this was the labels way of promoting more than one artist. And an Irish date by the ten year veterans of “Evil Disco” is overdue.

Tuesday and Wednesday were highly anticipated by yours truly. Two bands that I have three LPs by, Down and Static-X are playing. Though there appears to be no hint of a double header, and from the look of the queue. which began to form at eleven am on Tuesday, Static-X were not the most welcome quests. Which on the whole is not too surprising, the choice as support is seen as quite unusual and its far more likely that after download in the UK this was the labels way of promoting more than one artist. And an Irish date by the ten year veterans of “Evil Disco” is overdue.

The two nights Static-X played the same set-list and I feel irony was haunting the band. On Tuesday for perhaps the first two songs Wayne Static’s vocals couldn’t be heard, but the crowd really warmed to them and a small grouping of disco girls made it to the front and made the place shake. A great variety was present in the set and there was good communication between band and the crowd. Which brings me to the second nights performance. Conversely, the sound was perfect. The vocals and all guitar lines were clean and crisp. Yet the crowd, were outside smoking, inside drinking and in some cases heckling the band. After a great reception the first night despite teething problems the second night Static-X found themselves in hostile territory but to their credit gave no quarter, if anything Wayne and his wonderful hair became more intense and focused.

Some tracks seemed to pick up in tempo but by the end of “Push it” the band looked defeated. This being said I would recommend checking these guys out live. But on these occasions I don’t think they made any new fans, the old ones however did get what they wanted and everyone else seemed to appreciate Mrs Static, former adult film star Tera Wray bringing the band shots and wiggling her ass at the crowd.

Now, on to the headline act, Down. Formed in 1991 and until last year no one was sure if it was a novelty act or a full time band for the musicians in question. But, they have all since stated that Down is their first priority and everything else comes second, we can be happy in the fact that such a great act exists! The devotion inspired by Phil Anselmo is amazing. It is safe to say, for better or for worse the two nights would’ve been about a certain amount of hero worship. Thankfully, what was witnessed over the two nights was better than good it was heavy metal as it should be. Two varied sets meant that two different and great experiences were to be had by two very different crowds. A person could speculate that the rowdy drinkers went on the first night and the silent smokers went to the second. But in either case the enthusiasm was always present. Some songs such as “Bury me in smoke,” “Nola,” and “Stone the crows,” were played both nights but it would probably have caused more trouble if they were not. The other tracks from across all three of the albums made them varied and enjoyable. The tougher crowd (perhaps high, perhaps tired from the night before?) on the second night got a heavier tighter set, but the first night heard tracks never played before and my own personal favourite “Nothing in return (walk away)”

This performance was more than what the band was capable of. It was or is what all heavy bands or even pub rock bands should aspire to. When late on a Saturday night a pub rock band strikes pure gold. That special moment normally found only after midnight where the singer can only scream because it’s the only voice they have left, when the guitar players have turned up well beyond their normal and the rhythm section form a groove so tight that its almost spiritual. This can only happen a pub rock band once in a very special blue moon but is also what makes these bands worth seeing. It is this moment, that Down have turned into an art form. Every Down song on both nights reached this magical state. With hindsight, they have every time I’ve been lucky enough to see them.

Added to this magic was what seemed like great friends on stage having the time of their lives added to the presence of the much worshipped and sometimes hated Phil Anselmo. The security at their previous Ambassador show was incredibly tight. Staff were advised that due to Dimebag’s tragic demise anybody seen reaching for Phil was to be ejected from the venue. This was not the case on Tuesday and Wednesday as every hand extended was clasped. Every crowdsurfer carried to the barrier got a hand shake or a head rub or even a high five for their troubles and for the first time in many concert going years I got to witness a band start a chant of “Olé Olé Olé” before joining in and jamming with the crowd. A very special moment amongst many others. If you couldn’t make either of these shows, I am afraid you missed out.

Mount Sinai - December 24th – 25th

2010-06-15T08:23:00Z

Greg had met the driver earlier that day on a trip to the bazaar, and had set the price in advance. We are to pay four hundred Egyptian pounds to Mount Sinai and back.

The driver’s name is Ahmed. He is a pleasant man in his earlier thirties with Bedouin ancestry. He wears a red and white head wrap and several layers of heavy robes and quilting to prepare for the low temperatures we would soon reach.

Werd, Greg, Nathan, and myself get into a taxi at eleven pm on December 24th, Christmas Eve. Greg had met the driver earlier that day on a trip to the bazaar, and had set the price in advance. We are to pay four hundred Egyptian pounds to Mount Sinai and back.

The route to Sinai is a very mountainous and barren region of Egypt, and the history and depth of the people and places along the way are impossible to ignore. As we all ponder the area we traveled through, the night turns into the first hours of Christmas morning and the vast darkness envelopes our car.

The landscape outside my window is outlined by a clear sky brimming with stars. It seems only obvious the conversation develops into one of space and time; frequently interrupted by silence as we all consider our own thoughts that seem to constantly be changing. The uniqueness of this journey begins to set in, as our Bedouin driver cuts through the thin mountain air, and we continue to climb.

We arrive at the base of Mount Sinai a little after two in the morning. We are about a two-hour hike from the top. Sunrise is around six, so we have some time to relax before beginning our trek. Ahmed takes us to a rustic hotel owned by a friend of his, for some tea and a little food. The owner leads us into a wooden hut with the inside walls and floor covered in rugs for warmth and comfort. A small fire, surrounded by stones, burns with coals while cushions and blankets clutter the floor.

Inside are two Bedouin men and a young French Islamic girl named Kenza. Wearing a full chador, it reveals only her eyes and the top of her nose. Her parents are Moroccan, and she speaks Arabic, Spanish, a little English, and of course French. She will later tell me she had left France because of rules in her public University forbidding her to where traditional Muslim head garments. She struggles to communicate with us in English, so Werd and I ask her to speak Spanish, which I am surprised to find I have not completely lost. This will serve as our language of choice for the majority of time we spend together.

We are served traditional hibiscus tea, and freshly made pita, that Kenza had cooked on the coals in the fireplace. We sit and almost immediately began to talk politics, the differences in the world, and our futures. Our hosts have high hopes for peace. The conversation goes well, and we end on common ground. The topic changes to our hike up the mountain. Kenza had climbed Sinai in the morning on the twenty-fourth, but says she is inspired by our trip, and wants to go with us. She also speaks about Jesus and Moses, who are both recognized as prophets in Islam, and how she wants to see the sunrise from Sinai on Christmas morning.

We thank the innkeeper; tip him for his hospitality, and with an added member to our trip head back, towards the base camp. The path towards the top is crowded in some parts with guides, camels, and groups of people from countries across the globe. Along the steep trail are tea huts used for warmth, a hot drink, and a bite to eat. We packed our own provisions for the trip, so we rest outside in the crisp mountain air, and look towards the stars.

On one occasion, as we all sit and share an orange, Kenza and I watch a shooting star streak over the peaks of Sinai. She explains to me in Islam they believe God throws the star, and after it disappears into the sky you should be silent and listen for his voice.

As we continue along the trail we ask her what her plans are for the next year. She explains to me she does not know what her plans are for the next day. She says she lives each day apart from the next, and chooses the direction she thinks to be the right one when it presents itself. At the end of most of her sentences, or comments that I make, she adds “Insha Allah,” As God wants.

We reach the last tea hut from the peak about an hour before sunrise. The final ascent is steep, but short. Greg continues to the top alone while I sit with Kenza in the tea hut and speak with some of the other travelers. Kenza explains she will soon observe Morning Prayer, the first of five in a daily routine for Muslims. After some time, Kenza goes to speak with one of the men that is working in the hut, and I decide to continue to the top to look for Greg.

It is still very dark at the peak, and a lot colder. I walk past the church and mosque that both sit atop Sinai. Even in these dark morning hours I can recognize the diversity of the people who have come to watch the sunrise on Christmas morning.

I walk around calling out Greg’s name, until I find him huddled against a wall looking out towards the East where we will soon see the first glimmers of sunlight. I sit down next to him as we battle the frozen air. Soon Nathan and Werd join us, and we all huddle together to fight the cold, taking turns on the outside and inside of the shield we have formed. Kenza comes to the top for prayer. In the frigid mountain air, we watch her run water over her hands and face, for cleansing before kneeling to face Mecca.

When Kenza finishes she joins us next to the wall. Watching her hands shake from the cold, I give her my gloves. It takes almost another thirty minutes for the sun to show itself from behind the mountains in the East. We are nearly numb from the cold as the first rays of the day quickly warm the early hours of Christmas.

No other sunrise I have seen can compete with this morning on Sinai. The light reveals the vast breathtaking scenery we had blindly walked through in the darkness of night. The land stretches out to the sea in the distance, and Saudi Arabia is visible beyond the water, sitting on the horizon. We watch the sun until it has risen full above the mountains, then we look at it a bit longer. Slowly, we gather together and begin our descent.

We return from our Sinai hike at 7am. The hotel is just starting to stir, the pool staff lay out fresh white towels, and the gardeners water the flowers. We head straight to breakfast, deliriously walking through the buffet line. The only guests awake, we have the dining hall to ourselves. The French doors are open letting in a cool breeze. The early sun reflects off of the Red Sea inlet, and silhouettes the dry mountains of Saudi Arabia across the water.

The lack of sleep mixed with the lingering emotional high from Mount Sinai, has left us in a euphoric state. The coffee steams in our cups as we laugh at jokes more suitable for kids 10 years our minor.

We make a quick stop in our room to change into bathing suits, and allow me time to roll three joints. A tobacco and hashish mix. Yesterday on the beach we purchased the hash from some local Bedouins. Providing taxis, camel rides and other services they try to make the most of the money from the tourists that frequent the area.

I carefully tear the filter off of a cigarette and using the sharpened blade of a pocketknife, slice vertically down the length of the paper, spilling the tobacco onto the table in front of me. Small pieces of hash stick to the tips of my fingers as I mix it with the tobacco. After I finish, we head out the door. The sandy beaches of Egypt will serve as our bed today.

No one is on the beach at eight am. We take prime positions, with plastic reclining chairs, umbrellas, ample sunlight, and enough distance from the other chairs on the beach that we will be left alone. I lie on my stomach, and dig my toes into the sand. Cupping my right hand around my mouth, I flick the lighter in my left hand, slowly burning the end off the first joint. We lazily pass the joint around until its gone. I lie back in a haze and close my eyes to the sun.

My body settles into the sand. Not a single worry passes through my head, as I focus on the beauty surrounding me. I can hear the waves slowly pouring onto the beach, and the dragging of the tide. I gaze upon Saudi Arabia, seemingly close, but in reality untouchable. I ponder how long it would take to swim the two miles (the distance I’ve decided on) to reach the shores of Saudi Arabia. I imagine a team of Saudis zipping over the desert to apprehend me, as if my foot on their beach would trigger some burglar alarm revealing my presence. I would be accused of espionage, and considered a serious threat to the Saudi people.

The USA government naturally would be drawn into the fray, and deny any involvement in my illicit activities. My family and friends would be forced to defend me, hiring a team of lawyers to paint a picture of good kid that simply got hold of some bad hash and made one mistake. The circus would end with a tearful story from my third grade teacher describing a loving and respectful boy that painted her pictures of sunsets and flowers. The American public would be sold and demand my freedom, forcing the President to order a Seal team to rescue me under the cover of darkness, hours before my scheduled execution…

I shake off the hash induced daydreaming, grab my goggles and a snorkel and head for the sea.

The state of ignorance

2010-06-15T08:16:00Z

The main point of any ponderance is the inherent dichotomy that exists within anything. It is this essential aspect of nature that allows us to stop, pause, and reflect on what it is that gives us knowledge. This is one of the most important things that we can do with our lives. Our lives are, after all, brief, incredibly limited, and full of the constant reminders that we will never know all, nor will we ever be allowed to do all. Space tourism is nothing but a fantasy for the vast majority of us. In my more cynical moments, I think it would be better if it were impossible for everyone. That would eliminate one more means for jealousy to manifest.

Jealousy usually arises from ignorance, but not always. The two are, however, very closely related. This jealous progeny of ignorance can be readily eliminated by the simple parsing of the situation, but it also means that a pause and a ponderance needs to be given to the larger picture. Always, and without exception, easier said than done. We are, we must remember, dealing with ignorance, which got us into the problem in the first place.

Ignorance does come in two major forms: There is the simple lack of knowledge, the state of being unaware, which gives us no resources with which to measure and evaluate our surroundings. Remember what you know. Always. There is also the chosen ignorance. One can easily choose to forget what one knows, deeming it irrelevant to the situation at hand. This existence in a state of chosen ignorance is the gravest of sins.

We do all like to be clever people. It feeds our egos well. It makes us all feel a little better about ourselves. I will never deny that knowledge is power, but we must always be mindful of our intent. We have all had something we have said come back and bite us in the arse in ways that we never could have imagined. Words are indeed a karmic minefield.

Getting hurt is painful. One would think that obvious, but fuck if we don’t need to be reminded every now and again. It helps us keep our perspective, and to proceed with caution. Memory is short, and I reckon that is why we continuously find ourselves in circular patterns, repeating past mistakes.

Such, is the state of ignorance.

To not know something because we have never encountered it is completely understandable, and is fundamental to a cognitive life. The world would be a mighty boring place if we were born with prescient knowledge. Education would be completely unnecessary, and we, as people would lose immediately one of our best means for social interaction. If we knew everything already, we wouldn’t need to earn a degree, and thereby meet many people with mutual interests. We also wouldn’t need to run to the doctor to discover what that lingering pain in the belly is.

We would have no capacity to learn, and no reason to exchange knowledge. Why would we even bother talking? No, I reckon that not knowing something is a brilliant gift. Children love discovering things, and so should adults. It’s a boring day when you don’t do anything new, but rather go through the same routine all over again, isn’t it?

No, not knowing something isn’t a sin, it’s a wonderful opportunity. It’s a marvellous means for sharing. A very wise man repeatedly said that the greatest thing we could do in life was to share knowledge. That alone makes you wonder what the Christian church was doing when it declared the Gnostics to be heretics. In fairness, the Gnostics missed an important point with their whole anything of the flesh is a sin perspective. I will readily declare that I understand vegetarianism. However, deny me good shag by telling me that any time I have randy thoughts I am doing the work of the devil, and I will tell you to fuck right off. Don’t deny my body its basic functions. To do so is to choose to live in a state of ignorance. And, as I have said, that is a grave sin.

I have been attacked by people for not knowing things. Things I could never have known. No, I didn’t know what time Liverpool street station was going to open back up. How could I with a chemical fire burning uncontrollably? Too many factors for my mind to piece together on that one, so I don’t know why I was receiving a bollocking for not being on a train that would have gone straight through an inferno. But some people chose to live in a state of ignorance.

That is a shame, really. It’s incredibly depressing to think that some people purposefully chose to be unaware of their surroundings, and refuse to think about them. How else can you know what you have learned?

This is the point where we remember yet again that life is altogether too brief, that we are uncertain of the moment of our death, and that we really are obligated to live as best we are able. How can we do that if we chose to live a life of ignorance?

We don’t have to be the best. We don’t have to be the cleverest. We just have to live true. We wouldn’t trust a bridge that was cobbled together with an it’ll do attitude, so why would we trust a life lived that way? It makes no sense.

There is in America, a systemic approach to education called out-put based education. The underlying philosophy behind it is that, regardless of what answer is given, the child should be rewarded for trying. I agree with the system in principle, but mechanically disagree entirely. Anyone can spew forth verbal diarrhoea, but that does nothing to better an individual, nor the world as a whole. There is no real impetus for learning there.

In times past, movements and ideas like that were named things like sophistry and pedagogics. Those two concepts at least had a goal. They taught people how to baffle with bullshit, if the speaker wasn’t able to amaze with ability. Out-put based education’s goal seems to be to get children moved up to the next year’s education, nothing more.

A readily admitted disturbing trend in American education is something called grade inflation. Its origin, as with so many customs, has been lost to the common memory. It started with Vietnam.

The draft was still used in America at the time of the Vietnam War. Certain exemptions were allowed, things like: being the only male child in a family, being female, being the sole provider for children, and working on a higher education. All of these things are comprehensible. The sole male child dies, and the entire bloodline of a family is lost. A woman who is pregnant will tear the foetus from the womb with too much strain. Combat is not only stressful it is very straining. The death of a sole provider of children produces orphans. Kennedy, in his presidency, announced that he wanted to build one of the best educated workforces in the world. He wanted an enlightened age, and an enlightened populace that worked toward making the world a better place.

Students were not to be drafted. This resonated even more greatly as the war progressed and became increasingly unpopular. Professors took it upon themselves to not fail anyone in their classes. To fail a student meant that they may not graduate, that they may drop out of college, that they may get drafted, that they may go to Vietnam and be killed. That is a heavy burden to keep in mind as one reads and grades a student’s paper. No living being of compassion wants to be connected with even that tenuous a thread to the responsibility of someone else’s death. Students were not to be drafted students were not to fail.

The result is that now, thirty years later, letter grades, as used in the American educational system are cheapened to the point of being almost worthless. A ‘C’ grade is passing, showing minimum acceptable comprehension. An A grade is a mark of excellence and full grasp of understanding. These are the espoused ideas. The grading system is supposed to be a meter for the student, giving them an idea of where they stand in their comprehension of the subject matter.

A graduate student, or a student working on honours courses must achieve an ‘A’ grade. Anything less is a sign that they are not working hard enough, that they are coasting on what isn’t actively admitted, but is readily acknowledged, the tradition of grade inflation.

I reckon that better mentoring from the very start would be an effective solution. It would involve, however, a very long shift in the psyche. A shift with a long enough memory, that the origins of grade inflation weren’t forgotten.

That would remind us that, while we spout out phrases such as, no child left behind, they are more than simple catch phrases, they are spoken manifestations of ideas. That would remind us that, yes, we all like being clever, but being clever is some hard work. It would remind us that the elimination of ignorance has a steep learning curve, and that no, we don’t start at the top of it.

That would remind us that learning is a lifelong venture. It doesn’t end with a degree. Life’s dichotomies certainly don’t follow the rules of any established educational system. They don’t give us the benefit of grade inflation to make us feel any better about ourselves and our cleverness either.

They do, however, remind us at every given opportunity the dangers of choosing to be ignorant. They do remind us that our karmic footprint is wide and deep. They do remind us that we would do well to keep that in mind.

Life’s dichotomies are very effective tools in our quest to learn, however. Without them, all knowledge gained is simply acquired, not experienced. We all have seen firsthand that age doesn’t bring wisdom. It is experience that does so.

To acknowledge that is a good enough start, I reckon. It’s a step along the path to cleverness. After all, as one of the best teachers I ever met said;

“You don’t have to be smart. You just have to be smart enough for this situation.”