A cry for help

I really want to keep sheer reality at a comfortable distance from this blog, but I have a problem I can’t figure out and I’m going to ask you, virtual pals, if anyone can advise me. It’s about setting up a fixed IP address. I have a server and I want to access this while overseas, and give clients FTP access. My internet provider is just too expensive to justify signing up for a fixed IP address, so I have tried using NoIP.com, and directing my noIP.com address to the server’s FTP address (the server, by the way, is connected to a router which is the gateway to the server and various computers). Inside my office I can access the server via the NoIP.com address, but people outside can either not see it, or not login.
I’ve been trying for over 2 months to figure this out, and I just can’t get it together.
I’ll pay you, any of you, anything you ask (be reasonable, this is reality, remember), if you can help me understand and resolve this.

------------------------------

To balance that unpleasant slice of reality, I’d like to tell you about my dream.
I was traveling and was waylaid in Iran. While we packed the Jeep and arranged documents, President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad came to see how we were doing and joined us for tea. I’ve long been a fan of Mr Ahmadinejad (until he made that odd comment about there being no gays in Iran), and this made me feel a tad misunderstood when he behaved the way he did to me. During tea he was pontificating on things in general, as he does, which is fine; but then he added lots of sugar to his tea, and explained it was because Muhammad (peace be unto Him) had suggested he dose his tea with sugar to counterbalance the corruption that had infested my soul. President Ahmadinejad wasn’t entirely hostile though, explaining that it was because I showed promise that he deigned to take this action (regular infidels would just be disregarded without sympathy). I was kind of flattered, yet, really, President Ahmadinejad, I’ve championed you before, so I wish you would think of me as less foreign than you do. Or am I fooling myself? Really, is it so bad to be soulless, corrupt, self-absorbed, with a history of bursts of violence? It’s the human in me.

Lord, get me off this wagon

I have a sty in my eye. It’s been there over 2 months and has grown to the size of a small baby’s nostril. These days, unless I require a scalpel or desire some perception fucking-up drugs, I go to a Traditional Chinese doctor; so I went to a Chinese doctor, as my friends were telling me I looked revolting (and the bloated sty wasn’t making it any better, ha ha ha ha ha).
This doctor always has the same line – “No alcohol and no ‘fire’ food” (no fried, or spicy, food). Usually I take his advice for a day or two, then consider myself on the road to recovery, but this time, considering the sheer magnitude of my affliction, I stayed stone, cold sober for 8 days straight. For those of you who don’t know – it wasn’t actually that bad. The nights were sensible, which is pretty much a crime against humanity, but the mornings were fine and dandy. I’ve woken up every day sharp and ready to lay the world, one at a time.
All in all, it was a pleasant diversion. All in all, impregnating the planet one filly at a time is all good and well, but there’s a time when sheer abandon needs to be given free reign. And that time, well, frankly, is now. And the next time the question poses itself, the answer will also be "now".

________________________________________________

Commissioned portrait went very well. The client told me I was great and gave me cash money and I had a new order within 45 minutes. I am amazing, I knew it all along, even when I’m not, I’m sure I am.

Lucky Dube

I first saw Lucky Dube at Reggae Sunsplash in Bermuda. It had been one bland act after another, until this enormous group of musicians came onstage, and one solitary voice wailed the intro of “It’s Not Easy”. Not the 17 second intro you get on the album, but something like a 2 minute beautiful, violent profession. Imagine, the whole field of us, in our thousands, stopped in our tracks, mesmerized, by one voice.
I feel very sad Lucky Dube has been killed, that his voice cannot continue, that he's been robbed of enjoying the effects of his enormous influence, that such a source of wisdom and peace has been stopped by a gunshot.

I'm not a spiritual man, but the world somehow feels very quiet right now, like right when the tide starts silently pulling back, only to build a wave.

You can call me Falstaff

My commissioned portrait is now done. I had to scrape the dredges of my soul, but the thrill overwhelmed the sight of the devil’s claws clutching that long-sold piece of divine flesh. I’m tempted to say I don’t give a monkey’s what the client thinks, because I love it, but the reality is my seemingly eternal giddiness is balanced precariously on the genuine reaction of this. It should be okay though, I’ve failed so many, many, many times before, and I still dogmatically believe myself to be, well, something not unlike god.

Post Futurism

“Construction is the arrangement of elements.
The future is not going to build monasteries for priests, or for the prophets and clowns of art.
Down with art as a glittering extravagance in the senseless lives of the wealthy!
One has to work for life, not for palaces, churches, cemeteries and museums.”

I found this in a college sketchbook. It was during my ‘Futurist’ phase (lasted about 1 year).

I wish I was as insistent now, but less unoriginal.

Give me liberation, or give me death

Not long after college I lived in a house with my friend Rich. We had the basement and a group of inconsequential, Long Island ‘party girls’ lived upstairs from us. One day I had an idea in my head. I’d been thinking about how much energy I had, and how overwhelming it was becoming … I just couldn’t use it all up.
When I came home from work there were no cars in the driveway, which meant there was nobody home. I decided to make an audio piece. I took a cardboard box and a broken pane of glass I had, pressed ‘record’ on the cassette deck and smashed the glass in the box with a hammer; making violent, tinkling noises; then I screamed “I have an incredible … amount of … energy”.
I then heard something like muffled distress coming from upstairs. Seems someone was home after all, and my little project, sadly, was over. I just couldn’t continue knowing someone outside myself was somehow involved.

I took all day to muscle up the balls to start drawing today. To step away from all the dull humans that somehow own a part of me took all day. It took till I was too impatient, too bored, too urgent.

What a drag. I must start being more free.

Not quite not quite myself

Although the weekend is only half over, it’s already been a series of ‘firsts’.
To begin with, I bought mushrooms. As far as I can remember, I’ve never purposely bought mushrooms before. Sure, I’ve bought them before, when someone’s asked me, but never on purpose. I just don’t understand them – either they taste of nothing, or they taste too much of mushroom. I was at the vegetable market on Friday and they looked fun, so I bought 3 packs. 3 PACKS! I’m half way through already; not because I like them, but because they interest me.
Then today, when I was preparing dinner, I turned on the TV for company. TV! Now, I don’t watch TV. My television has just one purpose, to play PS2 games, and very occasionally watch DVDs when I’m sick. I think I spent so long at my in-laws that I can’t adjust to my regular life of work and solitude. Normally, I can genuinely stare at the floor for 20 minutes and muse on existence and humanity and consider it a worthwhile experience. I'm really not used to this phenomenon 'loneliness'.
Thirdly, at 2am I allowed myself to go to 7-11 and buy ridiculous snacks for my amusement. Now, I’ve had this impulse plenty of times before, but I’ve never allowed it to manifest itself. It’s kind of like yoga or heroin – if you capitulate and try it, you’re kind of tied to it for the rest of your life, so best to steer clear. I was inspired by Ken-chan, my new brother-in-law (he’s married to my wife’s sister, can I still call him that?). He’s pretty much the man all men want to be, 2nd only to Lyle Lovett. We got a wedding present of Bermuda black rum from Bryan Adams (not THE Bryan Adams) and Straight Richard; and Ken-chan went out in the middle of the night to buy Coke to drink it with, and came back also with instant noodles and various snacks.
Going out in the middle of the night reminded me of when I was younger and I used to come home in the middle of the night. I saw all the odd people who exist only at this time. I saw a young Indian couple walking the street, laughing together (I always see young Indian couples laughing together in the middle of the night, why is that?). On the way to 7-11 I saw a woman sitting in a chair on a street corner smiling, listening to her phone, but not talking. On the way back she was still there, in her pretend conversation. In 7-11 I saw a man eating, reading the paper, and talking to himself. I saw a girl behind the counter who was almost pretty, except something about her face wasn’t quite right. And I saw regular club-goers – guys in flashy shirts that don’t quite suit them, talking on their phone to their guy friends, neither of them found an easy girl … again. I try to walk past them as if I was sober, but I end up tripping on the perfectly flat sidewalk.
Aaaaah, it’s nice to see some things never change.

The gift

When I was in college we had a small bookshop in the town centre. Whenever I visited I was always attracted to a book on the top shelf called "The Gift" by someone called Vladimir Nabakov. It was a 'Vintage Classic' - they always had beautiful covers and paper that felt so good in your hands. Every time I went there I always took the book down, flipped through it, and decided it didn't look interesting. It always attracted me all the same, and finally I bought it.

I read it, but I didn't understand it. Its characters were made up of great Russian writers I'd never heard of, like Pushkin and Lermontov, and it seemed to be split into 2 sections - older writers, and more modern writers.

One night, after I'd been reading the book, I woke myself up screaming "Turgenev! Turgenev!"

This book ended up changing my life. I still don't understand it though.

*******

I'm scanning old pictures from sketchbooks for the time being. I have a commissioned portrait, yipee, so I'm not drawing me, me, me. It's confusing to draw for someone else. You have to forget them and do it your own way, but then you need to remember it is for someone else. I like it, that beautiful balance of discipline and freedom.

Blogless

I had my new blog entry all planned, but I can’t access my phone (which has the photos I need), and I’m too damned drunk to figure it out, so I’m stuck with my natural self (what a drag).
As a result, I can provide you with only random thougts:
Texas: I love it, I want to move there. I want to wear my cowboy hat and boots and be charming.
Sex, pussy, big, throbbing penis: nothing new here, I just want to mention this phenomenon because, frankly, no matter how smart you are, it all boils down to this.
Whiskey/rum/vodka: come, all of you. I know you don’t love me, but you’re fun as hell all the same.

********

This is Lucky. My friend gave him to me the night before I left New York. I remember, I was in my underwear, tied to a chair, and I was so hungry and my friend was eating food and not giving me any, just waving it infront of my face. We didn't have any kind of romantic relationship, it just seemed interesting at the time. The 90's were like that.

Unlock your daughters

At last, she's mine, mine, MINE!

(...now what do I do?)