Note From The Trendsetters Desk: 2:54 A.M, Warm Saturday.

I remember when I was seven years old, there was nothing in the world then that I wanted more than glasses and braces. Did I need them? Not in the slightest. At the time my teeth were straight and inexplicably healthy, my eyesight was a gentlemanly 20-20 with perfect clock-reading abilities and no need for large-text books nor engorged buttons on my telephone (not that I had a telephone, children with mobiles wasn't a thing).

       No, I thought they looked cool. In what was perhaps the start of a long line of questionable fashion role models, people with braces or glasses (especially those captain-of-the-football team level awesome folks with both), struck me as pretty badass. Of course the canon of popular culture and common opinion has proven that it was the opposite of cool or badass.

Still, it is interesting to me that this was my first inclination of what was cool and, even then, it had nothing to do with what everyone else felt was fashionable. Now we have widespread hipster culture where glasses provide an image that harks back to Ginsberg or John Lennon, but then hipsters weren't a thing either.

       Thinking back, I think I thought that brain-power was real-power. In my earliest years people who seemed smart seemed tough or ahead of the curb. A high intelligence seemed the thing to envy rather than a high level of muscle tone or athletic prowess (something admittedly I now envy).

      Though not all of my fashion aspirations were so noble or impressively moral. The valleys were as great and numerous as the peaks. For example, for at least an entire year I wished my name was Jason.             I have no explanation for it, except that it sounded cool. Much cooler than 'Tom'. Jason's seemed to be winners, the same way smart guys with glasses and braces did. Team Jason seemed to be the only team worth being on and for a good while I was pissed off at my mother for damning my life by not putting me on that team.

       A year or two later I spent 18 months fully exploring my 'bright-orange camouflage fishing vest' phase, a phase that didn't end (or even go) well, except that it did end.

      Then I spent a good few years delving into insanely loose, silver jeans and nothing else. It seemed the height of pride and prowess and though people told me different in no uncertain terms, it was one of those unfortunate experiences that you can't understand until you organically grow out of it.

      Fashion is a funny thing and my history with it will never be held up as exemplary of high-taste or medium-taste or even taste. I was bold (stupid) and regret all of it. I don't know that my choices are much better now, but I am going for as timeless a look as I can muster without being even near the crest of that ever-breaking style wave.

NP.

ON HOW TO BALANCE YOUR SOCIAL RESPONSIBILITIES.

One of the major perils of being in a relationship is surrendering some or all of you're former life. It is unavoidable, there are only so many hours in a day.

If handled well those close to you will get equal face time (or at least feel like they are), if handled poorly, you are likely to isolate those who used to mean a lot to you.

It is not to say you can possibly spend as many hours talking nonsense with your mates, you shouldn't want to. Of course, a healthy relationship survives on spending time with your significant other, but a healthy friendship survives on the same.

One theory that is notable in this issue is the independent/co-dependent theory. Everyone is living multiple lives most of the time. You are:

• The 'you' only you know.
• The 'you' your family knows (maybe additionally different with different family members, I.e different to your mother than you are to an uncle)
• The 'you' your friends know.
• The 'you' you are at work.
• The 'you' your wife, husband, girl or boyfriend know.

These are all aspects of one cohesive unit. They have to be, you can't be totally alien between any two of these groups. Often its more a case of what you omit or what you say or how you say it. A sexual encounter may be a crude or exciting event as you explain it to your friends or a sign of hopeless love and commitment when explained to your mother.

While these groups can and do co-exist, they all vie for a piece of your time- one on one. In some sense they all need it. You don't bring your wife to work with you, nor do you invite your boss to share your marital bed.

Frequently these other groups get put on standby for your infatuation with the other . You both had lives before you got together and those lives will still be there if you break up. The people around you shouldn't be put on standby while you schmooze with each other.

Nor should you deprive yourself of time away from your girlfriend or boyfriend. Alone time is important, social time is important. Not just important, but equally important as that with your lover.

No-one wants to feel second best or like someone is taking you away from them and the challenge is in maintaining their value, for them and you. You need the life you have with your partner and the one you have away from them.

Just because you had the good fortune of finding someone, from a platonic lover to a soul mate, doesn't mean you should be any less responsible for your other responsibilities.  

Note On Decisions

I don't know about you, but I am consistently indecisive. Its as if deciding between the chicken parma and the chicken with pepper sauce (a treat, to be sure) is climbing Everest with one bad knee and one good hangover.

It's hard to say why it is I am like this, less of a sceptic might say it was the way god made me but I don't buy it. I am not naturally anything (aside from tall and handsome), but least of all one who flip-flops.

It would be fair to say, with the modesty I can muster, that part of it is not wanting to be blamed for making a bad decision. I don't want to be the one everyone looks at while we aren't enjoying the porridge I decided on for dinner, I mean that’s the kind of thing that can haunt you.

But that’s in a group situation. In deciding something that effects only me, I am no more successful. Too caught up in possible regrets, obviously more with major life decisions (like whether to make a sly remark to that sexy gardener or not) than with petty things.

For instance, I have done my share of moving in the five years since I graduated but still I am not content. I think there is something in common between the indecisive and the travel fiend, some place is always better.

While most of my friends have either committed to long-term jobs or study I am left starting my under-graduate at 23 and only one diploma to my name. In some sense I did a lot of living in that time (and a hell of a lot of line-dance troupe try-outs) but getting my proverbial shit together I

did not.

I guess the real issue I have is that nothing is ideal, I try to be a realist, but I am simply not. My ambitions often overtake my means and, though it is getting better as I get older, I am still not willing to settle.  

When the world shits on you, its probably consumed curry.

Maybe a more Kosher way of saying that would've been 'when it rains, it pours' but the worst you get on a rainy day is water logged feet.
I guess I am realizing, more and more, how boring the world is; at least to me.
It's like waiting for a bus, but the thing is always late. You're destination may well be beautiful, it might be a live action orgasm, but if the bus doesn't show up you'll never get there.You keep looking and waiting for the fucking thing but it turns out its a cab or some cocksucker in a midlife-crisis-Porsche.
Or maybe that's just me. I definitely don't think the world is against me or anything quiet so emo. More that there is something in me that compels me to fuck up each and every opportunity for something better.
With each one I try to reassure myself that I learn from each one, but I don't. I make the same mistakes all-the-fucking time.
I'm my own worst enemy.
And the worst thing of all, when I look back at my list of catastrophic fuck-ups I realize I am the kind of person I once hated, especially for bitching about it online.

Possible Novel: Excerpt.

Been a while for anyone who reads this...ive been on something of a creative binge lately (cue wanker alert) and am about ten pages deep in this thing. This is a short bit, but would dig knowing if there is something there.
Be honest, Im a big boy (with the feelings of a small girl), ha. Seriously though, slam it if it need be slammed.
Thanks......



Patrick felt as though he had been reborn into a shittier world. Without any sort of human contact, not a foot in any door or a finger in any pie, he was completely alone now and, as much nasty incentive he had given people to stay away from him, there was nothing he hated more than being alone.
The one little thing that made him any sort of human was gone and it would never be back. He was lucky to find someone so young and unassuming. His own kind would never take him in, he was too damaged- like a broken toy that was of no use to anyone because it wasn’t fun anymore.
‘4 O’clock at St. Andrews’ jumped out again at the end of the bulletin. He would have to go, there was no way he could avoid the chance to thank his young friend on the off chance he was heading to something better. The news faded into something about a sperm bank and Patrick reefed the plug from the wall with a weak tug.
He rumbled out of bed with the aching bones of a grave digger and puttered around the house. It seemed a long time since he had dressed himself properly and an era since he had donned the suit. The suit was a looming thing that Patrick hadn’t much fondness for. It stood in the closet as though being worn by someone’s spirit.
It had been an all purpose outfit; weddings, graduations, court dates, funerals. Each made him sad at the state of himself, for different reasons. Funerals, unsurprisingly, most of all; at each one he was sure he would be the next to go.
The suit had only been worn on one happy occasion, his graduation from high school. It wasn’t the sort of- we made it, we are on to better things, kind of feeling. He had wanted to get out of that, away from people and learning and bullshit since he had gotten into it and that suit ushered him out in style.
It was new when he had worn it then, by now it was thirty years old, but it still fit. He hadn’t bloated like so many do in their middle age, and had stopped growing at sixteen. So, except for the fraying seams and the old bones and flesh that occupied it, it looked as though it was purchased last week.
He lit a cigarette and walked to the cupboard. He looked at the suit and in a moment of fight or flight seized it and put it on in a rush. It was still eight hours until the funeral, but he knew he wouldn’t have the courage to face the dismal garments if not for now.
Then he went to the bathroom and rubbed a handful of warm water over his scratched scalp and through his thick beard. He looked at his ageing face for a moment and let out a chesty sigh. He could see every bad decision written in fine print amongst the malar bags beneath his eyes and the narrow creases of his forehead. He turned and went to the veranda.

T.

On the Post Travel Blues- Too Many Stones Unturned.

Though I have always suspected it, the simple truth is that travel is wonderful. Its an education, a cultural eye opening, a social crossroads of all creeds and codes and a yard stick by which to measure yourself and your country. It is something everyone should do, to gain empathy or understanding, enjoy the unavailable or unobtainable, hear a rich soup of experiences and stories and have some of your own to tell someday.
Over the course of 2 months I graced 9 countries and loved each of them on their own merits. Each of them taught me something about myself and all of them taught me that, while we are all different, we are all human and the human experience is something we can all share. I met some of the most amazing people, each a fantastic example of their homelands and their history and saw some of the best of what humans can do. You come back different.
What nobody tells you, or what you won’t listen to, is that coming home is a sad affair. On leaving I was nervous and apprehensive on leaving the comfort zone I had carved out for myself. Almost before getting on the plane I was anxious to return. The unknown is often the scary and for my it certainly was, but when I overcame that fear I found a world of new experiences and new friends that I wouldn’t have found otherwise.
And once I had found it, I was hooked. It was a comfort zone as well, but a comfort zone that I wanted to explore and soak up. To bond so quickly with so many of the worlds finest young people and then have it ripped from under you like a magic carpet is like a cruel joke. You yearn to be back amongst that throng of culture and excitement, to learn more about yourself and the world- but you can’t.
There is nothing you can do bar save for another trip, but in the meantime it feels like the world is going on without you. You dream of it, with a symphony of language coming from all directions, all the places you didn’t see, the people who were out there that you didn’t meet, and wake up to find yourself away, back in your usual situation. Or maybe that’s just me.
It was certainly worth going, I wouldn’t trade my brief window abroad for anything I have but each day I think of what I have left behind; all the stories exchanged, the nights out, the lunches and long late night conversations delving into someone’s deepest soul.
Sure, it is good to see all the familiar faces and they have helped me through this much of my life- but you can’t help feel that you left something really good behind.

T.

Swedish Drunk Tank 10 A.M

I got in at 5 in the afternoon, the sun was still high over Malmo but more defused than anywhere else id been. I had, after some difficulty, located a friend who lives there and there was only one thing on the agenda: drinking.
We kept true to the teenage Australian custom of drinking cheap beers in the park, though warm as they sell them on the shelves either to save costs or save the countries livers I couldn't tell which.
All the while fresh high school graduates stood on the backs of trucks and threaded themselves through sun-roofs, with horns honking and sailor hats donned to celebrate their freeing to the adult world.
'I did that too' said the friend with a laugh 'and look at me now'.
We drink our beers and watch the water features that Europe, in rough general terms, seems to be crazy about. When the beer ran dry we naturally wanted more, and the bars were the only things open. So we go and I buy as my friend is strapped, we drink two or three, he has a whiskey.
I am bouncing back from the john when I see him speaking Swedish at the neighbouring table. I, obviously, dont know whats going on, but slowly I see that they dont like it. Ever the aggravator he keeps it up and we get kicked out.
I find out on the way back to my hostel that he had called, though not directly, one of the women at the table fat. Though he really just mentioned her likeness to a portly, or slightly portly, Swedish actress. It pissed him off that it pissed her off.
So we walk, through the malmo streets. Over the river, past winers and diners in the cold evening. The police are on the street.
'Swedish police good people' my friend wobbles.
They just look, with slight rage and no response. Meanwhile I am trying to stay concious of the road rules, in that I am trying not to be killed by a car driving on the right side of the road while I look left.
We get back to the hostel and engage in drunken conversation over cigarettes with a German girl who is smoking hot, but looks a little scared. Rebecca! It can be an imposing sight I suppose.
The usual suspects: where you from, where you going, what brings you here, where you been....staples of the travellers question index.
I wonder for a while if she would have sex with me, then remember shes sixteen, then wonder the former again.
However I am not shitfaced, more of a tipsy happy drunkenness. A level you can never sustain and your a fool if you try.
We talk e.coli, prominent in Germany, and run through the bullshit German words we know.
And thats where the night should've ended.
A tall bald man flows out of the door. He is Belarussian and after some talk he mentions a bottle of vodka, he leaves to fetch it and we speculate if he really has it or not.
Rebecca, who looks like she wanted to leave 20 minutes ago, is still standing outside but the conversation has dried up.
The Belarussian returns and sure enough has the vodka, we retreat to the kitchen and try to convince Rebecca to come with us but she is smart.
So we sit, another Belarussian man has joined and I speak some broken Polish with them. The lanky bald animated man pours doubles for everyone and then, clink down the hatch. After a while another, then another.
A group of Iraqis sit at another table and come to offer us food, its not good but they insist it is and that we eat. Their hearts are in the right place.
They leave and the vodka flows, huge drinks....another bottle is brought and I think on how to slink away and get back to my room.
I bum a cigarette of a Frenchman and faintly remember going downstairs to smoke. Then its gone.
XX.
I wake up, blurry eyes. Its not my room but for the moment I dont really care. I feel like it is, or maybe its another room I had rented. Its a strange dream. Then I fall asleep again.
The next waking up is different...this is somewhere I shouldnt be, this is a jail or a holding pen. I get a little scared but am too tired and hungover to properly care. I knock on the window and clutch my dick as a child would signalling I need to use the toilet. They finally let me, escorting me the whole way though I was in no shape for a daring escape.
'When are you letting me out' I hazily say.
'Couple hours'
I slink back to bed.
I am awoken again, I realise I have pissed my pants, and quite a job of it I have done too. The next day I find out my friend woke up in his underwear but I can see why they wouldnt have done that to me.
They take me to the counter where a hot chick with a south american look tries to explain that they have my friend and I should wait to leave together. She hands me back my rings, watch and wallet. All the money is there, which is amazing.
'We have your friend' she says again.
Thinking they may have got one of the Belarussians I bunch my hair into a ponytail and say long hair, in a crude sign language.
They dont answer and I assume they have the Bald Belarussian who I am not overly fond of seeing at that moment. I panic and walk away.
I am walking for an hour, looking down streets that look the same and trying to pin down a memory of any landmarks that might lead me there. The cold morning wind is freezing in my pissy pants and I am reluctant to go near others for my pungent urine scent.
I dont find it so I get a cab, I am averting my eyes for fear he will mention my smell. I get there and climb the stairs. I have lost my bag and ask at reception, they are forgiving of my blunder. I feel the pains of thumb inflicted bruises on my biceps. They have my bag and nothing is missing. I find out that I was one block from the hostel and walked an hour in the wrong direction.
Then I seal my pants and change and sleep. Its over and im ok, but my brain and body remind me of it for 2 more days. A life changing hangover.