Note From The Forever-Alone Desk.

I remember a good friend told me:

'I was content to be alone forever until I met her'.

What a revelation! It got me thinking. The words 'alone' and 'forever' put together can be daunting. But his attitude was nonchalant, which led me to think of it in a nonchalant way. I had never considered loneliness to be a positive. If everything has a positive and a negative aspect, which is something I believe, then loneliness should be no different.

The problem was I spent too much time letting my lack of companionship define me where the surplus of myself should provide definition. To some I will always be a pathetic or hopeless person because I lack the other half to my supposed whole. But I counter that with my own assertion that if I needed to be whole as society deems fit, I would find myself a woman for my usual neurosis of doing what is 'O.K' in the eyes of others. The fact that my laziness overwhelms that tells me that I too am content to be alone forever. And that is one of the few aspects of myself I am ok with.

Note From The Namer Desk, Freezing Sunday 7:23 PM.

It is an often quoted piece of Shakespeare, or Bill as I like to call him (friendly, familiar), that there is, to paraphrase, fuck all in a name. Substance is the thing and the label you put on it is fairly unimportant.

I have not historically been a big fan of my own name, for a few different reasons.

    For one, there aren't many good things named after 'Toms'. You have Doubting Thomas who was a skeptical shit-head, Peeping Tom the pervert, Tomcats are horny cats and of course TomBoys (or as I like to call them, lesbians in Embryo form). Tom was Jerrys antagonist, Tom Cruise is plain terrible (or maybe 'Fancy Terrible') and Tom Green is an awful piece of human garbage.

   If we ignore the non-ignorable (Morello, Hanks and Waits) it seems like Tom has pretty bad connotations. History is littered with Toms who were complete dicks and thats just part of it. Thomas is no better and may be infinitely worse. I always think people are pissed off when they use it, also it seems kinda soft. As I mentioned in my last post, there was a time I thought Jason was the winning name to have, though I have changed my tune some. And heres why....

It Sounds Cool When Said With An Accent

My Polish (and crazy, though not in a sunglass-wearing-rocking-out-on-electric guitar kinda way, in a sad way) Grandfather likes to call me by my full name. Though with his accent and spelling (Tomasz) it seems a lot cooler. It makes me feel like a mountain man, working steadily through a series of more ambitious wood-working projects while readying for the winter that the townsfolk got word to me late of. A guy can dream.

  My Greek boss has a similar pronunciation but his makes me feel like a Disco King with flares and enormous sideburns. Sort of like an Australian John Travolta with a gun. Point is, its got a nice rhythm and sound when said with an accent.

Its Short and Simple.

I never, ever, have trouble fitting my name on the display computer when I go bowling. Just one of the many advantages to having a short name. (Full Disclosure, I have had trouble doing that, but its usually because I like to make my name 'Terrance', Terrance just seems like a better bowler). No-one ever has to ask how to spell it, or if it is with any other letter. I did once go through another 'fashionable' period where I spelled it with an 'H', as in 'Thom'. People called me 'Thom' (like Thong) and I regret it with ever fibre of my being, but for the most part I have never had to explain its detailed letter pattern.

I also am glad I got out of the womb in the nick of time, before the trend of naming people after where they were conceived or born, or the parents favourite flower, or the quality they most hope the child to have (I would be 'Wallang' or 'Tulip' or 'Adequacy' if these were the case). I have a normal name and that is enjoyable.

It is After a Grandparent.

While I am no proponent of naming a child after you, it is nice to shout out to your ancestry through your children. My name comes from my Paternal Grandmothers father, and thats kinda cool. A tall guy who loved horses (which means we are both tall guys). I don't know why, but I like that. Carrying it on and such. It is a further guard against the names of today becoming further entrenched in irony or eccentricities. Something simple, a mans name....

It Sounds Like It Could Be On A Street Sign (Or Menu).

I have always wanted something named after me. Not a human child, star or library. But maybe a small street or sandwich (which would definitely feature the unlikely friendship of egg and chilli flakes, also a lot of salami) and with a simple name like mine it doesn't seem impossible. Why not enjoy an open faced Tom while cruising down Tom Boulevard (also the name of my upcoming R&B album/seniors clothing line). I have also considered putting out a line of cocktail hot-dog buns to go with cocktail frankfurts, Toms Thumbs, anyone?

It can take time to learn to live with your name. While Jason still has its appeal to me I have been gradually getting used to being in The Tom Club (I have said too much). Now its time to reach peace with my middle names, which is another story for another day.

NP.

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.