My City

Why do I choose to live in this place? I feel it pretty much chose me. It's like the world you imagine the world may one day become. Just out walking this afternoon I saw an old Romanian couple who looked like innkeepers in a Dracula movie. Gangbangers, old Italian mafioso dudes smoking cigars, Ivy League squeaky-clean students, guys from 'The Wire', a gaggle of black-clad girls who all looked like Eva Longoria. A girl of voluptuous proportions with the word "Guess" on her ass in diamanté jewels (It's not a slam-dunk but I'm going for XL).
Rasta dudes reeking of ganja, a trio of Gerard Depardieu businessmen, wide of girth with flowing locks, tweed jackets and cash to burn no doubt. Africans in printed dresses, young Italiano hep cats in hairnets. An emaciated woman with bug eyes approached me and asked if I could do her a "petite service". She wanted a euro. Jesus, even the panhandlers are hiking up the prices (she was holding a can of 'Cara' pils, which retails at 30 cents a can; as a street accessory it ranks slightly above a used syringe). I smiled and politely declined. Every nationality you can imagine seems to inhabit these streets, including myself. And that's why I live here, there's never a dull moment.

Why Can't I Touch It?

"And it sounds so real I can hear it, So why can't I touch it?" sang The Buzzcocks. And I've been thinking that, apart from vinyl records, CDs, books, photo-albums, maybe some Art, I don't actually own anything. All the other stuff (clothes, furniture, pots and pans...even musical equipment) is functional.

So, this is why I'm loath to buy into a philosophy that says, "Allow us to unburden you of those unwieldy corporeal possessions, and to replace them with virtual versions, divested of their physical properties."

So they will become like imprisoned relatives, on the other side of plate glass, all physical contact forbidden, but I can visit them any time I wish. This is not to my liking. Maybe it's practical for someone constantly on the move, like travel scrabble, the board and pieces a quarter of the size, but you'd have no desire to play that version at home when you've got the "real" one.

When did objects become a dirty word? Tactile items lovingly packaged, sleeves and covers with pictures on them. Stack them on shelves, pile 'em up. Run your fingers along the spines, flick through them. Turn the pages. Check out the lyrics on the inner sleeve. See the pages yellow over time. Marvel at the coloured vinyl and picture discs. What label is it on? Be the last of your species to comprehend the phrase, "A Porky Prime Cut".  I've never looked at anyone's computer screen and opined, "Gee! that's some collection you've got there!"