Inspiration Station: Amanda Palmer

I’m 14 years old, sitting in the courtyard of my school. It’s early and foggy and dewey. I think Avril Lavigne is totally punk.

At this point in my adolescence (slightly before the cringe-inducing Wicca phase) I was super-into a band called Splashdown. I had found their music by chance while clicking through flash cartoons on Newgrounds.com.

They were like nothing I had ever heard. Genre-bending, eastern influenced, oblique lyrics. In short, they blew my mind. Although, I was raised on a steady diet of Aqua, Brittney Spears and The Spice Girls, so blowing my mind wouldn’t have been that hard.

Down with Thatcher!

But Splashdown were a gateway-band. They turned me on to music. Well, good music.

My friend appeared from around a corner and walked over to me.

“I was looking on a list of bands similar to Splashdown, and I found this. You have to hear it.”

He put a headphone to my ear and pressed play.

“Biting keeps your words at bay, tending to the sores that stay, happiness is just a gash away…”

The clanging piano, the rapping drums, and Amanda Palmer’s sudden, insistent voice hit my ear drum, and so my very brief angsty period began.

Ugh! Doing well in school?! Kill Me Now!!!11

I like her music, but what is it that I, or even we, can learn from Palmer? Aggressive punk will win you fans? Be a bit strange and the internet will love you? Stick your middle finger up to nay-sayers at every turn? Striped stockings are a good look?

Well, I think there are actually a lot of lessons we can take from Palmer’s life.

But for me, it all boils down to this: Growing up can actually make you more interesting.

Seven years ago, when I first listened to Palmer (as part of her band The Dresden Dolls), her music was suggestive, ambiguous, double entendre laden. She put her rage into her music, you could hear that. And It was awesome.

So much rage. My word.

But it always felt a little bit immature. She seemed in my mind to be the kind of girl who I would have hated to be friends with.

But now her music is so much better. Even a simple track with nothing but her and a ukulele is moving. Because she’s become sincere, and mature. She’s grown up.

And it’s not just her music that has matured. She is a prolific blogger. And despite the fact that she never uses capital letters, I’ve actually kept up with her blog here and there over the years.

And she still has crazy adventures. And stays out all night. And gets hickeys from crazy-drunk strangers.

She got married (to the guy who wrote Sandman), and has a step daughter, and is releasing songs about being stable and happy.

We live in a society where people (men especially) are constantly told that growing up and getting married turns you into a boring dud.

And Palmer flies in the face of that.

Much respect.

-Luke

Tags: amanda palmer, blowing my mind, brittney spears, dresden dolls, inspiration station, splashdown, steady diet

New Jeers

It’s 2012.

So far, I have only scored two points. That’s pretty embarrassing.

But New Year is a time when people make resolutions. They promise to change some aspect of their lives. They outline their hopes for the coming year.

They make sure to tell everybody they know. That’s an integral part of the new years resolution.

It increases the pressure to carry through. They want to avoid the embarrassment of having to tell their friends that they can’t actually afford that holiday, or that they still weigh 290lbs, or that they got drunk first thing New Years Day and had to give back their AA chip.

But everybody knows that New Years resolutions don’t actually work. There’s no real embarrassment in failing to keep up that diet, or ‘forgetting’ to spend more time with your son.

What do you mean: "I have to go back to the office".

So why is it that I have a great desire to join the rest of the world’s fat, jealous losers in making promises that are essentially meaningless?

Is it a placebo? Do I just want to say that I’m making things better when really nothing is changing?

Do I think I am just more resolute than the rest of humanity?

Hell no! It’s because I’m lonely and I just want to fit in. Please don’t make spend another Saturday night alone, watching 2 Broke Girls, and eating a two person bag of microwave popcorn!

I can't take any more stereotype-based comedy. WE GET IT, SHE'S RICH, SHE'S POOR, HE'S ASIAN. STOP.

Ok, I’m kidding, although I totally have done that.

The truth is that I am all about making pointless promises. Hell, I started this blog. In the last post I promised to post something great during the first week in November.

It’s January.

This blog hasn’t changed my life. It hasn’t made me into an awesome cool-guy. Hell, I just finished eating a dry bowl of Special K because I’m too lazy to walk to the shop for milk. No wait, that’s a lie. I didn’t even bother to put it into a bowl, I just grabbed a fistful from the packet and started eating.

But don’t think of me as some hopeless dilettante stewing in the annals of his own failure. No, I have diagnosed the problem. And of course with my positive ‘fix-it’ attitude, I have decided to address the problem.

The problem is scope. 

I was tackling far too big a project. There is just too much to correct. And now I’m working with a deadline.

In 5 months, I will be emigrating to America to pursue a masters degree. Currently, I am on the fast track to becoming a crazy-dog-man. I need to correct that course now, and hopefully when I arrive stateside, my new peers’ first impression of me won’t be ‘ultra-boring he-beast’.

So here’s what I’m doing: I’m narrowing the scope. With a deadline of May 30th, I am setting some definite goals via the medium of New Years resolution. Strap on your fun-belts.

Just get on with it, you weirdo.

New Years Resolutions 

1. Ugly Duckling

My whole life, I have cast myself as ‘the funny one’. The ugly friend who hangs out with Joseph Gordon Levitt, but never gets a romantic plotline of his own, because he’s not studly enough to convince teenage girls to buy posters of him. Well from now on you’ll have to crack your own wise, Levitt! I can have it all God damn it. And in five months I’ll have the personality of a fat-guy in the body of a healthy-weighted guy.

2. Sort  All My Ailments

It turns out 20 years of nutritional abuse can majorly fuck up your body. Who knew?! Well I can’t very well start my new life if I’m riddled with various diseases, now can I?!

3. Stick it out

I am desperate for finishing what I start. I’ve never been good at it. But now is the time to change. I’m going to start seeing things through. Starting with a promise right now. Twice weekly posts here until May minimum.

Ok, we’re doing it.

Health: 1 Brain: 0 Career: 0 Appearance: 1 Social: 0

-Luke

Tags: cool guy, microwave popcorn, new years day, new years resolution, new years resolutions

This is the Point Where People Begin to Judge Me

When I was a teenager, my friends and I spent our Friday nights in a book shop.

Yeah, we were those guys.

While our peers were out drinking €2 cider in a field, we were getting our buzz from complimentary espressos. We would wander around, usually looking for something weird to read, because we were also those guys.

Let's go read Wiccan bibles.

And so began our fascination with romance novels. You know, those cheesy little books of pseudo-pornography that housewives read between their morning mimosa and their liquid lunch?

We would read the titles and back covers and laugh our heads off. “A Cowboy to Marry”, “A Firefighter’s Cinderella”, “Rancher and Protector”, all the entertainment a growing boy needs.

And so came about the bet that if any of us had the guts to write a cheesy romance novel, they would win €100.

For years, none of us did anything with this bet. I was repressed enough to think that vagina was a bad word, so the the kind of filthy double entendres required in a romance novel were beyond my ability to conjure.

I had completely forgotten the bet, to be honest. I was born in the nineties, nobody expects us to remember things anyway. Blame MTV, or the internet, or whatever. But recently, a friend with which I had made the bet brought it up in conversation. He assured me that the bet was, very much, still on.

I thought it over, and assured him that I would begin writing one immediately. I didn’t begin immediately.

But it did get me thinking about romance novels. So when I, with a completely different friend, was getting coffee and saw a pile of cheesy romance novels just sitting out, I pretty much had to flick through one.

It just so happened that the first book I picked up (Look What The Stork Brought ) had a scratch card in it. And that scratch card just so happened to be a winning scratch card. The card assured me that I was entitled to four free books and a “simulated pearl drop necklace”. There was just one problem. The book was published in 1998.

The real problem is that Google images had so many pictures of this book.

So, of course I took to the internet. As it turned out, the company is still going, publishing smut for another generation of frustrated upper-middle class women.

And I wanted that pearl necklace, God damn it.

So I sent them the following email:

To whom it may concern,I recently picked up a copy of your 1998 title “Look What the Stork Brought”, and won a prize in the enclosed competition.There is no expiration date on the competition card, and I am desperately hoping that I may still claim my prize (Four free books, and a ‘simulated pearl drop necklace’). I notice your address has changed in the last decade, so I was wondering if it would be possible to send the prize card to your new address, and get some of your wonderful books for myself to enjoy. Thanks you so much for your time, Luke Healy

Tragically, the company didn’t think it was worth their time to respond to my fairly tongue in cheek email. Dreadful customer service.

So the next day I had another look at their website and it turns out they take submissions from unpublished authors. And they have a new imprint (Nocturne Cravings) that specifically requests “bold, exciting, erotic paranormal romance short stories”. They also mentioned that “authors should feel comfortable exploring any and all sexual scenarios and shouldn’t shy away from graphically sensual situations.”

There was not one part of me that didn’t see that as a challenge. I was going to write them the strangest, least publishable short story ever created. I would win €100 and spite them for not giving me the necklace in one extremely inappropriate manoeuvre.

I gave myself a timeline of three days and got to work.

Sadly, this is where my story ends. I got up to half of the required word length (about 7000 words) before my time ran out.

I won’t lie, it got weird. Very weird. My Grandparents would have heart attacks and die weird.

I’m never going to publish this story online in it’s entirety but I will tell you that the title I settled one was “Whorelocks: The Hunter’s Touch”.

Sorry Grandad, the Wiccan bible told me to do it.

Maybe some time in the next few months I’ll fill out the word count and send it off for evaluation. Maybe. But right now I have far too much real-life-actual-human-being-work to be doing.

No points tonight I guess.

I’ve got big plans for the first week in November, so stay tuned.

Health: 1 Brain: 0 Career: 0 Appearance: 1 Social: 0

-Luke

Tags: No improvement, romance novel, shame, whorelocks

My Thighs Feel Like Columns of Fire

“Do you want the gloves, or the wraps?”

I would have taken the wraps, had he meant some kind of delicious lunchtime snacks. Tragically, he was talking about handwraps. The kind of handwraps you wear when you are lifting weights.

I was about to lift weights.

Am I even going to bother linking to the original images today?

Perhaps there is something you should know about me. I am fat. The whole wraps joke makes a lot more sense now, right? I resist exercise like hippies resist showering. The heaviest weight I have ever lifted is myself. Actually, that’s a lie. I tried to lift myself, but no matter how much the P.E. teacher shouted, I couldn’t get my chin above the bar.

While the other children were playing football and dodgeball, I was standing in the corner, trading quips with a certain trusted advisor.

So in the moments before my friend (Seán, a qualified kettle bell instructor) handed me a 12kg kettle bell weight, I was pretty much wondering why I had thought this was a good idea. Especially after he demonstrated that the exercise involved swinging this very solid ball of iron above my head. My very squishy, human head.

The ground rules were these:

1. Do not let go of the weight mid swing, allowing it to smash straight through the glass door. 2. Do not let go of the weight when being held still, allowing it to break through the floor. 3. Do not hit yourself the weight, allowing it to break through your fragile human bones. 4. Do not let go of the weight. No, for real, it will break anything it touches.

And as he handed me this terrible heavy death-ball, I could not help but wonder if my tiny, weak little t-rex arms would just immediately snap straight off.

But they didn’t, quite shockingly, and we launched into a series of swings, lunges and pelvic thrusts.

I felt good. I felt great.

I was a powerful man… lifting things. Also swinging things. Well, a thing. I was ready to pass the man-exam, and finally get my penis-shaped merit badge. I envisioned future years of lumber-chopping, sport-watching and team-cheering.

And then, -CRACK-

Nope.

“OH FUCK” shouted Seán.

“Aah” I shouted. “I ripped my trousers”.

And then Seán collapsed with relief.

“I thought you had put it through your knee” he said, panting. “That’s like an instructor’s worst nightmare”. I stood for a moment, ruminating on what had just happened. Initially, I found his reaction funny, and laughed a bit. Then I was a bit insulted, my co-ordination isn’t that bad, surely. Then I came to the very worrying realisation.

“Wait. People actually do that? This weight actually could have gone through my knee? That happens?”

And I was done with kettle bell. I held the remains of my trousers in shame, and decided that perhaps it wasn’t for me. Maybe I can just lift the milk bottle up and down a few times each morning before I pour it’s contents onto my sugary, delicious cocoa pops.

So when I finally finished on kettle bell-ing with Seán he turned to me and said:

“You know, we should get some protein into you, or your muscles are going to cramp up tomorrow”

But I had to go, and I didn’t get a chance to force some protein enriched goo down my neck.

l o l

Excuse me while I go soak my thighs and write erotic-warlock-fiction.

But that’s Friday’s post.

Health: 1 Brain: 0 Career: 0 Appearance: 1 Social: 0

-Luke

Tags: blog, crack, kettle bell, noth the drug though, oh shoot I hope crackheads don't find this post, self help, sissy, weight lifting

How the Hell Do I Make a Haircut Funny?

I have had the same haircut since I was 13. I have also suffered from fairly intense anxiety regarding interpersonal contact for many years.

Two days ago, a man washed my hair and shaved my neck. 

I started secondary school when I was 13. Up until that point, I had been driven to a barber every few weeks where one of my parents would say “3 back and sides”. I theorise that they were trying to eliminate my curly hair. And I suppose they succeeded, the straight-haired fascists. But I was 13 now, I was in secondary school. I could do whatever I wanted!  

Or at least, I could blindly refuse to get my hair cut.

For years, I would let my hair grow as long as possible before I would get a haircut. When I finally gave in and went to a barber, I would insist they leave it as long as they could. 

I sort of developed an anti-haircut complex. Or perhaps a completely rational objection to visiting the barber. After all, having a man roughly drag blades across your scalp for half an hour is not exactly a day at the zoo.  

Click image for source

Women often throw up childbirth when a man calls something painful, but men definitely got the short end of the stick when it comes to haircuts. That buzzing razor chewing through your hair is nothing less than tortuous.

Or maybe I’m just a wimp.

I got to the point that I began cutting my own hair in the bathroom mirror with kitchen scissors. I was one step away from staring wildly at my family and screaming “tell me I’m pretty”.

Click image for source

I’ve improved over the years, but I still dislike haircuts intensely.

So when I decided to start this blog off by tackling the appearance quintile (yeah), getting a haircut was a pretty obvious first step.

I went to Grafton Barbers*, which; despite the fact that it is misnamed and is actually on Trinity Street; has become well known for giving good haircuts. It’s one of those straight razor traditional shave kind of places.

I was looking for something new. I wanted to just sit down into the chair and say “change me”. Sadly, I wimped out and brought a picture of the kind of haircut that I wanted. It was a picture of a male model (which I have now lost), and as I printed it out, I almost had a premonition of the barber saying “oh, yeah, you want to look like this guy, huh? Want me to give you a chiselled jaw and devil may care smile too?”

Click image for source

But I went in, and he didn’t laugh at me. He gestured for me to sit in the chair, and then said something. I’m not sure what, he has a very strong asian accent. I paused for a second, and then just said “Eh, just do whatever you think is best…” 

I still have no idea what he asked me. 

Click image for source

Although, thinking about it, he probably just asked if I wanted him to wash my hair too, because he immediately began to massage shampoo into my scalp. It was pretty awkward.  

But you know what, my hair didn’t turn out that bad. It has been a long time since I have had such a short haircut, so my head feels really narrow. 

An advisor has deemed it worthy of an appearance point, so I’m counting it as a victory. 

My neck is cold. 

Health: 0 Brain: 0 Career: 0 Appearance: 1 Social: 0

-Luke

*EDIT: It was actually the Trinity Barber. My fault for being an idiot, and making a joke that now makes no sense.

 

 

Tags: anxiety, ew, grafton barbers, haircut, man, men, self help, shave my neck, straight razor, teenage anxiety

And Suddenly, A Realisation

I am terrible.

Lots of people are terrible too. Lots and lots and lots.

But some people are great. And I want to be one of them.

So what makes a person great, or impressive? Well, I think that’s fairly different for everybody. For me, it is somebody who has some semblance of control in their lives. Someone that has achieved great things, or honed a great talent. Somebody with the kind of attitude that says “I am great, but I’m not trying to rub it in your face, I swear“.

Click image for source.

I’m trying to shy away from the word cool here. The word cool is a little too ethereal for me. Some kind of transcendent trendiness that allows you to wear leather jackets and sunglasses at night without being hit by cars,

So what the hell is this blog? Well, I see it as a cynic’s journey to self improvement. A Self-Help blog where I selfishly help myself. The kind of self help that doesn’t prohibit negativity. Where “positive-thinking”, “spirituality”, and “self-empowerment” are dirty words.

Pragmatic self-improvement, if you will.

And here’s how it’s going to work; I have hastily brainstormed 5 categories in which my life could be vastly improved:

1. Health 2.Brain 3. Career 4. Appearance 5. Social

Shallow, right? But putting the reasoning behind those categories aside for later posts, the question remains:

How am I going to go about improving those aspects of my life? I’m not some kind of guru. I definitely don’t have things figured out, or under control. I’ve never even had a chat show on Living TV.

Well, being a child of the nineties, and former World Of Warcraft addict, I decided to do it in the only real way I know how. I am going to develop a points system.

The coolest....

So what, I’m going to give myself points for typing “how to dress like you’re under the age of 45 (men)” into Google? Hell no. Why in God’s name would anybody want to read that?

I’m going to go out into the real world, and find some people to teach me what I need to know. And I’ve appointed two trusted advisors to award me points based on how well they think I’ve done.

And If you’ve come here looking for some kind of tips to improve your own life, then I’m sorry to tell you that I don’t have them. But neither does the white lady with dreadlocks, and I’m much more fun to hang out with.

Click image for source.

So why put it on the internet? Surely being a better person is it’s own reward. Well, aside from my desperate, near-crushing need for attention, I am hoping that somebody else might find this useful. I certainly know that when I was particularly lost, and googling things like “how to improve your life” and “I am really sad, fix me” I would have loved to stumble across a blog didn’t shove Ghandi quotes down my throat. A blog where there isn’t a picture of a tooth-bleached author in the header images posing with their loving husband and family cat.

Look, the truth is that there’s no one mould for happiness. For one person, it might be making art, and having amazing friends and for another it might involve puka shells and obnoxious B.O. And that’s fine. As long as I don’t have to talk to them at parties.

So maybe here I can find a system that can really help me to improve. And if you want to be a better person too, then maybe you can take something from it. Or if you are already happy and well adjusted, then feel free to point and laugh.

Let’s give this thing a go.

Health: 0 Brain: 0 Career: 0 Appearance: 0 Social: 0

-Luke

Tags: First Post, grouchy, No improvement