Climate Control

"Catch the sun before it's gone. Here it comes, up in smoke and gone."

It's quite warm in Southern California. Google reckons it's ninety-two degrees, but I'd be inclined to guess a little higher. After all, I doubt anybody from Google was down in a gym that has air conditioning as lame as the one I was in this morning. Even the pool was warm. I also doubt anybody from Google had to walk to Target and back, carrying nine litres worth of soda on the return journey. It sure felt like a little more than ninety-two degrees then, I assure you.

This is probably my one bitch about SoCal. I'm sure I'll become accustomed to it, but you can never be comfortable in this kind of heat, no matter who you are. On the aforementioned trip to the supermarket earlier, I was cotton-mouthed and soaked with sweat five minutes after leaving the house. That's silly hot, and - as it's not even July yet - I think it's safe to say that it's going to get hotter.

If I had any doubts about going north at some point in the near future, I've a feeling my first SoCal summer is going to lay them to rest.

Bliss

"This is what it's all about, take me in and eat me out. Pins and needles in my arms. Lucky eyes and lucky charms."

We're halfway through another lazy weekend out here in SoCal, gleefully spending Jenn's new-found wealth (a recent payrise just showed up in her wages) on food, alcohol, and movies. I have my EAD card now, but my social security number has yet to show up, meaning still more time spent stuck in the apartment with only the cat for company. The annoying thing is that, legally speaking, I can work without the SS number, but in practice, almost any job application I could possibly fill out is useless without one. So once again we're waiting. With any luck, though, the thing will turn up by the end of next week, meaning I should just about be able to catch the end of the World Cup before I have to start working.

A surplus of free time has, naturally, led to my becoming more immersed than I normally would in the World Cup. Since the tournament started, I've watched about 90% of the games, and even found myself writing in-depth analyses on various messageboards. My presence in front of the television during the football (and it is football. I will not call it soccer) has led directly to Jenn becoming involved, initially as a disinterested observer, but latterly as a partisan supporter, usually of the underdogs.

So this morning began with the first half of the Germany/Sweden match. I then left Jennifer to the second half while I made my now-customary trip to the gym, where I burned my current daily rate of 1100 calories or so before indulging in the newest part of my workout: hurling my sweating, exhausted self into the swimming pool at the conclusion of my excursions. Seriously, it's awesome. I'll grab a picture on Monday so you can see it for yourselves, but the way the gym is set out is so the exercise bike and the treadmill - my two morning nemeses - are positioned to each side of a pair of swing doors that open directly out onto the pool. So I can slide off the bike, ditch my iPod, pull off shoes, socks, and t-shirt, and run straight out through those double doors and into the cool, clear water beyond.

Bliss.

Today I came back from the gym/pool, grabbed a quick shower, and then accompanied Jenn on an expedition for lunch and ice cream. With that mission duly accomplished, we came home and did us some eating in front of a rather thrilling confrontation between Mexico and Argentina. We then got drunk while watching Johnny Depp in The Libertine (Critically overrated, I thought, but Depp was as awesome as always and there were some absolutely killer lines) and the much-lauded Russian sci-fi thriller, Night Watch (pretty good, actually. My only problem with it was checking the sound options for the original Russian dub so we could watch that with English subtitles, being unable to find any options except for English, Spanish, and French, then sitting through some appalling voice acting that spoiled an otherwise enjoyable movie only to discover afterward that the original Russian language soundtrack was available as an option...in the fucking special features. Honestly, who hides the original dub of their film in the special features without including it in the audio options? That's just about the dumbest thing I've ever encountered).

Then we ate an Enormous Bastard Ultimeat Pizza (they should totally call it that) from Round Table.

That concludes today's ramble, the point of which was simply to make my meagre readership understand that I love Saturdays.

Thank you for your time.

Without A Whisper Of Protest

To Whom It May Concern,

Seeing as there is no e-mail address listed on your site under the heading of 'ethical concerns', I thought I'd just use this one. I hope you are able to forward this message on to Ian Preece or whomever else is relevant.

I was interested to read today that Orion will be publishing the diaries of Pete Doherty. While I've never had much time for the antics of Mr. Doherty and have always been slightly dubious of his talents, I understand that there is a market for this kind of thing and that the book, when it is released, will almost certainly be a bestseller. It's good to know then, that Orion Publishing Group is honest enough to come right out and admit that it is the moral equal of such great British institutions as The Sun newspaper, which, as I'm sure you know, adopted young Doherty mostly due to his ability to generate the requisite 'bad boy' headlines they need to fill the space between photos of celebrities falling out of their dresses.

You see, the point isn't that Doherty has a story to tell, that he's a bright and talented kid from a difficult background who has achieved fame against the odds. The point is that Pete Doherty is slowly killing himself in public, and Orion Publishing Group seems more than happy to lend a helping hand in this endeavour by giving him money he will, of course, use to buy drugs. And it isn't just Pete. What about all those kids you see turning up to support him at his court appearances? What sort of message do you think it sends them when a guy like Doherty is given money for his story? Orion, it seems, is more than comfortable with glamourising Heroin addiction and its victims in order to turn a profit.

I'm amused to find myself writing a letter like this one. It's not as though I'm some ultra-moral, church-going conservative outraged at the behaviour of the youth today. I just can't believe a successful publishing company can joyfully announce that it's putting money in the hands of an addict - thereby lending validation not only to his behaviour, but to the behaviour of all those who will follow - without a whisper of protest.

Still, that's the world we live in, eh? I guess it would have been too simple to ask the boy to perhaps complete a proper spell in rehab as a condition of the book contract. No, that would be ridiculous. After all, if he goes and dies between now and next March, those hardcovers will be flying off the shelves, right?

Right.

How do you sleep?

Curiously,
Michael O'Mahony

Inimitable Vocal Stylings

"There goes my baby, She knows how to rock and roll. She drives me crazy; she gives me hot and cold fever then she leaves me in a cool cool sweat."

Jenn and I finally got some kind of a social life on Saturday. Which was nice. Tight purse strings have kept us from doing much but renting movies and getting drunk at home since I've been here, but now that Jenn's monster payrise is in and the possibility of your hero actually having a job looms large on the horizon, we're preparing to become the next big thing in Hollywood.

Or not.

Saturday's excuse for a piss-up was Jenn meeting up with an old friend of hers, Kelly, for the first time in about a decade. I was designated husband for the evening, and Shannon (Kelly's other half) was designated girlfriend. Or at least, that's how it went in my head. The reality was quite different, and we were all getting along famously before we even reached the expensive French restaurant where we dined. One reasonably impressive meal and a couple of drinks later, we hit the road and ended up at a seedy karaoke bar/bowling alley, where we took advantage of all the facilities and eventually staggered out at sometime after one in the morning. Actually, I say staggered, but I think I was the only one who managed to get a decent drunk on. This may explain why it was I decided to butcher several songs with my own, inimitable vocal stylings.

Okay, I had a decent singing voice in me once upon a time. It just didn't show itself until after I'd butchered The Joker. I chased this with Wichita Lineman, Crazy Little Thing Called Love, and Semi-Charmed Life with, I think, varying degrees of success. If you ask me, I think I did a pretty mean Freddie Mercury. But I was drunk, so you may be better off asking someone else. Like Shannon or Kelly, who were much better, or Jenn, who was nothing like drunk enough to show off her skills.

Anyway, here's a few pics:

Michael, en route to another Strike (please ignore the ball that's clearly heading for the gutter, it's a photographic aberration).


Jenn and Kelly feeling particularly cheesy.

Kelly And Shannon rockin' the suburbs.

Modified lyrics: "Some people call me the space cowboy. Some call me the gangster of love. Some people call me Michael, and I'm wearing an unflattering shirt."

Jenn practically begged me to include this. So here, for your viewing pleasure, is the award-winning image, 'Recovering Alcoholic At Karaoke'.

This one was actually taken on my birthday last week, but I like it too much to keep it to myself.

Qualifying Clichés

"I wanted to walk through the empty streets and feel something constant under my feet, but all the news reports recommended that I stay indoors."

At this point, a deep, dark birthday post is usually called for. After all, this blog more or less shares its anniversaries with those of my birth, and it's about this time of year I start thinking about what I've done in the last twelve months and what I hope to do in the next.

But you know, things are a little different this time. I look back now and the only thing I can really be sure of is that I've accomplished things in the last year or so that most people never even get close to. Yeah, the motivation problems that have plagued my creativity since time immemorial are still around, but they don't worry me as much as they did. This period of my life has been more about prioritising than scrambling after the dreams that have dogged me since I was old enough to understand what it was I wanted to do with my life. In a sense, that burning ambition to say something and be heard was holding me back. In finally realising that and thinking about myself as somebody other than an emotional cripple and long suffering artist, I finally accomplished something that means more to me than anything I'll ever write.

I'll never be a spiritual person. My lack of belief in all things supernatural forever precludes that. I've always felt that the responsibility for failure, success, tragedy, and the ever elusive glory lies exclusively in the hearts and minds of people. As a culture, I believe we're in perhaps the most exhausting and difficult era in history. I wonder if evolution isn't somehow on hold, if we'll ever get over this tiresome and ridiculous phase of relying on fairytales, conspiracies, and obvious lies to somehow show us truth. I wonder and I doubt and sometimes I despair.

Still, I live for the times that exist despite my cynicism, and the last couple of years have held more than their share. Driving Interate 15 through the Mojave Desert twice and sensing on both occasions that destiny was riding shotgun, falling asleep in a Las Vegas hotel room feeling nothing but love for the girl beside me and satisfaction at the thing we'd done, stumbling and mumbling my way through customs at LAX on my way to meet the very same girl at what the end of a long, strange journey I couldn't even have guessed at back in the days when all I did was sit in my bedroom with cigarettes and alcohol, darkly plotting my own bleak future.

Make no mistake, friends, that's the handle. The ability to change the world doesn't lie in grand gestures and theories of bloody revolution. It's in the little things. For a while there, back when this journal was in its infancy, I wasn't sure where I was going. Since then, I guess I've realised that it isn't really the destination that's important. It's how you get there.

I'll always feel the same way about the world, I think. Neither of us is looking like changing any time soon. As for the little things, I've managed to overcome the bad ones while learning to appreciate the good ones. I've put enough distance between myself and my addictions that I can appreciate cigarettes and alcohol as occasional treats instead of needs, and when she smiles at me a certain way or we go walking just as night falls gently over Southern California, I can appreciate just how good life is without qualifying my clichés.

So maybe that quote sitting below the title isn't as accurate as I once thought. Maybe flying isn't so much about hurling yourself at the ground as it is those sublime moments when you forget the ground is there at all.

And maybe turning twenty-seven isn't so bad. I married the girl I love, moved to a place that already feels more like home than home ever did, and finally found a big enough stick to beat back my demons. I have a novel on the go and a head full of ideas. At this time in this place, I'm starting to feel as though I can do anything at all. I'm starting to feel as though even I wouldn't bet against me chasing down that last dream.

Would you?

Best Laid Plans

"If I get old, I will not give in. But if I do, remind me of this."

Well, fuck. Best laid plans and all that. My EAD (That's Employment Authorisation Document) came in the mail yesterday. The Interview date for my AOS (That's Adjustment Of Status) came on Saturday. This means we are now into my final week of sloth. Yes, four months of doing pretty much nothing are about to come to an end.

Christ, I thought this was never going to happen. As much fun as it is to sit home lazily browsing the interweb or watching crap daytime TV or even writing, our financial situation and the lack of freedom that not being a proper resident brings have resulted in this awful claustrophobic feeling I'll be glad to see the back of. I can get a social security number now, and a social security number means I can get pretty much everything else.

The only thing worrying me now is that final interview. It should be fine, but this is the toughest interview of all, the one we both have to attend, bringing with us as much proof of our relationship as we can possibly find. The one where they ask all the awkward questions. Yup, this is the make or break interview. Once we get through it (and I can't see any reason why we wouldn't), I'll have my green card, and this whole saga will be over for a couple of years.

Second Hand Propaganda

"I thought I was a fool for no-one. Oh, baby, I'm a fool for you. You're the queen of the superficial. How long before you tell the truth?"

I was struck by the strangest memory this morning. I was lying in bed, listening to the sickeningly addictive new Muse single and not thinking about much of anything, when I suddenly remembered Sinn Féin figurehead Gerry Adams, specifically the way they used to dub his interviews on English TV when I was young. As far as I'm aware, this practice left the wording of what he was saying exactly as it was, its purpose - apparently - not to change his message, but to dilute it by placing a buffer between the not-especially-charismatic Adams and us, the gullible viewers. This buffer was usually a well-spoken Englishman, which made being exposed to Adams's second hand propaganda an experience akin to hearing a Bin Laden speech read in a Texan accent.

I'm not sure I could handle having that level of control over someone's words. I mean, they could be saying something very serious and important, and you could just go crazy with it.

Gerry: "More than that, when elements within the British and Irish establishments and rejectionist unionism delayed progress, it was the IRA leadership which authorised a number of significant initiatives to enhance the peace process."

You: "Bombs. Hahahahahaha. There are bombs everywhere. Everywhere! Ireland's ours, all ours!"

Gerry: "If republicans are to prevail, if the peace process is to be successfully concluded and Irish sovereignty and re-unification secured, then we have to set the agenda - no-one else is going to do that."

You: "The queen's a cunt."

And so on.

The Scarlet Pimpernel Of Bloggers

"Smiling in their faces, while filling up the hole. So many dirty little places in your filthy little worn out, broken down, see-through soul."

I'm done with the archives now. All the major posts since June 2004 are back up. I've ditched the fluff and done some editing, and I'll definitely need to go back at some point to tidy up links and things, but the main job is done. I'm sure that almost nobody will ever go digging through two years of my gibberish except me, but I like having it there. Two years is a decent lifespan for a blog, and it always seemed a bit of a shame to me that any new folks coming along for the ride would be denied a chance at reading some of my my earlier stuff. Honestly, I think the best posts are all in late 2004/early 2005.

I closed the first incarnation of this blog on my birthday last year, feeling at the time that the story NFADR was created to tell was done, and that I'd become too friendly with my small but perfectly formed (mostly) readership. I'm much happier writing at strangers than people I know. I think familiarity dulls my edge a little bit.

So I quit NFADR, took a break, and returned with an all-new blog, The Souljacker Diaries, writing as (surprise!) Souljacker. It didn't take me long to get bored. Having closed out the tale of my quarter-life crisis, I found I didn't have much to say. Also, no-one was reading the fucking thing. Anonymity is only fun if there are people to wonder who that masked man is.

So being the Scarlet Pimpernel of bloggers didn't quite work out, and it was only a few short months before I decided to resurrect the far more inspiring NFADR you see before you.

I bring this up now because I'm thinking very seriously about a new direction for this page o' mine. The daily diary stuff is all well and good, but reading through the archives has made me pine for the days of righteous anger, dirty stories, and hideously egocentric proclamations. There's nothing inherently wrong with personal blogs, but there isn't very much you can do with one when you spend most of your days doing the same things. I'd like to do politics, but I'm right and you're wrong and that only ever ends in bitterness and recrimination. I'd like to do more fiction, but most of my efforts are going into the novel at the moment, and I'm considering retiring from erotica because I'm getting slightly tired of seeing my name pop up alongside some really shitty writers at places like Clean Sheets. Don't get me wrong, they've been great to me and there is plenty there to recommend, it's just that the bar in this particular genre gets disturbingly close to the ground at times, and - yes - I don't like feeling I'm competing with writers I was better than ten years ago, never mind now. But I'm certainly not in the business of choosing a genre to write in. I'm sure there's an erotic novel in me somewhere, just as I'm sure I'd like to write something sci-fi someday. For now, though, I think I'll just ignore genre.

So...I don't know, and that's where you come in. What do you think? I'm not just talking to the usual suspects, either. I know there's a bunch of people that come here and never comment, so why not break the silence and have an opinion for once? I want to make the blog feel a little fresher, give it the direction and purpose it had back in the day. Any suggestions?

The Pattern Of These Dead Days

"I haven't slept a single night in over a month, and not even once did you start to make sense to me. Well, maybe I'm a little bit slow, or just consistently inconsistent."

I'm trying not to be the one-post-a-week guy, but Blogger's been an absolute whore to me these last few days, and I haven't the patience to keep trying for hours. I did get a lot more in the way of archives up in the early part of the week, so that little project should hopefully be finished soon, giving anybody that feels like reading it a slightly revisionist version of my little blog's history. Unfortunately, I didn't keep the posts from the short-lived Souljacker Diaries, so there will forever be a gap between July and December '05.

On the subject, NFADR will be two years old on the 20th of this month, just six short days after I turn twenty-fucking-seven. No-one's saying you should send presents or anything, but...okay, they are. Send presents. I like presents, and I get really maudlin on my birthday. That said, I really have no right this year, and I may actually be able to guilt myself out of it. Yes, I'm bored as fuck at the moment, and yes, every day my employment authorisation is not in the mailbox leads to further frustration. But on the other hand, I'm in California, I'm with the woman I love, and I'm actually writing.

That's another reason the blog posts have become a little infrequent. This last week or so, I've finally graduated from writing hundreds of words a day to writing thousands. It's not every day, and I'm still getting that feeling of frustration that makes me edit while I'm writing (a habit I'm slowly training myself out of), but there has been a very large leap towards being somebody who doesn't sit there thinking about how much easier this whole business was when I had cigarettes and alcohol and dark thoughts to see me through to sunrise. So I've stopped thinking about how I'm writing a really bad novel and started concentrating on getting it out and seeing what it looks like when I'm done.

Boredom and this sudden return to creativity have changed the pattern of these dead days in pleasing fashion. The new routine is getting up at around seven and surfing the interweb for new music before I go to the gym. I'm doing six hours a week between bike and treadmill (and weighing 202lbs. Woo!), and even with six-hundred and fifty songs on my iPod, it gets old. This has had the interesting result of turning me into an absolute master at finding free mp3s and even entire albums without resorting to BitTorrent or any peer-to-peer stuff, which is great. So I hit the gym, come home and shower, then settle down to write. I rest when Jenn comes home for lunch, but the plan from here on in is to make that the little break in a daily session that runs from 10:30 to 3:30. That time will be dedicated entirely to writing, focussing mainly but not entirely on the novel (I want to hammer out some longer posts here and continue working on The Curve Ball Conspiracy). Jenn's arrival home makes it dinner time, and from then on the rest of the night is ours.

If the visa people are going to continue being evil, then chances are I have a month before my EAD turns up. I've decided I really need to use it. I'd started taking this dead time for granted when what I should have been doing was using it like a luxury. No matter. There is time to make amends.