Bowie

And there I was, lost in the musical honour roll sutured to my sulci. Digging around for the top five rhythm sections ever, in the history of my record collection. Essentially, shovelling cop(rophil)ious filth-piles into ordered mountains, so I could write you a blog entry.

Write you a blog? What is this - an obligation? perhaps. A compulsion? not quite. Glad to be here/of service, nonetheless. Where were we?

Oh yeah. Thinking about this rhythm section thing led me to thinking about David Bowie. Again. He's everyone's hero after all. He changes lives, believe me. If you don't think he's your hero; wrong. You just don't know he is yet. Here are two more words that refute ANY other argument against him...

Scary Monsters. Still with me? No? Love your coattails, by the by.

Anyway, one morning I ran into an old school mate Gaz at a Vinnies charity shop on the way to my uni, where he'd just started. Gaz and I had a weird habit of meeting by complete chance in second hand (mainly record) stores around Sydney (generally off our gills too, even more strangely) at maybe yearly intervals for about 5-6 years. Very odd.

We were both vintage plastic junkies - that morning I was looking for a vinyl fix, he for some rare rayon - sizing up vintage shirts with large cuffs and larger collars. I was in the early throes of a Bowie fixation and flicked across a copy of my latest mistress - Hunky Dory* - for a dollar. I swung around to proclaim to Gaz, who was nose deep in polyester armpits:

"Gaz, this record will change your life in so many ways."

"What's that, Hunters? Bowie? Sweet! But how's my life gonna change with Hunky Dory?"

"Your house will never be cleaner, for a start."

"???"

After buying the album we continued walking amongst a crowded throng towards uni, records under our arms, spouting recommendations back and forth on whatever shit had recently been pickling our mind-tanks. Lost in our own collided worlds for the briefest moment that year.

Startlingly, a girl drops to her knees in front of Gaz and lets out a shriek, testifying in front of scores of onlookers:

"David Bowie? Oh. My. God. You are my hero! Hunky Dory is the shit!"

She was the Ziggy Stardust to Gaz's Mick Ronson**. That moment was catalytic... possibly erotic... definitely pornographic, and oh sooo right. Even though the moment froze in time, we continued walking after a moment chatting with Ziggy, figuring out just what happened.

"What'd I tell you Gaz? This record will change your life".

"Already has, Hunters. Already has."

Roughly 12 months later when I ran into Gaz (in a record store, both on various ends of a bender), I'd recently matriculated to Ziggy Stardust. Pressing a record into my palms, he graciously paid tribute to some sound guidance:

"Hunters? Scary Monsters. It will change your life. The best Bowie there is."

Played it at the time. Couldn't fathom it. Hindsight says that Gaz nailed it - Scary Monsters is the best Bowie there is. It's the pinnacle of a journey. Each new persona of the man adds to a greater sum than before. Each Scary Monster discovered within is teased out, characterised and dealt with until

BLAM! there you have it: your Ubermensch, your new hero. A Scary Monster himself, yet utterly human.

It's funny: on reflection I can plot the last nine years of my life in rough synchronicity with Bowie's 70's output (except I never made a record I couldn't remember making; that's no reason to dismiss Station to Station, people).

Our hero serves to show that every misstep has its own continuity; its own path. If a person's growth and maturity is the culmination of their influences, then I'm coming to terms with Scary Monsters. We all are. No wonder it's the best Bowie there is.

Thanks Gaz. And you guys. You've been a great crowd.

HSL (steps from pulpit, wiping tears from eyes)

*My second favourite Bowie, also my favourite album to clean house to.

**A famous "Ziggy" era photo with Bowie on his knees performing fellatio on Mick Ronson, mid-solo. I dare you to search for it. Also, just wanted to say 'fellatio'. So Latin, so holy.

M.W.F.D.

If you can guess the title, i'll tithe you in on my $100 loot. Fair deal?

Had a new, strange and weirdly invigorating experience last week. I turned up for a product focus group. A marketing exercise. Cash in a windowed envelope (non-consecutive notes, please), slid across the table at the conclusion of the night.

Bought and sold like some.... some.... product. And weirdly, I don't mind.

The night felt like something out of a movie, or at least a tired script. Which is to say, I never gave credence to the accuracy of those movies (don't make me name them) - I didn't think rooms like this existed.

I walk downstairs beneath a restaurant in Surry Hills. Past the toilets, turn right, down the corridor, "it's the room at the end". Don't look too closely at the room on your left, though; it's a media control room. A half-dozen cctv screens, mixing desk, microphones, sound inputs.... all feeding back a forlorn picture of a faux-homely living room. A pink-tinged space, dominated by a large table with a dozen rattan chairs paying homage to the lure - a plate of sambos and assorted drinks at the centre. Fake pink flowers in a ceramic vase. And four cameras and microphones dangling from the ceiling, fake eyes and ears staring at the table...

Along with an entire wall covered with a translucent one way mirror - for external observation - things started to feel to me like a mafia card game performed under intense scrutiny. One group colleague was compelled to try and 'see through' the mirror, testing all sorts of angles and reflective devices. I was too, except that'd be akin to proclaiming a love for The Bikini Shop. Erm, which I definitely don't. I think. Well anyhow, there's the 'tired movie script' tie-in.

(And so here's the t*ts and @ss blog I promised. Ok, pretty poor. Must try harder.)

Apparently this is not new: a number of people i've spoken to since have confirmed the existence of a secretive network of these purpose-built rooms, shady denizens of sinister marketing manoeuvres. At least that's the Hicksian* part of me talking, with which this experience doesn't sit quite right.

More than anything though, I went along (apart from money, which ties in to the title... you got it yet? M is for 'Media'...) simply to experience sitting in a room of strangers, smartly steered by a facilitator, discussing our media and consumption habits. The product? Lotto. The participants? 7 Men aged 23-30. None were lotto players, indicative of a demographic. Content of discussion? Thematically - Dreams. Money. Literally - how do we sex up lotto for young people?

I doubt my input was as useful as others, though. Most people spoke from the first person without hesitation, almost as though the product was an extension of their everyday lives. A chunk of my input was more third-person oriented; i'd try to guess what the motive behind the question or discussion was, then present my thoughts/ideas with the motive in mind. To explain, it's like stepping outside of myself to deliver my ideas while guessing the observers objectives.

I'd love to say this focus group and constant moneytalk awoke a greedy beast within. The good news? It did. The moment that whoresome (second letter in title for you...) envelope flew into my hand, a vortex sucked me across to Golden Pide on Cleveland St for a sucuklu pide.

Greed never tasted so good.

HSL

*Bill Hicks, whose extreme cynicism of the media led to a comedic skit with a mantra of "people in marketing or advertising, kill yourselves".