Tag Archives: Thoughts

The things I thought about while riding my Vespa today

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Artwork: Aditya Phadke

Why do people want me to write for free? If I want to do it for free, it’s because I’m doing it for myself. And don’t give me the ‘it’s good exposure’ bullshit. It’s because you don’t want to pay anything.

Why is it that when Charlie does the washing his whites come out white, and my whites come out pink?

Whose pair of black Calvin Klein boxer briefs are in the drawer? Not Charlie’s. Nor mine.

Do I believe the neighbour who says that her grandson, Owen, is doing fantastic? I thought he was worth a shot until I found out that he was a bit of a psycho. But there again, I have a weakness for bad boys. That answer might come another day.

I listened to a Beatles album and concluded that they are still boring.

Why does Sky Arts think that we are obsessed with Andre Rieu?

What was the attraction of Barbara Hepworth, and why are people obsessed with her work? 

After a one-night stand, why do things always turn out different when sunrise comes?

Why is it that you think you are so bloody handsome, and believe that everyone wants a piece of you, and then someone takes a photo, and you realise that you look a bit of a dork?

That moment/I feel sorry for that guy, who was probably younger than I am now

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I am sitting at a bar in a nightclub. I play with a drink of no description, and listen to music that means nothing to me. Around me, the kids are shouting to be heard, they know each other, and embrace one another like they were family. They don’t appear to be drinking much, and I realise why when they keep sneaking off to the toilet.

Every so often, one of them looks at me, and I smile at them. They usually turn away, but sometimes I get a pitying look, or their eyes narrow with suspicion. They make it clear that I’m not part of their crowd, nor should I be there.

“Fuck off, old man. Dirty pervert. Get the fuck away.”

That wasn’t aimed at me. 

I said it. Not now. But back in the nineties. I said it to an older guy who was sitting where I am now. 

He said something nice like, “Are you having a good night?” and I played up to the crowd. 

I hit him hard in the face and the bouncers came and I told them he’d grabbed my dick. He got thrown out.

Regrets?

Not then.

But all these years later, I feel sorry for that guy, who was probably younger than I am now.

Each paragraph of sincerity can become a screenshot and used in evidence

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Painting by Caleb Hahne Quintana. He lives and works in Brooklyn.

The older I become, I am less trusting of everyone. I never used to be like this. Nor did people give me any reason to distrust them. I allow my affections to warm to a select few, and now they always seem to let me down.

In retrospect, I was perhaps the one that should have been mistrusted. A secret life, out of sight and out of mind, and there was no evidence to suggest otherwise.

To be honest, I played around, and still would, if only I could place my trust in people.

Not anymore. I blame the smart phone in which every message, each paragraph of sincerity, can become a screenshot and used in evidence.

Now I must think twice about what I say, and more importantly, to whom I say it to, because too many people can’t keep anything to themselves.