Posted November 18, 2008



What the fuck can you make of it?  How much of what we live with is what we were born with and how much is what do with those genetic inheritances?  And is our capacity to make the most of our genetics just another example of them?
I’m one lucky bastard.  What are the odds?  I got born a white male in the liberal capitalist West in 1966, born into a middle class aspirational family.  I scored good looks, sharp intelligence and a big dick into the bargain.  In the entire history of the world, a pissweak percentage of anyone ever born has come squalling into this world with so much dumb luck on their side.
And what have I done with it?  Depends on your point of view, I guess. If you’re a rock&roll party animal, then I’ve had a hell of a time.  And, indeed, I have.  I’m a rock and roll party animal, pretty much.  I got a great record collection.  I’ve done shitloads of great drugs.  I’ve several gorgeous ex-girlfriends.  There’s rarely been a woman who left my bed without touching the ceiling of sexual ecstacy.
Yeah, I prided myself on that for years.  Was pretty much, in the end, the only thing I really did often enough, had a natural talent for, that I got really good at.  Got to where it was the one thing that I hung my self esteem on.
A word of advice, dear reader.  Do not ever hang your self-esteem on one thing only.  Because, at some point, that one thing may be swept away from you.  I drink a lot, I smoke a pack of Stuyvos every day, inevitably I was gonna lose my sexual touch.  I remember the night when it really happened, when I really couldn’t ignore it.  Tho I did, I made excuses, blamed it on an excess of alcohol – I still blame every failing on an excess of alcohol, against the obvious answer of forgoing booze.
I’m 42 and still in great shape for my age.  I can put ten fingertips on the floor without bending my knees, well, I could before a branch off a Norfolk Island Pine landed on my foot a few weeks back.  I’ve taken hundreds of branches off trees in the last several years without drama.  Until that one.  Now I’m thinking of getting a postman gig whilst I get back to finishing my BA via correspondence (I’ve tried both correspondence and face-up of tertiary study, and I’ll take correspondence every time) and I can always do some garden-type labouring along the way.
I’ve got mates who pull down at least $300K a year and own 4 or 5 properties. The guy who owns the house where I broke my foot is younger than me. He’s got three lovely kids and a beautiful, caring wife who, simply by showing sympathy and a practical touch, made the next few hours a lot more bearable than they might otherwise have been.  They’ve got a harbour view from Vaucluse, too.

Age is sneaking up on me.  I can’t pretend any longer.  I can’t drink til dawn and be ready to go again after
three hours sleep. I’ve discoverd that cocaine is only good if yr hanging with yr beloved…
Oh, holy fucking hell, I’ve realised a shitload that someone, somewhere is gonna stand around saying “I coulda told you so, son”, well just fuck right off!!  You sanctimonious fucking cunt.
Maybe I’m just feeling a bit depressed tonight.  I haven’t been able to get ahold of any pot in two months.  I don’t smoke it like I used to, but it’s nice to get a bit every now and then.  Maybe I’m just grumpy ‘cos I got a foot in a purple fibreglass cast, and I can’t walk.
Y’know, it aint a bad life if you don’t weaken.  I had one of the greatest weekends I’ve ever known last month when I met up with a few mates in Melbourne for the Moto GP.  We’re persona non grata along Brunswick St, we didn’t mean to piss anyone off, it just kinda turned out that way.  Like Mikey said, “We got long hair, we wear leather and smell bad – we’ll drink anything.”
So where the fuck was I when I started writing this piece?  I’d just stolen a bottle of champagne from the pantry (I always replace stolen booze with something of much higher quality – which, in this case, is pushing me close to Veuve Cliqout territory) and I was feeling kinda miserable. And why not, I’m 42, poor, living in a shared house – okay, a shared house full of smart, beautiful women – so what the fuck am I complaining about?
I had a depressive moment.  I could’ve crashed, cranked the music and felt sorry for myself.  I decided otherwise, that I’d write my way through it.  Well, no, I didn’t make that decision, I just started writing and it worked out okay.  There’s some kinda lesson in there for me.  I still got half that bottle of champagne to get through, too.  And I know that Sandra and Katy are not only smart, funny, beautiful women, they’re deep sleepers, too.  I can play loud music.
I’m still lucky, aint I?  And I never got around to telling y’all about the blonde sweetheart from Hollywood I’ve been hanging with the last few days.  Nor the best band I’ve ever been honoured to be a part of, that I hit bass guitar for.
This life is what you make of it.  Day to day, minute to minute
.As long as I gaze on Waterloo Sunset, I am in paradise.”