Pod-heads (6)

It seems like our jobs finally got a grip on this blog. I am not just speaking for myself when I say that Fred's output has been on the low side lately, and this is all because we were too busy working. I wish I could say we were too busy having a life, but that would be a bit of a stretch. We're fighting deadlines, working ourselves through piles of papers and spending (way too much) time in front of - luckily enough - eager students. 

In times like these, when planet Fred seems to be in orbit around the bright sun called our job, I tend to spend time with the usual suspects when looking for comfort: food, friends and erhm... music. Damned, where are the adjectives starting with d- when you need them? Aha! Here. Let's make it fantastic music then. And now that the days are getting longer, as opposed to my shorts (at least during the weekend, damned you ink on the calf), I tend to scroll to the albums listed under 'punk' in my iPod. 

And there, we can find one of the bands that has always been one of my favourites: Pennywise, a Californian punk rock band named after the clown in one of Stephen King's novels. I have a particular liking to this band, because I once shared the stage with them. Well, let me explain: the first time they played at Pukkelpop (2003, if I am not mistaken), they invited people on stage during what is probably their biggest anthem (Bro Hymn, also known as the "Oooh, o-o-o-ooh, oooh, oo-o-o-ooh"), and this Fred was one of them. Jumping up and down, pointing my finger in the air, singing along, enjoying the view: thousands of youngsters moshing around in a giant circle pit. 

Today, I decided to post another Pennywise favourite. As a finger of your choice for everything that prevents you from doing whatever you want to do, because time doesn't permit. Or just because it rocks. Shorts or no shorts...

We want Moore!

Lately, I have often been wondering: is there such a thing as a perfect timing for actions? Probably because my perfect-timing measuring device has been off the radar for a few times in a row this week, coming home with plenty of water in my shoes, wearing a (so-called) waterproof jacket which made me look like a duck in a coulourful gift wrapping. But with 'actions' I don't mean just these daily activities like judging when to leave home in order to arrive in a dry state and mood; I also thought about less superficial or downright profound things, like having children (mom, just in case you're reading this: this is not about me), changing jobs or starting a new chapter in our very own book.

I mean, how often haven't we heard people - including ourselves - say: "I'm too old for that"? Or, at the other end of the spectrum, how often haven't we felt like our human rights were violated, because of that simple statement "Nope, you're too young for that", verbalized by people making that decision for us? And it's not just about these things our parents or school teachers decided for us, even I deliberately postpone certain thing on my bucket list until I'll be a bit older and wiser, like spending my holidays in Europe driving around the countryside in a caravan. Sometimes I even feel like I simply haven't got the experience to start something new, or the dedication to make it work...

Does that mean there is a perfect temporal frame to start doing stuff you find important?

Tuesday evening, I decided for myself there is no such thing. And it was one of my all-time heroes triggering this thought: Thurston Moore, founding member of Sonic Youth, who played at the Vooruit in Ghent that very evening. Seeing this 50-year-old guy on stage gave me a very warm feeling, making me forget about the howling wind and pouring rain outside. The enthousiasm and dedication he radiated into the audience, the passion and energy he exhibited on stage, it made me realize that it's never too late to do what you want. Even if you feel like you're too old for that (hey, I started playing guitar four months ago, and I still suck), or you think you're not experienced enough. Because I'm pretty sure that one day, someone will notice your energy and passion, as if the pain and doubt you had to put into the decision evaporates as a cloud of positivity.

Yes, this turned out to be a corny blogpost. But hey, it's corny season - right? And besides, nobody said this was about Moore. I'm pretty sure you have more examples...

The MJ conspiracy

Today I read a story in the papers that reminded me of a very distinct childhood memory. I think I must have been about eight or maybe nine and on holiday in Spain. I was playing in the pool with some newly made Dutch friends, when all of a sudden they introduced a new kid. And the new kid was black. That’s right. It may strike you as funny but at that age (late 80s) I had never seen a black person in person. I remember going up to the kid, who was about my age, and asking him in all my childish naiveté if I could touch his skin. I guess I just wanted to know what black skin felt like. He said yes and so I stuck out a little finger and poked him in the forearm. I remember clearly that I was very surprised. I had expected the skin to feel different, perhaps more coarse I don’t know, but I was astonished to find that his skin felt just like mine. ‘Well what do you know,’ I told my parents that afternoon, ‘they’re just like we are!’.

I’m never quite sure whether this story means that at age eight I was essentially a racist or not. Sure, my conclusion was that we were no different from each other, but still I had expected that there would be a difference and I based that assumption (perhaps ‘prejudice’ is a better word?) on racial grounds. However, in the end I guess that whatever my basic attitude, I learned the correct lesson: that although there is an undeniable difference in appearance between races, appearance is as far as the difference goes…

At the same time, there is that difference, but even as I’m typing this I feel that we’re not really comfortable discussing that. After all, why discuss it, if it doesn’t matter, right?

Well, let’s go back to the newspaper article I mentioned earlier. It’s about Michael Jackson’s daughter, Paris Katherine Jackson (°1998), who is going into acting. In the article she is just called his daughter, but you see, I have a theory about MJ’s kids – at least about the first two, the oldest is known as ‘Prince’ (°1997) – and it’s quite simple: I’m not really convinced they’re his.

My reasons? Simple observation, really.

Here’s a picture of Michael with his father (Joseph Walter "Joe" Jackson) and his mother (Katherine Esther Scruse):

They are both black people (they’re not of mixed heritage, which could explain things further down the family tree), and therefore their child, Michael, was a black person too:

Now we all know that somewhere along the way Michael turned himself from a handsome black man into a scary white woman. You know what I mean, but here’s a pic anyway.

Bear in mind, though, that these changes were done with plastic surgery, i.e. skin transplants and skin products. They are not genetic. Michael’s DNA is what it always was, that of a negroid man.

Now, have a look at Michael’s partner, Debbie Rowe, who was MJ’s partner from 1996 to 1999, and who is Prince’s and Paris’ mother:

Now genetics dictate that MJ and Rowe’s children should be of mixed heritage. Someone like Halle Berry, for instance, whose mother is of European descent and whose father is African-American, or like Barack Obama, who is the son of a father from Kenya and a European American mother.

So we should expect MJ’s children to look something like that. Instead this is what his daughter and son look like:

Now does that seem right to you? Indeed, there have been persistent rumours, especially about Prince’s father being someone else. (By the way, there are no Wikipedia pages with detailed information on any of the Jackson children!) And let’s be honest, who would be surprised to find out that Wacko Jacko’s kids were really someone else’s? Isn’t it quite possible that a person who obviously had a pathological wish to be a white person, faked having white children?

So is our culture just too politically correct to ask these questions, or am I still, after all these years, being racist when I’m surprised that a black person’s kids don’t look black enough?

I wonder.

Pod-heads (5)

Here's a kind of remarkable fact: the tunes I listen to on my iPod are, in some sense, determined by weather conditions. I don't know why, but as soon as spring lurks around the corner for example, Bloc Party's first album (Silent Alarm) almost automatically announces itself through my earbuds. Not that any of the lyrics on this album directly refer to most people's second favourite season, but still: listening to this album sounds like spring to me...

Summer, on the other hand, is mostly reserved for punk and hardcore. Probably because for me this means wearing shorts, faded rock t-shirts and Vision skate shoes (which differs from the other seasons in the sense that it's not always appropriate to wear shorts). Nothing beats walking to the supermarket with old school positive hardcore blasting through the speakers, making you look like a dork, singing along ("This is our time!") and pointing fingers. Index fingers, that is, the traffic aggression finger is reserved for other occasions.

Autumn and winter are reserved for heavy metal and post-rock. Especially the latter genre succeeds in capturing the spirit of the darker seasons. Yesterday, while I was compiling music for a friend, I realized that my Red Sparowes (sic) season started again. Because now that the days are shortening and the mercury thermometer seems less enthousiastic than a few months ago, I tend to listen to one of my most precious records: Every red heart shines towards the red sun, a post-rock classic, full of reverbing guitars building up to gorgeous crescendos.

Rather than reviewing this album, I will end this post with the story behind the band's name, another example of how the pages in our history books are bloody red, but not always read...

May 23, 1958: Mao Tse Tung initiates the “Great Leap Forward,” his second five-year plan for the People's Republic of China. In addition to imposing impossibly high quotas on mainland farmers,the Chairman insists that the country’s “four greatest evils” - rats, mosquitoes, flies and sparrows - must be exterminated in order to maximize production.

Villagers are instructed to scream and bang pots and pans to keep the sparrows in flight until the birds die of exhaustion. Soon, the sparrow population is drastically reduced, leaving no natural predator for the country’s locusts - which proceed to decimate China’s crops. The result is possibly the worst famine in human history. Between 1958 and 1961, as many as 43 million Chinese die of starvation.

Meanwhile, local government authorities falsify agricultural reports in order to avoid Mao’s often senseless wrath. Soldiers are dispatched to villages to find grain that the peasants are accused of hiding. Thousands of villagers are tortured and murdered in the search for grain stores that never existed. When they run out of bark and grass to eat, peasants in some provinces resort to cannibalism.

If you ever get the chance to see them live, please do.

Unless you are allergic to goosebumps.

Stop, Look and Listen

My friend N was once told me: ‘People should really pay more attention to the lyrics of songs’ and she was right. I guess for most, the rhythm and melody are enough, but who knows the words? And I’m not talking about a few lines from the chorus. I’m talking about the meaning of a whole song.

A good example of this phenomenon is the painfully inappropriate songs some people select for the opening dance at their wedding. Every Breath You Take by The Police, for instance, sounds nice enough, but it’s actually about a stalker. Yes, that’s what I'll be watching you means! However, it’s not that obvious, so maybe there’s an excuse for this one.

The next one is worse, though. My Heart Will Go On, the song that was made famous by the movie Titanic, is another favourite at weddings. Still, people should realise if they saw the movie (and let’s face it, everyone did) that Céline Dion is singing about a dead boyfriend! She says as much in the one but last chorus: Love was when I loved you / One true time I hold you / In my life we'll always go on.

But I will Always Love You by Dolly Parton / Whitney Houston has to be the worst. Of course, people tend to remember only the line that gave the song its title and I guess that’s a pretty romantic statement. But what about the first chorus: Bittersweet memories / that is all I'm taking with me. / So, goodbye. Please, don't cry. / We both know I'm not what you, you need. That’s not too romantic now, is it? Indeed, the song is about a breakup.

Anyway, after this conversation with N, it became something of an obsession for me to really listen to lyrics. Sometimes it's fun. (Elbow, for instance, has some of the best out there). But I must say, it has its downsides too. Some songs are pretty awful when you stop and consider them as lyrical poetry, and worse, some lyrics don’t even make any sense.

This morning as I was munching my cornflakes, for instance, I heard these two:

Should I stay or should I go?
If I go there will be trouble
And if I stay it will be double.
So you’ve got to let me know:
Should I stay or should I go?

Hmm. Going means trouble. Okay, gotcha. And staying means double trouble. Right. So, there’s not much of a decision here, is there? I’ll take trouble over double trouble any day.

You’re so vain,
You probably think this song is about you.
You’re so vain,
I guess you think this song is about you,
Don’t you, don’t you?

Hmm. Sing all you want, cookie, but the song is about him. Think about it. It doesn’t make any sense to sing a whole song to someone and then claim it’s not about that person!

Anyway, yet another way to ruin a perfectly enjoyable thing by thinking about it. That’s Fred and Fred for you folks!

Pink Metal

A few weeks ago, I went to a concert in Antwerp with my brother and two friends. The name of the place was the Trix, the name of the band Dimmu Borgir (which means 'dark castles' in Old Norse, a North Germanic language spoken during the Viking Age), a five-headed black metal band from Norway.

For those of you who are not familiar with black metal, this is the kind of music played by the sons of Satan themselves, which usually come in the following varieties:

(1) A lead singer doing all kinds of crazy shit with his voice - from screaming and yelling, over growling to grunting and barking - except actually singing, of course. Even when this guy (or girl, for real) addresses the audience, he sounds like a sleep deprived zombie who did nothing but smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol in the last 7000 years. I bet even blind girls pee their pants when a black metal lead singer approaches them in a pub, just to whisper "You look beautiful, fancy a drink?" into their ears.

(2) A drummer beating and kicking at speeds which are so incredibly fast that it actually makes sense to assume that the roaring waves he produces are simply a consequence of him breaking through the wall of sound. This guy deserves utter respect though, since black metal drumming for more than fifteen minutes in a row beats single-handedly hauling a piano up a tree on the scale of things-that-make-you-feel-tired.

(3) Guitar and bass players torturing their strings, hereby combining speed, precision and the kind of devotion I prefer to reserve for sentences in which the word 'bloodlust' is combined with 'a slightly right-winged, frustrated, grumpy old man getting hold of the young mole that has been ruining his garden, his afternoon and - by lack of decent substitutes - his life'. Excellent musicians, that is, but not the kind you would like to meet in real life.

(4) The occasional keyboard player, trying to add an outlandish layer of ominous vibes to the blasphemous wall of sound created by his horned peers. Despite his good intentions, as in 'evil ones', this leads to a bizarre mixture of heavy metal and nightclub trance lines, inducing people stretching their arms. No need to blame Regi here, apparently it's a natural reflex.

Even if your ears can take black metal, there's still plenty of reasons to have objections from the visual point of view.

First if all, black metal artists have a bizarre tendency to travel around with a wardrobe containing more iron, latex and leather than a cargo ship carrying mechanical rodeo bulls and crash test dummies. Dressed in black, donning clothing accessories which look like a crossing between a piece of knight's armour and a fakir's bed. The most positive adjective I can come up with is kinky, but that's just because ridiculous and freaky are still fighting over a dog's bone that is no longer there. In the real sense of the word, it doesn't even look dangerous, because even people in a wheelchair could easily get away from an attacker wearing erhm... stuff attached to his arms and legs adorned with 5 inch spikes.

Secondly, there's the corpse paint: black metal artists paint their faces completely white - which could be useful for African artists, so that you can at least see where their costume ends and actual face begins, but I am not sure whether Nordic people, coming from a country where the sun doesn't even appear above the horizon for a few months, need an extra layer of white - and then accentuate their eyes and lips with black lipstick and mascara (iLiner for the hipsters amongst you). It's not that I question the very concept of make-up for artists, but in this particular situation I do have my objections. For when Dimmu Borgir came on stage, I couldn't help but think of five men sitting in front of a long mirror - lined with the kind of plastic tube they grow in Christmas trees, containing cosy lights - sharing make-up, brushes and sex stories. And, let's be honest, this is not really what you envision Satan's sons to do backstage, right? If they would have come on stage with fresh goat blood dripping from the corners of their mouths and nipples, wearing snakes as scarves, walking on smouldering coals, burping fiery fumes of rotting smoke, I would at least given them credit for what they claim to be (a bunch of crazy motherfuckers). The way they entered, however, I felt like being at a training session for the annual gay fetish wagon.

I even started wondering why five friends would actually decide to start a black metal band in the first place. Although my belief in musician's common love for music - in the broadest sense of the spectrum - stands as firm as a pudding in the freezer, I do believe that its any artist's dream to occasionally consume this love with the groupies flashing their bulgy bonuses from the first row, after a few free drinks backstage. As a black metal artist however, you are staring at long-haired men flashing their ever-growing beer bellies from underneath an ever-shrinking t-shirt, in which some illegible writing refers to - what I think - a name of a metal band, although it could be a kind of medicine as well (I am not a pharmacist, sorry).

In the end, I realized that what brought these people together can only be one thing: sheer love. For music. Their music: metal...

Pod-heads (4)

This isn't the first time the word 'Panopticon' is used in a blogpost. And I doubt it will be the last time. Because this is the name of my all-time favourite CD, released by the American band Isis in 2004. There once was a time in which I could safely write "I cannot tell you how many times I listened to this album", but iTunes kept track of that: 'So did we', the opening track, was played at least 114 times from my laptop. Add all the times I have been listening to Panopticon on the train, staring through the windows, or walking through the city, dreaming about other cities...

In case you pressed 'play', chances are that you pressed 'pause' as well - after roughly 15 seconds I presume? And yet: despite the brutal opening featuring Aaron Turner's harsh vocals, this track sums everything up there is to know and appreciate about Isis. Filed under the post-metal flag, they create long, epic tracks (mostly instrumental), combining melodic lead passages with heavily distorted outbursts, fusing eery guitar riffs with repetitive bass lines, blending intense emotions and musical craftsmanship into a massive landscape in which you - the listener - cannot do anything else but wander around and get lost. This description may sound quite abstract and maybe even somewhat grand or sumptuous - after all, I am writing about a CD - but I guess this is what Isis evokes in me. Even at this very moment, as I am listening to what iTunes officially recorded as the 115th time, I get overwhelmed by a strange feeling...

Just in case you're interested in more post-metal bands (good things are there to be shared, a philosophy which applies to more than cheese and beer), try one of the following: Pelican, Russian Circles, Red Sparowes, Neurosis, Amenra and so on.

Have a safe journey back!

Youth of Today

Today is International Student's Day, in commemoration of what happened in Prague in 1939. On October 28, a demonstration was held in Prague to commemorate the anniversary of the independence of the Czechoslovak Republic. During this manifestation, suppressed by Nazi forces, an unfortunate Czech student (Jan Opletal) was shot in the stomach. He died in the hospital on November 11. A few days later, his body was transported from Prague to his home town in Moravia, and the funeral procession (attended by thousands of students) turned into an anti-Nazi demonstration. The Nazi's responded with drastic measures: all Czech higher education institutions were closed down, more than 1,200 students were arrested and sent to concentration camps, and on the 17th of November nine students and professors were executed without trial.

Personally, I can relate to this story because of two reasons. First of all, I have spent one whole year at the Charles University in the beloved city of Prague. Not only is the Czech Republic's ancient capital a captivating and truly fantastic place to live (or wander around as a tourist), I can also say that my year in Prague has given shape to the life I am living now. People that stuck with me, experiences that were etched in my mind, and opportunities that changed the course of my career.

Secondly, I have a job (a.o. because of my stay in Prague) which brings me in contact with students on a daily basis. And 'they' can say what they want, but my impression is that the youth of today still embodies a lot of fire and passion. Of course, it's different from what my father told me, and I guess that even the comparison with my own student years wouldn't make any sense at all - despite my relatively young age, but still: deep down, students will never change. And this is not about the unconditional love for beer, cheap food and fellow students of the opposite (well, you know what I mean) sex, this is about their desire to connect, change and contribute.

For the students!

Keep raising your voices, preferably not during my classes ;)

The Power of the Remix

Last Saturday I went to see Tom Lanoye’s Sprakeloos (‘Speechless’) – adapted from the novel for theatre – in which he tells the tale of his mother’s stroke, subsequent aphasia and slow demise. And although I’m not that big a fan of the cliché, I’m willing to make this one exception: I was speechless. I’m not going to go into ornate descriptions of his baroque style with its grandiose verbiage and courageous syntax; Lanoye does the real thing much better than I can describe it. Still speechless, so it seems.

However, Lanoye’s monologue also reminded me that at times when we are at a loss for words, we can turn to music to express what lies between the unsaid and the unsayable. Somewhere towards then end of the show Lanoye had some photographs of his mother projected on stage and the theatre room basked in the unspeakable melancholy of music. Afterwards I found out through my friend M (thanks for the invite by the way!) that the song in question was a remix of Dinah Washington’s This bitter earth by Max Richter who fused it with his On the nature of daylight for the movie Shutter Island:

You can listen to the original song by 50s blues singer Dinah Washington (1924-1963) here and read all about it here, but I must confess: I like the remix better. Perhaps because the strings are more bitter or more likely because Richter’s version will always remind me of Lanoye’s words. But still.

And that got me thinking: there are actually quite a few songs where I like a remix or cover version better than the original. I purposely didn’t Google this as I’m writing it, but here’s a couple that I can think of immediately:

Ryan Adams - Wonderwall (original by Oasis)

The Baseballs - Umbrella (original by Rihanna)

James Blake - Limit to your love (original by Feist) (sorry N, I know you won’t agree!)

But above all, I’m curious, my dear Freddies: what’s your favourite remix or cover song? Do tell!

Karma Chameleon

I am a child of the eighties, which according to the Urban Dictionary means ‘a person born roughly between 1972 and 1984’. For boys, it meant growing up watching cartoons like He-Man or Transformers, playing with GI Joe dolls or Nintendo’s Double Dragon, watching movies like Beverly Hills Cop or Back to the Future, and of course listening to some of the shittiest music ever. Whether it was Genesis, Duran Duran or Bon Jovi that tickled people's fancy, I’m pretty sure they all look back now and think ‘What were we thinking?’.

Still, my parents have often told the story of how as a toddler I went absolutely ballistic every time Culture Club’s Karma Chameleon was on. If you need to be reminded, do press play:

It’s funny that especially this Karma Chameleon should have been my favourite. Indeed, as I grew up and even today, people have told me that in some ways I am indeed like a chameleon. Which, I guess, is sort of true. But then again, aren’t we all? I mean, us modern folk live such varied lives that we are in many like chameleons, shifting shapes as we go. Or is it just me?

I’ll let you decide by the different skins I have put on this week. So far I have been…

(Sunday) …the Italian grandma: making pizza from scratch with fresh dough, home made passata, mozzarella di buffala and 24-month-old Parmigiano Reggiano, wearing a dirty apron, sweating profusely and cursing like an old sailor when chipping my fingernail while chopping the fresh basil.

(Monday) …the Italian twenty-five year old: getting up at 10 o’clock in the morning and wearing pyjamas until 12. Then off to the gym for an easy workout, followed by a long shower. In the afternoon espressos with a friend and complaining about how hard work has been lately. And in the evening frozen margaritas with the boys and going to a groovy funk gig (Ben Westbeech rules!).

(Tuesday/1) …the Englishman in tweed jacket: discussing the interdisciplinary possibilities of rhetorical theory and mathematics with two of my colleagues from academia, sipping sweet Manzanilla sherry, munching cheddar cheese and saying things like: Yes, I do believe persuasive strategies of both individual speech and communal discourse could be formalised in a mathematical decision model, but obviously specific values will have to be substituted by general proportions.

(Tuesday/2) …the fat American guy: sitting at the poker table with my head between my elbows at one o’clock at night, trying to decide whether a flop bet of four 20¢ chips instead of three chips (one 50¢, one 20¢ and one 10¢) is a sign of strength or weakness after having too many beers, all the while trying to pick one of those damn Duyvis-nuts from between my teeth.

Which of course, begs the question. What will Wednesday bring?

Tormented writer guy? (trying to finish that short story that’s in my drawer) Marathon man? (going for a long run later today) DIY handy man? (finally replacing my name tag on the doorbell) TV dude? (catching up on stuff I taped)

Or all of the above?

Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon,
you come and go, you come and go.

Pod-heads (3)

[Press play before reading]

The day before yesterday I got a late birthday gift (thank you, N!) and was lucky enough to see Leslie Feist perform her new album at a gig in Brussels.

Unlike most newspapers, who thought the show was charming but a bit sloppy, I was completely blown away. I don’t care if the guitar was rudimentary or the drum section savage, any performer who can get two nineteen-year olds to slow dance on stage and have two thousand people revel in the syrupy awkwardness of the moment, played a great concert.

But perhaps the main reason I enjoyed the show so much, was that Feist played many songs from her new album Metals. After hearing them for the first time on Tuesday and listening to them over and over again on my iPod, I’ve had non-stop goose bumps.

Why?

You know how certain songs remind you of something? How the intro of an old track can take you right back to some special time in the past? And make you happy because you remember the smells, the sounds, and life as it was then?

Well, it’s strange to say, but when I listen to songs like the one playing, I have the same feeling. It feels like I have known songs like Anti-Pioneer or Graveyard for years, like they’re already full of fond memories that put a smile on your face, no matter what.

Only these are not memories of past happiness. They’re memories of hope and the fantastic future.

Get it right. You bet I will, Leslie.

Wear sunscreen

(for M, J, L, E & D)

Life is far from easy. We all know that. Some days are bad, some days are worse. I don’t know why, but lately it seems that wherever I look, there’s trouble and heartache. Especially heartache. If Life is a Ship, then there’s definitely a storm blowing. And all around me friends are getting hit by the deck harder than a drunken sailor…

As a friend I try to listen and I try to help. With a glass of wine, a cup of coffee, or some honest advice. But it’s not easy. After all, advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

You might recognize these words. They’re from a 1997 column by Mary Schmich in which she gave her version of a Guide to Life for Graduates. You probably know the musical adaptation by Baz Luhrmann better. It’s called Wear Sunscreen. (In fact, it's called Everybody's Free (to Wear Sunscreen), but no one says that)

I have always been a big fan of Schmich’s column (and Luhrmann's song). Sure, it’s a piece of comedy, but it’s also excellent advice – from ‘Wear sunscreen’ over ‘Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone’ to ‘Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours’. It’s really splendid advice and I frequently re-read it when going through a rough patch of life.

Years ago I also followed the one piece of advice from Schmich’s column that didn’t get into Luhrman’s song: the part where she encourages anyone over 26 to try and write their own Guide for Life. Here’s an updated version of it. If it doesn’t help, it probably won’t hurt either.

Think. Trust your instincts. Be honest, not naive. Work out. Read. Write. Don’t be afraid. Speak out in public. Try harder. Have faith. Help others. Take care of yourself. Don’t accept sweets from strangers. Respect nature. Use your head, but follow your heart. Nobody said it was going to be easy. Cry, and don’t you dare apologize for it. Get what you need, not what you want. Smoke once: quit forever. Hold your charm. Math is neither boring, nor useless. Talk to people. Listen too. Expect disappointments. Health is everything. Don’t make plans for the future: do stuff now. Alcohol is not a philosophy. Be patient. Let it go. Use good grammar. Mind the pedestrian. Read the small print. Never ignore anything. Believe in love, not in romance. Be a man about it. Your body has a soul too. Ask for help. Courage is not foolishness. Compassion is not weakness. Imagining people naked helps. Breathe. A broken heart does heal. Don’t overestimate logics. Steer clear of the drunk barber. Forgive. Be polite. Love dolphins. After all, what kind of a person doesn’t love dolphins? Be kind to children. Do the right thing. Remember. Be prepared. Keep focused. Dream. And above all, ask yourself: does it make me happy?

Of course, at the end of it, I have to repeat Mary Schmich’s one caveat.

If you succeed in doing this, please tell me how.

Pod-heads (2)

[Press play]

[Read]

Why is it, that guessing exactly when a certain event took place in the past is so hard to do? I'm pretty sure that a majority of the people didn't realize, until this week - unless Planet Media's news rays couldn't penetrate the thick layer of clouds around your head - that 9/11 happened already 10 years ago. I heard some people say it felt like it happened only yesterday, whereas others dated it back more than a decade ago.

Does this mean that people tend to forget the answers to what will ultimately become obvious pub quiz questions, or merely that Time itself behaves in strange ways - resolutely trying to prevent its very Soul from being captured by mundane concepts such as seconds, days and years?

I don't know the answer to the questions above - I can't even remember when I started thinking about them - but I do know that there are things defying both the (lack of) power of our brain and the somehow unpredictable grip of time on our lives.

Timeless things.

Like music.

I guess we all have our own list of classics, don't we? The kind of tracks we can keep listening to, never getting bored with them. Our best friends in the record collection, with whom we share moments, good and bad. Songs that make us close our eyes and realize that sometimes it doesn't matter that we don't know when things happened.

Only that they happened...

Pod-heads

6,971,963,078.

According to the website I just checked, that is the current world population. Plenty of strangers, that is. Or, hereby referring to Will Rogers' famous words "A stranger is a friend you haven't met yet", plenty of future friend requests to be confirmed. Which brings us to a tricky point: how many friends do we ideally need? Too few, and people might think you're a loser. Too many, and you might look like a social tramp.

As opposed to the other Fred, I don't believe in numbers. Especially not the ones published in scientific papers. I believe in personal criteria. And although I have more than one entry on my checklist - ranging from the number of poems you know by heart to your ability to turn four random ingredients into a meal, there are two criteria that play a crucial role. Books, and music. So the first thing I usually do when someone invites me to his or her place, is to have a peek into my host's record collection and personal library.

"I don't buy CD's, I usually just listen to the radio."

Killer number one.

"I don't like reading, I prefer watching the movie."

Killer number two.

As we are constantly trying to share our thoughts with you, let me use this occasion to let you peek into Fred and Fred's record collection. Because, after all, we are both Pod-heads.

Venetian snares: "Huge Chrome Cylinder Box Unfolding" (2004)

Electronic music in its purest form. This album, one of Aaron Funk's less aggressive-sounding breakcore releases, sounds more or less like a soundtrack from a different planet. One housing a highly advanced technology, because the fourteen tracks on this masterpiece often make me think of a manual for a machine we don't know, in a language we don't understand. They are not meant to be digested on a lazy sunday afternoon, quoi. Employing unorthodox time signatures, switching back and forth between emotional outbursts and rhythmical eruptions, ignoring standard song patterns and structures, yet leaving you behind with a strange feeling of melancholy.

Google is one of your friends, "Vida" by Venetian Snares the stranger you are looking for. Enjoy.