[Nettime-bold] Re: <nettime> Re: Deeply boring age

[Terrence Kosick <kosick@sprint.ca>]

Terrence writes;

It's the mid 70's, I'm a teenager in West Vancouver, British Columbia. My New
friends and I are doing lines of coke and swilling 10 year old singlemalt both
borrowed from one's dear dad. We decide, after having sneaking into several
night clubs and finding some of brothers and a few our parents running things
that disco and the whole plastic crowd really does suck. We agree that both the
beatles and the stones are now dead music and elton and glam is pathetic
sellout to disco fantasy. We go pool hopping in the neighborhood and find our
neighbors are having an orgy.  Shagging on the shag. Porn stars all. What a
riot. We find another neighbor kid exploring his first homosexual sexual
affair, a strange thing to sober all of us. Another neighbor crashed into our
hedge the same night due to locked steering. His step daughter, Kim C. a real
sweet thing who gave nice parties used to come by to chat between modeling
gigs, once wearing short shorts to give me a peek, eventually marries Hugh
Hefner. Everyone eventually finishes college between jobs and drug treatment
and uncertain expectations about life and the world. It seemed like a time that
constructed a total lack of trust for authority and a fantastical perception of
adult society. I became "the silent one" after quiting sports getting into a
fight with the star jock. I destroyed my platform shoes and swore off all
phonies and was the first to wear black and hang out in the art room, alone
stoned dripping paint everywhere while the girls did paintings of magical
princes on unicorns.  I spent many latenight alone watching Italian neorealism
and listening to gary newman on the headphones exhausted and detached after
going to clubs to do the pogo get wanked by other punks. Eventually after
getting cut off off home free bliss began hitting the queer bars to get fucked
by old perverts in dirty hotel rooms just to get another line of coke till it
all indeed got boring.  The whole revolting late 70's ended with 3 weeks in the
hospital.  It was 4 years later that the neo-punks showed up in poser purple
hair. The revolt for reality had come and gone. Then the the 80's cultural
vampirism came. The techno tunes ether became house or muzak or rock romantics.
It seemed like the night of the living dead. I recall doing strange paintings
in a cellar listening to most jazz , old techno, skinny puppie and throbbing
gristle.

Its raining outside.

T.

James Allan wrote:

> >and life and creation have to be experienced first hand, not in a mediated
> >fashion...
>
> >"My life has been a poem I would have writ / But I could not both live and
> >utter it." Thoreau
>
> >In the late 1970s...
>
> It's the late 1970s, I'm a teenager in Lindsay, Ontario. My buddies and I
> sit around, under the bridge, in the freezing cold, drinking straight rye
> (it costs more than Canadian beer but works. only a dog would drink American
> beer) and bitch about how boring everything is.  When we get too drunk we
> throw up into the slow Scugog River and watch and laugh as the carp rise
> through the mud to the shimmering surface like some fresh water swamp sharks
> and suck in the puke. Within walking distance, Earl and His Musical Squirrel
> is playing his accordion at the Moose Lodge. The Trent Muskies are fighting
> with the Cobourg Cougars at the rink (and there's always blood and teeth and
> hair on the floor by the snack bar). A bar called the Kent Tavern has
> sawdust on the floor and a juke box full of every Hank Williams song that
> matters, and Micky Foucault (pronounced: foo1-kawlt) is holding forth about
> the history of his sexual adventures while mixing asbestos at the brakeshoe
> plant....
>
> Were there books?
> Yes, there were books.
> Tell us about the books.
> There were always books to read. Big books, small books, book with pictures,
> art books with pictures cut out. There was Kafka and Voltaire, Beckett and
> Joyce. Books on venereal disease, beekeeping, Vietnam, That Summer in Paris,
> and How to Win Friends and Influence People....
>
> And we would listen to Neil Young singing "There is a town in north Ontario,
> all my changes were there..." and we new what he meant.
> And we would dream about getting out.
> And when I got on that bus I swore I'd never go back.
>
> Lindsay was boring. And (nostagia) so am I.
>
> -James
>
> http://art.teleportacia.org/james
>
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