Nostalgia Attacks!

A whole load of Pokemon and DragonBall Z cards hit me on the head the other day, as I went to open my wardrobe. Best taken as a sign that my wardrobe is a complete mess about to fall to the ground, but I took it as something much cooler. I took it as a sign that my childhood wanted a bit of interaction with who I am today.

Looking through the cards, I can’t help but feel all the memories flooding right back: going to Toys R Us for weekly “tournaments”, wearing my Ash Ketchum cap with pride, aiming to get mini badges that probably cost 50c a piece; spending all my allowance on booster packs; getting particularly excited when K-mart or Electronics Boutique had a card sale on; the joy of getting my first Charizard; waiting endlessly for Dragon Ball Z voice actors to sign my premium cards; buying folder after folder and box after to fit my ever expanding collection; entering “Kamehameha Blast-Off” competitions (probably my first theatrical experience) to win even more cards and action figures. Those were the days.

I’ll post a picture up of the cards soon. It’s funny, looking back at our childhood with such glee to those times, yet refusing to fully embrace it due to some sort of social barrier. I want to break that barrier.

My love for american chocolate

There’s a convinience store close to my workplace that sells a wide array of imported candy, chocolate and soft drinks. And I must say now, I am hooked. There’s now nothing more pleasing than wasting all my cash on edible imported goods that mix the strangest of flavours, two of which always seem to be peanut butter and chocolate.

I guess it started early last year when I chose a packet of peanut butter M&M’s on a visit to Sugar Fix in Westfield Centrepoint with friends. Everything about it attracted me. Even the packaging is superior to that of Australian chocolate: the slightly papery material ensures not slippery, sweaty, quasi-disgusting packets. The only problem with any of them seems to be that each product costs within the region of $2-$3.50, creating a large financial dilemma.

Maybe there is something more pleasing. Like finally paying off my new camera. Whenever that will happen

The Tragedy That Is: Brian Wilson

Sydney Festival First Night was arguably the best way to start a month-long arts, music and culture festival in one of the worlds most vibrant cities. Practically, close off the most family-friendly areas of the CBD and hold a party, complete with gay-disco weddings, raves in Business Precincts and Huge Swing lessons around park fountains.

However, the ticketed “big” headliner proved to be one of the most depressing, life-draining moments in my short live-music-viewing history. A Music Luminary in his own right, Brian Wilson has a grand history as an innovator of pop music in the 60’s, through captaining The Beach Boys. What I saw on-stage at The Domain tonight, however, was a man in tatters. He sat there, emotionless, reading the most well-known non-Beatles lyrics off a teleprompter, banging at a keyboard and flailing his arms around as an entourage of incredibly skilled musicians filled in the wide and deep gaps.

I was told that he suffered a mental breakdown that he never truly recovered from some twenty years ago and, I believe, it clearly shows. It’s odd, seeing an artist and/or band age, especially one that’s not only a celebrity, but so connected to the history of an entire generation. Bob Dylan does so many key-and-lyrical changes in a performance the next thing he’ll be doing a duet with The Mars Volta. The Rolling Stones use a tried and tested formula so much that their recent works sound like filler off albums released decades ago. U2 have seemingly forgotten that they’re not the UN; The Sex Pistols ruin their classics for video games;whilst others are fighting off deaths to rekindle their lost fire. The major difference between them and Wilson, at least, is that they all still show signs of life.

Such is the nature of music’s, or just art in generals, evolution that the artist may never be seen again in the same light, even if they don’t die. I’ve only ever known a Brian Wilson like the one I saw today, and will grow up knwoing Paul McCartney as a boring guy going through a bitter divorce, Michael Jackson as a strange black-turned-white man who “likes” children, and Mick Jagger and Keith Richards as silly old men. This is not because I’m ignorant to their histroy or their place in the music world, but becasue this is what I’ve been presented with as thier characters during my lifetime, leaving me to wonder how they truely were back when they were younger and not at this state.

I wonder where and how we’ll see the big bands and artists of now when they have reached their veteran age? Only time will tell.