reading into my past

I've just been reading Simon Reynolds' Energy Flash Discography blog, which is basically the update for a book I read a long time ago, presumably now in blogland to save those who have the original from buying new editions that cost more money for small amounts of extra info. I said, presumably, because I really don't know, but it is cool that all these things are out there for whoever feels the need to go and find them. I stumbled across it because I was trying to remember the name of a song that appeared on a CD w/ the book, I didn't find what I was looking for(it may have been there, but I got sidetracked) but I did leave happy, because I was reminded of an excellent book and an important time in my life.
  At the moment, I am trying to write a story about 3 yrs spent hanging about various sound systems and free party outfits in the company of a funny and companionable yet dangerous character, who eventually stole all my decent clothes, half my records and my decks, just before beating me up and causing me to lose my home. The guy is now dead, and i hold no grudges, but it is funny to see all the people who loathed and feared him describe him as a legendary DJ, when he spent his entire 'career' playing on a set of decks that were internally sped up( to "warp factor 9", the DJ equivalent of Spinal Tap's 11 setting on amps.)and the only non-techno artist ever to appear on said decks was fucking Frank Zappa. No hip hop or rare groove or electro or funk or synthpop or disco or even punk and metal, just acid techno and Frank Zappa.
 He may have lacked skill and dexterity, but he made up for all that trivial nonsense in sheer presence and intensity, and he had STORY coming out of his pores. Every party became an anecdote, and most avidly recalled now by those he caused the most grievance. Maybe they are simply taking it out in trade, getting what they were owed while he lived; and in doing so have forgotten about the broken noses, the scars, the dodgy contracts and lifeless trucks and vans he once spent every weekend involved in the trading of.
 My most vivid memory is of him, knife in one hand, CD case in the other putting a line under his pissed up mates nose as the mate was doing ninety on the road to Gloucester. Just as the mate was halfway through doing the line, with a rolled up banknote indignantly stuffed up his nose, a police car overtook the minibus the three of us were in. I was the one who spotted them first, wedged as I was between the window and  two huge speakers, and even at that moment I somehow knew the cop car was just going to sail on past us. And so, it did, because that was how things seemed to roll for him; but on the night after he had had major surgery to remove a cancerous lump and signed himself out early, only to be at a club that very night in front of a disbelieving crowd, i knew he was going to die. I don't remember exactly what happened that night, but I told him he wasn't ready and that the type of adulation received for being able to DJ after having part of an organ removed simply was not worth it in the long run. In retrospect, that was probably the moment our friendship was over, despite my things beginning their slow migration over to his side of the fence a long time before, it was when I realised he was going to kill himself for nothing that we truly broke apart as friends.
  Of course, as soon as I was not at the very same parties as he was every weekend, I became a hated enemy and bizarre stories of my misdeeds began to spill out from his camp and, for my part, I couldn't keep my suspicions about what had happened to my decks to myself, especially after a few drinks and whatever else. I started to play to my strengths and got a few gigs in town, where the music required was less intense and more relaxed. Inevitably, a few times he showed up and bullied his way onto the decks, playing the friendship angle to remind me of the gigs he'd gotten me while showing my current employers that I brought a bad crowd, even before he blew the speakers with 200bpm gabba. Actually, blowing amps had been my thing not too long before, so I can't fault him there. In the end, I guess all I have of those days at the end of the 20th century are the stories, and if i can work out how to tell them without coming across as bitter as this blog feels I may well do Ok out of those days, yet.
 My point about the past and those who inhabit it is that I want to find some truth in my stories, without having to betray the memory of those closest to me or simply supplying a list of my youthful exploits in the hope that my nostalgic glee will come across as enjoyable reading, because it won't. The reason we need to print the legend is that the truth is almost always dull and private and unpalatable without a bit of spicing up and the imposition of structure and/or imagery. |But you can't change what actually happened, no matter how hard you try.

Feels Like I've Been Here BeforeerofeB ereH neeB ev'I ekiL sleeF*

Oh well, it had to happen eventually. I am now officially pissed off with Comics. Been buying an average of 5 titles every week and every week some of my pre-orders are missing; leading to me having to buy more the following Thursday(not Wednesday, like the yanks). The reasons for my annoyance go well beyond that though, starting with the general lack of cohesion  in DC's latest inter-title epic, "Brightest Day". Important things are happening to some of the characters, that much is certain. What's not so clear is which title they are happening in. The Atom turned into a wee-me pillar of salt months ago and now he's back without any explanation(in any of the books I have bought)and Magog has appeared in two separate titles this week that seem to totally contradict one another, and although this is common in comics, it fucks me off. Also, there was no 'Return of Bruce Wayne #5', the latest instalment in Glasgow comics deity Grant Morrison's  Batman mega-epic; which sees our titular hero adrift in time via the evil machinations of Jack Kirby's Darth Vader Prototype, Darkseid, whose aim is to turn bats' effort to return into the ultimate weapon against humanity somehow, I think. I don't know, there's that many fiendish plots and ultimate weapons and post-modern complicated but compellingly told threats in comics now, and always. To me, its as if the writers are the evil genius villains but instead of striving for world domination or the hot babes or seventeen million, billion, trillion, gazillion dollar extortion rackets, what they set their minds to is fucking up each others stories! Of course, the corporate shake up/massacre/catfight at DC could be the more obvious mitigating factor in my huff with my beloved comics; with Wildstorm this week confirming rumours of its demise to be bang on the money and the rumour mill turning its attention to whether or not DC will indeed go west, leaving its home town to the rivals who claimed it in their pages as the stomping ground of their 4 colour heroes decades ago anyway. For some reason I always preferred Gotham, Metropolis, Coast, Star and whatever cities as the setting for superhero stories. Setting them in New York or LA seems to underline how impossible they truly are, and how quickly they would get a "cap in their ass" off the page. Modern urban fantasy is the key phrase. Anyway, on that note and having cheered myself up a little I'll take my leave.