Sex is a tricky topic to write about. Many a great writer has tried and sadly failed. So many, in fact, that the UK’s Literary Review has even created an award for Bad Sex in Fiction.

Yet whilst there’s nothing worse than the squeamish feeling one associates with reading an awful sex scene, there’s also no better feeling, than that which comes whilst reading a great one. Enter Anais Nin, the Grand Dame of erotic literature, who said, “Eroticism is one of the basic means of self-knowledge, as indispensable as poetry.”

Nin’s heyday was the bohemian life of Paris in the 30’s, where she had a passionate affair with fellow writer, Henry Miller. Evidently the liaison was inspirational and in the years that followed she began writing her erotic tales. Published as a collective in Little Birds and Delta of Venus, her stories examine lust, obsession, fantasy and desire through a variety of sexual encounters. Far from being perverse or pornographic however, her deftness with language and prose affirms her role as a true artiste.

As seen in The ART issue of Russh, August-September, 2010.

Michael Vandino makes his bed every morning. I know this because I called him on it after watching him hang his Sydney exhibition, That’s Cool But Can You Make It More Sh*t. Despite the haphazard, lo-fi aesthetic of his work, Vandino was meticulous in his approach to the presentation, carefully piecing together the hundred-plus pieces of paraphernalia, he had selected from the archives of his work for LCD Soundsystem and DFA Records. As well as admitting he was an “organised creative” (a rare breed), Vandino took time out to give me the low down on his company BUREAU™, and his work with one of the hottest record labels on the planet.

Read the rest of this interview here http://www.theblackmail.com.au/art/this-is-happening/

The world wide web has been taken by the storm that is JTL, or Johnny The Lad to those who don’t like to use acronyms. He is a man of wisdom, with a truckload of sneakers; and in his blog http://www.seasonofsneakers.com/ he cleverly combines the two.

Me: What motivated you to start your blog? 
JTL: Having more than enough shoes that I could easily wear a different pair each day for a whole season.
Me: Your blog has become much more than just about sneakers, was this always your intention?
JTL: This wasn’t my intention, I was expecting a question or two every few days but not this. The majority of questions aren’t even about sneakers, I can’t believe how many questions get asked.
Me: You’ve become something of a Modern Guru, have you considered talk back radio? Or doing an Agony Aunt style column in Cleo?
JTL: I haven’t considered this, but when winter 2010 comes to an end if there is some extra work out there that I could do i’d be interested, hit us up.
Me: What’s the hardest question you’ve been asked so far?
JTL: The Stones or The Beatles?
Me: What is your motto in life?
JTL: I did get asked this question before and said: just be yourself and don’t worry what other people think. But I’ll give you another one: what is life if you don’t have fun.
Me: What is the one talent you wish you had?
JTL: I wish I could dance like Michael Jackson.

I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.

Jack London

This week I attended a close friend’s wedding, and had to give a speech. It was a baptism of fire – so to speak – into the world of public speaking, and it would be fair to say that I crashed and burned. Despite being quite prepared, it quickly became apparent that carefully planned content, does not equate to a crowd pleaser. The fathers of the bride and groom, along with the brothers of the happy couple, mopped the floor with my rookie attempt; so after reflecting on their tactics, I have put together some fail-safe tips on giving a speech at a wedding.

1. Talk about yourself.
This approach was taken by the brothers of both the bride and the groom. Apparently self depreciation is the best way to break the ice, and will make you come across as a stand-up human being.

2. Use comedy.
An obvious point to make, but one I managed to miss.

3.To take the heat off yourself, pick on a few members of the audience.
The opposite of heckling, whereby you heckle the crowd.

4. On the topic of heckling, strike up a deal with a few friends and ask them to make encouraging noises at regular intervals.
This is sort of like “shill bidding” at an auction, as the crowd are fooled into believing your speech is better than it really is.

5. It’s all about the finishing note.
The best way to finish is with a toast. Any excuse to knock one back, always goes down well.

6. Hide behind the microphone
Contrary to popular belief, speaking loudly into the microphone is better than having people call out at regular intervals – “Speak up.”

When I’m put on the spot, I seem to be incapable of recalling any of my favorite films, bands or songs of all time. Ask me to sort my interests into some sort of High Fidelity hierarchy and you’ll be met with a vapid gaze, a furrowed brow and a string of unintelligible words. Although it’s not a life-threatening handicap it does sadly mean that I would be rubbish at any sort of Proustian questionnaire, as I need to process things, and unless I have time to sift through my thoughts and memories, I’ll always draw a blank. However, if you ask me my favourite characters in fiction I will without hesitation reel off three names: Uncle Mathew, Holden Caulfield and Neil Cassady.

I’m aware that idolising Caulfield is nothing groundbreaking: he was something of an iconoclast in fiction, as was his author. The lesser-known Uncle Mathew, featured in Nancy Mitford’s works, Love In A Cold Climate and The Pursuit of Love. Although I haven’t read her works in several years, for me he is just as unforgettable as Salinger’s literary hero. Uncle Mathew was a parody of Mitford’s father, Lord Redelsdale, and is the epitome of an eccentric English Lord: politically incorrect, forever barking orders and at odds with his role as a father. In short, he is a loose cannon, but in the most wonderful realisation of the term.

Neil Cassady was infamous muse of the Beat generation. I read Jack Karouac’s seminal work, The Road, for the first time last year and was immediately seduced by his madcap protagonist Dean Moriarty, who was inspired by Cassady. His character’s energy and verbatim was evidently the perfect complement to Karouac’s stylised stream of consciousness; if only we all had friends like him to inspire us.

Cassady also made an admirer out of Allen Ginsberg, the bard of the Beat movement, on which the recent biopic Howl is based. Howl, the film, focuses on the controversy that surrounded Howl, the poem. In the 1950s when it was published, the content of the work was deemed not of literary merit, on the basis that the language and the subject matter Ginsberg employed was unnecessary; and thus his publisher was taken to court in an attempt to sensor the work. It’s a familiar tale, and one that pops up even in our day: what is art?, and where does one draw the line? Luckily in this case no line was drawn, and Howl went on to become an indelible part of American culture. Below is the segment of Howl, in which Cassady is mentioned.

Who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, movie houses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too….

Ok, so I wasn’t present for this one, but the conversation was about me.

My brother, Ben, gestures to a nurse on the other side of the room: Noddy, have you met Alex?
Noddy: Oh Alec… such a lovely farmer.
Ben: Alec McLain?
Noddy: Yes… he could be quite good for Alice.
Ben (confused): How old is Alec though?
Noddy: Oh… 78? Maybe 80?
Ben (laughing): Isn’t that a bit old for Alice?
Noddy (wearily): I suppose so…

Last month I spoke with Henry Rollins, the world’s most ambitious man. Not content with his contribution to the 80’s punk movement with band Black Flag, he has tried his hand at acting, writing, publishing and spoken word. Basically, he’s a big deal, and his die-hard determination, makes Rollins — trademark buzz cut, bulging biceps and numerous tatts — a force to be reckoned with.

Even to this day, he follows punk rock ideology, something I wish I was more apt at embracing. For example, when I speak with him, he says things like, 
“I’m trying to run at it as best I can. My philosophy can be summed up in two words: Fuck It.”

Seriously, he said that. That should be on a tee shirt. Except it would be too long. Since meeting him though I have found it empowering to ask myself, in certain situations — what would Henry do?

I have just finished reading Vladimir Nabokov’s Mary. It’s just a short story, but is a great example of the way in which his descriptions capture the mood of a character perfectly. It’s done so that the reader feels as though they are the character, and he has us sympathising with characters like Humbert Humbert in Lolita , and Ganin in this piece of work – neither of whom is all that appealing.

This is a passage that stood out for me.

He was in the kind of mood that he called “dispersion of the will.” He sat motionless at his table unable to decide what to do: to shift the position of his body, to get up and wash his hand, or to open the window, outside which the bleak day was fading into twilight. It was a dreadful, agonizing state rather like that dull sense of unease when we wake up but at first cannot open our eyelids, as though they were stuck together for good. Ganin felt that the murky twilight which was gradually seeping into the room was also slowly penetrating his body, transforming his blood into fog, and that he was powerless to stop the spell that was being cast on him by the twilight.
He was powerless because he had no precise desire, and this tortured him because he was vainly seeking something to desire. He could not even make himself stretch out his hand to switch on the light. The simple transition from intention to action seemed an unimaginable miracle.

My grandma Noddy is something of a legend. I don’t mean in an awesome, slap on the back, high five, “you’re a legend” kind of way; I mean that her reputation precedes her.

Often people who I have just met – through mutual friends – say to me, “Oh so and so was just telling me about your Grandma, she sounds hilarious.” It’s kind of weird, but it’s also completely warranted: after all, she’s 5 foot 10, in possession of a serious bosom (read overweight) and has narcolepsy (which is how she got her name). Plus she’s also a total riot.

So I have decided to start recording our conversations.

Noddy: What are you doing darling?
Me: Just doing some writing.
Noddy: That’s nice… why?
Me: I really like writing, you know that… I wish I could just do it full time (Author note: I was seeking a confidence boost, some sort of live and die by your dreams type speech).
Noddy (incredulous): Why would you want to do that?
Me: What do you mean?
Noddy (voice gets louder): Well, where on earth did you get the urge to do that?