Life is the game of infinite choices. A field that you can wend your way through a billion times and still stumble across patches you’ve not seen before.

Every quick-running or slow-walking step alters your route through the field, through life. When you stop to smell the blooms of beauty, pause a while beneath the boughs of a tree or simply lift your head and eyes to the skies and smile, these experiences change who you are. They don’t change you but they affect your senses: you are born looking through eyes of pure clarity but with age comes fettered, foggy vision.

It’s not that the field is different. It just looks and feels different. The field itself changes very little, in ways that are predictable. The framework of existence brings periods of pestilence and death when the lush emerald greens of life all but vanish, but it also  brings new births, explosions of new energy. There are always seasons of bountiful growth when the booming burst of life seems to oust even the most die-hard spectres of dark pasts.

In the space between there is balance. It is among and between the spurts of life and rubble of death that we walk. It is right here and now, where we breathe and live and smile and survive that we make decisions about how we live our life; how best to cross that field, one step at a time.

What path should I choose? Will I let divine covenant or the winds of fortune guide me, knowing that every step I make will alter my ultimate destination?

If it helps, there are no wrong moves and only one rule, one obligation: I must make it to the end. I must survive the infinite game of life. How well I survive is only limited by my zeal and imagination.

Live life. Enjoy, relish and savour its tumultuous twists and turns: it’s meant to be fun!

Last week I requested that you ask me anything. Looking at my mail, I’d say we have a good range of topics for today. Please, if there’s something on your mind, a question, a problem, don’t hesitate to ask. Some questions have had their grammar altered a little, but otherwise they are untouched. If I use politically incorrect phrases it’s either a) trying to be funny or b) I don’t know I’m being politically incorrect (in which case, do correct me).

Dear Mr. Seb, I am 49 but have not started the menopause. Can I still get pregnant at my age?

A good, easy question to get started with! You are sorely lacking on detail — do you want to get pregnant, or are you asking if you can go on one last flight of reckless fancy, sleeping with all and sundry, knowing you’re safe from pregnancy if not from STDs? Your hormones are running rife, spurring your middle-age horn into overdrive one day, and complete disinterest of sex the next.

From a purely mechanical standpoint you can get pregnant until you’ve been a full 12 months without a period (and thus without ovulating). If your periods are simply irregular that’s not the same as menopause — that’s just the build-up, the peri/pre menopause — and you can certainly still get pregnant during that time (but it’s still very difficult).

For more information talk to your doctor, or visit one of many sites or newspaper stories on the topic.

I am a self-injurer. When life gets tough or I get stressed out, or even when I’m bored, I find sharp things to dig into my skin. This is generally viewed as a problem. But that is not the problem or situation for which I am seeking your advice. Generally speaking, when other people find out about this side of my life they begin to take precautions: watching what they say, qualifying statements so as not to upset me, and so on. One of my friends has asked me TWICE now if I am into S&M; I have never experienced it, so I couldn’t really say one way or the other.

Anyway, I was bored today and decided to do a bit of research. The Sadomasochism article on Wikipedia was rather helpful actually, and I got a fairly clear picture of what S&M really encompasses. I think I could totally get into that. It would definitely be the pain side of it all as well, not so much the humiliation. But pain, definitely. So being that I have a… condition, an illness that most people are terrified of, how would you suggest that I bring up this subject to a lover? Bear in mind that said lover would be rather concerned about my injurious tendencies already and may be averse to inflicting pain upon me. Please help, Dr. Seb.

Sincerely,
Confused in the Padded Room

Now this one’s trickier. My first reaction was: find a lover that’s also a self-harmer. That’s probably the simplest if not the most healthy solution — you’d probably end up cutting each other in more and more creative and intricate ways until you end up looking like Amy Acker from Dollhouse or one of Hannibal Lecter’s victims, but at least it’d be a consensual and you wouldn’t be hurting any ‘innocents’.

I think it depends on whether you like self-harming or whether you’ve identified it as a problem and want to stop. A loved one — a partner, a friend, a family member — can certainly help you regain a sense of self. They can acknowledge and empathise with your physical and mental pains, both of which can go a long way to rebuilding your sense of self-worth. Remember, pain tends to disassociate you from ‘yourself’, and continued self-harm will probably result in you ‘drifting away’ from reality — self-mutilation might seem like a temporary fix, a fleeting detachment, but it’s certainly not a permanent solution to problems you might be experiencing.

To be honest, I don’t know if you are trying to stop — it sounds like you’re not — or if you are just trying to tell your lover: This is who I am. Deal with it. In which case, I doubt a caring partner is going to be understanding of continued self-harming. If what you really crave is pain (most self-harmers aren’t in it just for the pain, though), S&M is indeed available. Bear in mind that any relationship that revolves around dispensing pain and being humiliated is going to be unlike any other relationships you’ve had.

There’s a world of difference between pain and humiliation though — they’re not inexorably linked — and if spanking and pinching and hair-pulling is enough for you, I’m sure you can find a boyfriend or girlfriend with a domineering streak to keep you satisfied!

For more information there’s a good article on understanding self-harm by the British mental health charity Mind. AskMen has a great article about spanking, which might help you satisfy your need for pain and arouse you at the same time! And if you’re really interested in BDSM and want to get started right now, ALT is the main ‘alternative’ online adult personals site.

The goldfish I have at work is a slob. I purchased him on a whim because I thought he would be entertaining, which he is. He loves David Bowie, and whenever Bowie comes on the radio the fish dances to him. However, the goldfish who shall remain anonymous (we’ll call him Rick [Astley? -S]) is a total slob! He swims around with a fire-hose turd hanging out of his ass most of the day, and now his shit is starting to stick to his fins. I wish the little bastard would just clean it off. I clean his bowl weekly, he has plants to rub it off with, but I think he just does it to irritate me. What should I do?

Sincerely,
Pissed in the Pacific Northwest [Come on, I said anonymous... -S]

In my experience, dealing with animals effectively always comes down to physical and visual stimuli. Some animals can be trained by sound, but I don’t think you can train a goldfish by whistling. Maybe one day we’ll understand fish as well as we understand dogs and you’ll be able to buy ultra-high frequency fish whistles; one day. Until then, I suggest one or two options:

• Hook up two wires from a nearby power socket, run them through some kind of switch (available from your local hardware store) and simply dangle the two ends into the tank. Next, print out a photo of a goldfish.Now, whenever your fish has neglected to ’shake his fin’, hold the picture up to the side of the tank and flip the switch. This is equivalent to Pavlov’s famed doggy/ringing bell experiment. It also has the added bonus that if you fail to condition the fish into looking after its hygiene, your cat (or your friend’s) has something to look forward to at dinner time.

• The other option is far more sinister; a whole lot more Godfather. For this one you need at least two goldfish, so go and buy another one before you start. Got it? Great. You need to force-feed the second fish a solid diet with lots of fibre, one that will encourage lots and lots of poo production. Then, when the shit starts squeezin’ out, turn the pump off — the water must be totally still for this to work. You’re aiming for a long turd: a turd long enough to tie into a noose. Optionally, to speed up the process, you might opt for holding the fish with one hand and squeezing it firmly with your fingers. When you’ve cultured a suitably stringy shite gently tie it into a loop, placing it carefully around its neck.

  
  This will act just like a goldfish voodoo doll. Chilling. If that doesn’t scare your disgusting beast  into wiping its ass on nearby plants, I don’t know what will.

If you have a question for next week’s edition of Ask Me Anything, go ahead and ask me. Remember, it’s completely anonymous! This is your chance to get something off your chest or find out the answer to something that’s always niggled at you! Or maybe you just want to tax me… meanies (you know who you are).

I would regale you with more tales of Florence but the fact is: I don’t think I could say anything new or interesting about it. It’s beautiful, it’s rustic and probably has more masterpieces per square kilometre than anywhere else in the world but it’s all been said before. Instead, I thought I’d tell you a fun story from just outside Florence, in the rolling hills of Tuscany, Italy.

It all starts, as most things do, with a vision. In this case, literally a vision from the highest point in central Florence.

I was out of breath having just climbed the huge, never-ending hill behind the ginormous Palazzo Pitti (really, it’s disgustingly huge and pretty ugly to boot). While still nursing a full-body lactic acid build-up I decided to climb onto a rather narrow, precarious-looking wall and try to take a photo. That’s probably why the photo isn’t all that great — I was busy focusing on not falling off, and trying to catch my breath.

I don’t know who lives in that rather charming villa, but at that moment I decided to try and find out. I’d been trudging around the very small, densely-packed streets of Florence for three days and the view made me realise: I’m right in the middle of Tuscany, one of the most beautiful regions in Europe! With that epiphany I wasted no time and fled down the hill back to my hotel where I dumped my camera and any other valuables. I kept just my phone and some cash, and a piece of paper with my home address on it — why? I had no idea where I was going nor what I was going to do once I got there, wherever there might turn out to be. I didn’t want to put a total dampener on my trip and get mugged, so leaving the camera behind made sense, along with my credit cards and forms of identification (identity theft is serious business…!)

That means you don’t get any of my photos for this particular story; you’ll just have to imagine the horrors I’m about to describe.

I took the first bus that was heading out of town. I think it went west, but that’s just a guess — to this day, I don’t know where I went.  Looking at a map now it could’ve been Scandiaci or Rinaldi or… who knows? The bus slowly motored its way beyond the city limits and wound its way through the hilly, serpentine roads beyond. I stayed on the bus for about 15 minutes until I was far enough away to be out of my comfort zone, but not so far that I couldn’t get a taxi back if shit hit the fan. I hopped out with a Grazie to the bus driver and looked around — a nondescript road lined by nondescript turquoise-grey trees (olives?) — perfect; Tuscany!

Following the avenue (original, non-American definition) into the dark, unlit town I started to wonder if this was actually a good idea. Why do ideas always start off sounding really great? Something about the thought of eating chocolate cake is better than the actual eating? Did I mention that it was October and the sun was setting quickly behind the seemingly-uninhabited settlement; it was a very pretty sight, but quite unnerving too. What now, Seb? I stood in the middle of the town and looked about hopelessly.

It looked something like this only, um, darker — amazing how hard it is to find images of Italian villages in the dark…

There was only one building with lights on, a little way out of town and up a hill. Well, I either go and check if anyone’s in, or head back to Florence… Yet again, after the climb, I was out of breath. Holidays are, ironically, the only time I actually get cardiac exercise (I need a girlfriend). I raised my hand to knock but at at the exact same moment the door swung inward, the bright light framing and silhouetting a short, almost-spherical figure.

“Buonasera” a voice said said and I repeated it back to the shadowy person in acknowledgement, smiling apologetically for my English accent. There’s an uncomfortable moment where I can’t see their eyes but I know they’re looking at me, sizing me up. The shadow eventually steps back to hold the door open, revealing a quizzical middle-aged Italian woman whose every sense is boring into me. She sighs.“Prego, prego.” Reluctantly I am waved in and she shuts the door. Then she deadlocks it.

I follow her further into the old farmhouse, running my hands along pocked oak beams, nibbled for centuries by woodworm. The walls are rendered and bumpy, whitewashed in the simple, continental fashion. Brickwork appears in places, no doubt replacing damage sustained by continued use for — perhaps –  500 years. We reach the kitchen and I’m greeted by a wall of smiles — wonky, missing-toothed smiles, but happy faces nonetheless! I smile back at all five of them, not really sure of what the standard greeting for such an occasion is:

Hi, I’m a tourist with more money than sense, but I fancied a taste of real Italian food, so here I am, invading your lovely 16th century farmhouse with my fast, hairy, British body that is a good foot taller than your door frames;

I was pushed off the bus by a nasty driver, and I’m hungry and I have no where to sleep and I’m scared of the dark… so… if you could kindly look after me…

Considering I know almost no Italian, I had to settle for Buonasera, mi chiamo Sebastiano!!! which seemed to do the trick. Before I know it, I’m being ushered to the head of the table while the youngest son grabs some more cutlery. Over my left shoulder unnamed hands pass me crusty bread while the eldest son grins and passes me the olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Plates are being placed before me faster than I can clear them: salamis and prosciutto, lemon-marinated olives and bruschetta, slices of tomato and buffalo mozzarella — that was just the appetiser!

All told I think we had a total of five courses and about ten different dishes, each one washed down with the finest of Chiantis. There was even some fava beans, but the Hannibal Lecter joke that I delivered fell on unappreciative ears. Dessert consisted of biscotti dunked in thick, syrupy dessert wine that tasted like a pound of sugar diluted in water. And then coffee, of course, with a port chaser. Finally, after nodding and smiling through various stories — no doubt the standard, embarrassing family tales that are always brought out at special occasions — I curled up in front of the dying embers of their living room fire and fell asleep.

Sadly there was no dog to lick my toes, or a farmer’s daughter  to deflower but beggars can not be choosers, right? I’d succeeded in experiencing the familial Italian way of life and in eating lots of proper Italian food.

Next, I’m going to try and tackle the story of the Venetian jail without getting myself into trouble. But I reserve the right to skip right onto Rome…!

Following on from the rampant, run-away success of last week’s column, I now bring you three more fresh and exciting problems for me to sink my teeth into. Only this week there’s a twist — I’ve invited the eccentric Mr. Apron to also offer his… alternative… point of view on the questions I’ve been sent this week. There’s a chance he’ll get his own column here on this blog, but let’s see how this goes first…

Dearest Sebby,

Can I ever compare to Katee Sackhoff? She’s so hot. Maybe I should just give up and hand my boyfriend over to her now. Of course I probably make better cakes than her, but I think he’d probably still be happier with her.

Please lavish me with your opinions o’ great geek,
Apollo’s Dad Is Sexier

Seb

Well the good news is that Katee — Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica — isn’t conventionally beautiful. There’s certainly something about her though — that rough, craggy exterior that only occasionally breaks open to reveal a soft, supple interior; much like an armadillo, really. By the end of the final season of BSG she also has an attractive element of mystery — what is she?! — something, let’s face it, you can probably never compete with.

My tip to you, like most style gurus, is to accentuate on your strong traits. If your hair is ruddy blonde — bleach it! Heck, even if it’s not, bleach it anyway! If there’s something about you that your boyfriend really likes, work it! If he likes the dirty, greasy, raw look — who are you to deny him that pleasure? If all else fails: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Smother him in baked goods, spread yourself eagled on the bed, covered in nothing but crumbled pieces of meringue and Chantilly cream.

For further advice, please send me a large slab of chocolate brownie.

Apron

Dear Katee Wannabee,

I must not watch enough television– I had no idea who this bitch was.  I had to Google Images her and was disappointed to see that, even with the SafeSearch filter turned off, there were no money shots anywhere.  I disagree with Sebastian on the matter of her beauty, intrinsic or otherwise.  Am I the only one who’s noticed that her left eye is all weird?

Then again, Wannabee, I guess your boyfriend isn’t spending too much time staring at her left eye.

Can you ever compete with her?  No.  Can you bash her in the leg with a lead pipe?  Well, it worked for Tonya Harding, but I wouldn’t recommend it.  Look, seriously, all you can do is put out more.  Five, six times a day if you have to.  Sure, your boyfriend will be thinking about Katee Sackhoff each and every time, but at least you’ll be keeping him busy and off Google Image with the SafeSearch filter off.

I disagree with Seb also, (sorry, mate) that you should alter your appearance by bleaching your hair to satisfy your schmuck boyfriend but, if you do decide to do that, I think you should then shave it all off and mail it to Katee Sackhoff.  That’ll teach her to be sexy.

Feel free to mail me brownies or whatever, too.

Dear Dr Sebby!!!

How the hell do I get an audio player to work on my blog? I think it involves converting MP4 files (like I know what that is) to MP3 (which sounds slightly familiar).

Or I need to know the “location” to something? Basically I want to play 99 red balloons on my blog and I don’t know how!!!

HELP ME NOW PLEASE!!
- Distressed Blogger

[I stripped out lots of punctuation, but I felt the three exclamations and ALL CAPS had to be left in -S]

Seb

I assume you mean the, um, German classic by Nena? I’m not sure how I feel about helping you spread German propaganda, and I’m sure my counterpart Apron will have something to say about that too. Fortunately, I will see past any prejudices I might have and fulfil my Hippocratic oath.

• It sounds like you need to start by converting the MP4s to MP3 by using a program. There’s a guide on how to use it, but it looks fairly self-explanatory: drag music in, click convert, enjoy your new MP3s.
• Next, you need to upload them to the Internet. This is slightly trickier. Start by registering at DivShare and then following the prompts to upload your MP3 files. When you’re done, you should have a link across the top of your browser window — you can either use this direct link in your MP3 player of choice, or click the link, then ‘Embed/Sharing Options’, and use their MP3 player (it’s up to you).
• If you decide to use your own MP3 player (which it sounds like you already have set up?), you then place the above link (http://www.divshare.com/download/something-123.mp3) into the embed code, and voila!

(If you have no idea what ‘embed code’ I speak of, there’s a great YouTube video that’ll walk you through the entire process, if you can put up with some kind of hideous English/Indian/Chav/Something?? accent.)

Apron

Dear Distressed,

I’m so sorry to hear that you’re having issues with playing music on your blog.  What a serious bummer.

Here’s a thought: instead of trying to snazz your blog up with music to distract your visitors’ attention from the fact that you have no meaningful content, why don’t you try to focus all the energy you’ve exhausted trying to figure out how to set up an MP3 player on your blog and put some of that effort into the actual writing?!

Now there’s a novel idea, isn’t it?  A blog with words.  That people read.  If people want to hear music, they’ll open Pandora [We can't use this in Europe any more, very sad -S] in a different window and listen to music while they read your blog.  If you want to share the music you love so much with the rest of the world, make us mix tapes, you hopeless romantic, you.

Your blog is also probably rife with exciting graphics and YouTube clips and pictures of cats wearing stupid hats saying “I Can Has Cheezburger?” isn’t it?

Jesus Christ.

Monsieur Seb,

I have a bit of a tricky one for you, one that I think might not have a right answer, but I’ll give your ‘Ask Me Anything’ a shot!

I’m in love with my brother’s girlfriend, or at least I think it is love. She’s 3 years older than me, but that hasn’t changed matters. I don’t think my brother knows, but he must be at least somewhat suspicious. I guess he just trusts us enough that he hasn’t entertained the thought of his girlfriend and me flirting.

But yeah, the problem is: she also likes me. We kissed last week, in the living room! Stupid, I know, and my brother came in after we’d finished. We both had the most telling, embarrassed faces. I don’t know how long we can keep it up. Should we elope to Vegas? Haha. His girlfriend has told me she really likes me, but she’s not sure who she likes more… Aaaargh!

Help me, Sir Seb!
In Love And Confused, USA

Seb

There’s definitely no easy solution to this one, sorry. It happens to us all: we fall for the forbidden fruit, the fruit that’s all the more ripe and tasty because someone else has already picked it. It’s like someone has already certified the fruit ‘highly tasty’ and you just gotta have a bite. It’s more commonly seen amongst adults as the ‘wedding ring’ syndrome — married men especially get chased a lot by women seeking a nice man!

Your situation is all the more complicated because it sounds like you’re still living at home, so your brother’s girlfriend is always about the place — no doubt you’ve caught her in pyjamas or other revealing clothing too…?

But to the resolution: first, you should try and forget all about her. Your brother got there first and she says she likes him. That’s the obvious solution. Without knowing the details of your brother’s relationship, it’s hard to say whether you should chase or let go of the girl — if she’s not happy with your brother, or your brother mistreats her… perhaps it’s worth chasing? You’re both young, and if you really love her, go for it! Unless this girl is the love of his life, of course, in which case, forget it.

No matter which route you take, you will have to talk to your brother sooner or later — preferably before he actually catches you doing something dishonourable, so you should probably start with that!

Apron

Dear In Love (Though Probably Not),

I’d love to know how old you are.  From the tone of your letter, I’m guessing you’re fourteen.  Son, you have to be old enough to drive before you can “elope to Vegas” and then you have to be old enough to get married.  As far as I know, the only people in America who can get married at 14 are the Amish, and they have enough problems.

Sebastian, I can’t believe you’re advising this kid to talk to his brother about this– what’s wrong with you? [Sorry, call it my 'inner belief in all things good and proper'... -S] First of all, Americans don’t “talk” to each other, about anything.  They text each other.  Second of all, this kid’s older brother is probably some square-jawed, Neanderthal, knuckle-dragging high school senior who will bury his hockey stick inside this kid’s head at the mere mention that he’s got the hots for his girlfriend.

I’ll bet she is pretty fucking hot, though, isn’t she?  Tank-tops, little shorts all rolled up at the waist, too, I’ll bet.  Mmmmm…

Which brings me quite neatly to the solution to your little problem: it’s this crazy new thing all the teens are doing these days.  It’s called: masturbation.  See, friend, you don’t have to fuck every chick you think is attractive, especially the one who happens to be attached to your brother’s midsection.  You think she’s hot?  Great.  Jerk off while thinking about her.

Problem solved.

P.S. Don’t you love how Sebastian and his fellow Brits write “dishonourable” and “pyjamas?”  Cute!

This won’t be a complete backstory, but it will fill in a few big gaps. It includes and expands upon bits from my childhood entries and the ‘about‘ page. This should illuminate my scattered, eclectic writings on this blog. This should spread light on themes that you may’ve noticed and upon which I will now elucidate. This post is actually celebrating a ‘blog milestone’, though in true, chronically-understated British fashion, I shan’t say what that milestone is. Enjoy this revealing expose of inner Sebbiness; I’ll be hiding in the corner over there.

* * *

As I forced the last piece of LEGO into position with a snap I decided then that I would be an engineer; I was only five at the time and didn’t know what the word meant, nor what they did. The only thing I knew was that making things — crafting intricate constructions from simple, constituent parts — was fun. Really damn fun. You start off with a box of bits and amorphous blobs leftover from previous creations, and you can make anything! Well, almost anything, as defined by the rules and mechanics of LEGO blocks.

It was those rules, those axioms, that interested me the most. My parents will tell you that I was never a huge fan of using my hands — I was never the kind of kid to make rickety tree houses or bird tables — they were just a means to an end: to discover rules! Hands were great at pulling apart and unscrewing video machines, toasters and televisions. I had no idea how things actually worked, but God-damn it was fun trying to work it out! I would look at the parts, at the wreckage of my latest interest, and try to somehow divine the magical rules that made them go.

As I grew up my LEGO bricks turned into Technic cogs and Meccano struts, and thus my education continued: I learnt about physics and the inescapable force of gravity; torque and various structural designs to nullify its effects; the fun that could be had with elastic energy! Most importantly, I learnt about the two forces that dominate our current understanding of the world: chemical and electrical energy. Heating mixtures of chemicals and watching in (pained) awe as they exploded into my face taught me the wonders of cause and effect; reactions. Adding electrical motors to my constructions added life. And that was the key: I’d finally found out how to make things happen.

Enter my first computer at the geriatric age of eight (I was spoilt, some might say). This is probably where the tale should take a dark and oppressive turn for the worse but fortunately… it does not! Unless you consider the abject horror and avoidance of all physical exercise, caused by continued computer use, a bad thing. Actually, that’s a lie: I enjoyed tennis and badminton, but only because my arms were so long that I could reach almost everywhere without moving. I won’t bore you with any more from my teenage years, but you can read my childhood entries if you’re really interested.

In short, my teenage years were… OK. Not great, and often introverted. I was bullied for being fat and far too intelligent. Fortunately the bullying didn’t impact my thirst for knowledge, but it did culture my antisocial tendencies. I don’t mean I went around throwing bricks through windows (I did this just once, when I fell in with some bad boys), I mean that I’ve been a hermit ever since. My teenage life wasn’t completely devoid of social interaction. I did have friends. But for example, the only parties I would attend would be those I couldn’t skip, lest I become a social outcast. Being social, for the teenage Seb, was an obligation.

Looking back, it was a sad, lonely way of living. I don’t know if it was caused by the bullying, or just my continued interest in learning. Y’see, I would be great company until I realised that I’d actually rather be somewhere else, learning how to make explosives or program a new computer language. The only friends I did keep were ones that had identical interests to mine, or were intelligent enough that they remained interesting to me. A bit of a pragmatic — some would say selfish — view of friendships. Again, I don’t know what caused it, but my thirst for knowledge compelled me to flit about from person to person and from book to book, devouring anything and everything that I stumbled across in my search for more data.

When you’re a teenager, mixing your friends up a little is a common occurrence — so what if one day you’re best friends with John, and Steve the next? Looking back, I guess that’s why no one noticed what I was up to. And I’m still the same today, though my years at university tempered my hermit-like tendencies and almost turned me into a social butterfly! Still, when it comes to friends — relationships that I nuture and tend to regularly — I still only have two close ones. The first, I talk to once a week if I’m lucky, the second I might see once a year, or less (does that make me a bad friend?) It’s not so easy to ‘bounce between friends’ when you’re an adult; when you’re a grown-up you can’t just chew, digest and unceremoniously dump your friends.

That’s why I travel and I guess… why I don’t have friends.

It feels lame to cite Fight Club of all things, but its popularity will help make my point: I like single servings. The people I meet on trains and planes are tasty enough to tantalise my taste buds without the risk of becoming dull or flavourless. I might only spend six hours with a friend made while climbing over ancient ruins in Turkey, but when you’re thrown into a similar situation together and share the same experiences, you learn a lot about each other, and you learn it quickly. Single, intense servings of personality; more than just a passing acquaintance, but less than a friendship. At the end we can both go our own ways; a single serving with no strings attached.

Finally, we’ve arrived at the contemporary Seb, where I understand enough about myself that I can attempt to define my personal philosophy. ‘Attempt’, because it’s hard to name and qualify thoughts that, without scope or definition, have run around my head for 25 years. So bear with me as I try to put it into some clumsy words: I demand rationality, but not in the conventional sense. As humans, we are exceptionally good at being rational, but only within the confines of a working, true set of data. You can only be as rational as your education allows — if you have been told that the world is flat, it’s rational to assume it is indeed flat. But that’s not rationality; at least not for me. Most ’stupidity’, as viewed from an objective point of view, is (unsurprisingly) caused by a lack of education. The stupid person probably doesn’t know he’s being stupid though — in his head he’s just doing as he’s been taught!

Rationality, for me, is an absolute: not simply a given, limited set of truths taught through nurture, dogma or education.

Rationality, for me, is the neverending search for a body of knowledge so vast, so all-encompassing that, one day, will hopefully allow me to understand the workings of the universe, and those that populate it.

There we have it: one of my most secret and character-definining traits laid bare for all to see. I hope it goes some way to explaining how I look at the world, and ultimately what I write on this blog. I am, in essence, trying to get my head around everything; I’m pulling the world apart, screw by screw, hoping to find the answers. As and when I find them, I’ll be sure to share.

* * *

There are some fun photos to follow tomorrow. They were meant to accompany this entry, but now it seems inappropriate. If you want funny pictures, go and look at the ones of me as a kid…

Ask Me Anything is turning into an Internet phenomenon! My cute little buttons are turning up on blog sidebars all over the net! My inbox is almost full to overflowing with fun, tricky, geeky and out-right disturbing questions. This week sees the (popular?) return of The Apron, at the behest of one of the anonymous submissions. Remember, if you have anything to ask, ask me. No ‘Sebby In Doctor’s Jacket’. Sorry, I failed!

Dear Bearded Wisdom Dispenser [Bonus points! -S]

Is there any fail-safe way to give a cat medicine? Specifically pills, since the liquids are much easier to force-feed.

My cat nearly died of kidney failure and was sent home on two meds. Then he wouldn’t swallow one of them (for one pilling only!) and had to be re-admitted to the hospital and sent home on FOUR meds. He hates me and I feel like a terrible overlord every time the medicating-by-force hour rolls around.

PETA would be shocked to see me in action, shouting at him and cramming things down his throat! I have tried EVERYTHING: wrap him in a towel, coat the pill with butter, dab butter on his face to make him lick it off and swallow, blow in his face, stroke his neck, prise his jaws open and throw the pill down his throat… even a pill gun! Which is guaranteed by the vet, and yet still the little bugger keeps figuring out ways around my tricks.

As he gets healthier it gets harder and harder to get him medicated! His latest method involves working up so much drool that it literally pours down his front, and washing the pill out in the flood.

What do I do with the little @#!%?? Despite the hell he gives me, I do rather like him and want to make this easier on BOTH of us. Heeeelp!

Entertaining the thought of a home-made fur coat,
Scrawny-but-surprisingly-strong Brunette

Well… kudos for trying so damn hard to help your cat! I think I would’ve given up long ago and simply got a new cat — I’d do the same if I had a troublesome baby too. I guess that’s why no woman has agreed to have children with me yet. Hm. Anyway… This is going to be tough, as you’ve tried almost all of the conventional methods — and even a few highly creative unconventional ones! (Did you photograph your cat covered in butter…?)

There are a few other things you can try though! From easiest to hardest:

• Pill pockets! You can actually buy kitty treats that you can slot the pill into! How cool is that?
• Hide it in his food? You don’t mention it, but I assume you’ve tried hiding the pill in his food? Some experts suggest using a different kind of food that they’ve not had before, so that they won’t know you’ve tampered with it. Best use whole pills, not powdered, so you know how much (or little) of the medication has actually been consumed.
• Dissolve the pill. If all else fails, dissolve the pill into a little water or the juice from a tin of tuna. Then inject it into the cat’s mouth with a little plastic pet syringe (which you can probably get from your vet).

Notice how all of these methods don’t involve holding the cat down (or tying it up in a towel? you cruel mistress!) So hopefully the cat should still be your friend afterwards!

How on earth can ask.com which I have never installed/used hijack my browser?

Better still how the hell do I rid myself of the devlish blighter? Thought I’d consult a master before I go downloading random “fix” software willy-nilly. Thus far I have run Ad-Aware and Spybot and cleared cookies but to no avail

I didn’t surf any porno sites, honest,
Obviously Female from Dakota

Browser hijacking is horrible! You were right to start with Ad-Aware and SpyBot, both of which are usually very good — but not always capable of resolving and removing everything! You’re a bit lacking in details, so I’ll start with the basics and go from there: first, are you sure Ask hasn’t just become your homepage? Are you using Firefox or Internet Explorer? (The solution will vary wildly dependent on which browser you use!)

It might be as simple as resetting your homepage (Tools -> Options -> ‘Main’ or ‘General’ and just set the homepage to Google!) or it might be something a whole lot more gribbly.  A little searching suggests that the main Ask.com hijack involves using Firefox, so I’ll just assume you’re using Firefox…!

• Open up My Computer and navigate to: C:\Documents and Settings\YOUR USER NAME\Application Data\Mozilla\Firefox\Profiles\ — alternatively, you can type that address into Start > Run!
• There should be a folder there ending in ‘.default’. It’ll be called something like ‘ym0is63z.default’ — you want to go into that directory, double click it.
• Delete user.js and user.js.bak. That ought to clean things up.

To be honest, the number of hijacks that you could be afflicted by is probably in the hundreds, and I’ve only listed one way to fix it. If all else fails, have you tried Google’s new browser, Chrome? It’s not perfect, but it’s probably the easiest solution to your problem!

Mr Seb,

This morning on a semi-crowded subway car, I encountered a bit of drama when a man 20 years my senior fitted his way into a space between myself and another mid-thirties comely lady like me. After a few beats, I felt this man’s shoe at the edge of mine and then his bag fell against my calf. As there was an empty space this man had just vacated in order to wedge his way betwixt us two and furthermore, since I was in the space I occupied first, I felt no need to move an inch. Therefore, I politely inquired, “Excuse me, sir, would you mind your bag that is touching my leg?” He replied, “I have a bag and you have a bag.” (Indeed, he was showing his brilliance there as we were both holding bags.) Though in truth the ass did position himself near me, so he was actually touching my bag, I recognized my handbag was touching him, so I moved it away from him and repeated my inquiry. He then leaned over near my face and stated, “If you lost some weight, you would have more room.”

Seeing as how I was now dealing with a man-child, say about mental age eight, I responded in kind by saying, “I can lose some weight, but you’re not going to lose your stupid.” Now, I feel my response was adequate. After all, it elicited a boisterous shouting of the word “Porky” from the man on the train, who I might add was clad in a suit. (Quite the professional man, eh?) I definitely wedged under his skin. However, my reply certainly is nothing to send into the history books, and I readily admit that during the fog of my morning commute, I probably plagiarized it from some book or movie.

So here’s my question… [Finally, eh, after a truly Shakespearean/Herculean effort... -S] How would you have responded to the man had you been a witness to this subway folly? I’m also intensely interested in how Apron would have reacted. (I heart Apron.) Thank you (and Apron) in advance for your considered replies.

Regards,
Well Proportioned Lady with robust self-esteem, despite the lunacy of a deranged middle aged man during a NYC commute

Seb

First of all, congratulations on being the first Ask Me Anything that I haven’t had to modify in any way shape or form. Though flowery, your use of language was, I believe, apt. It took me right back to the Middle Ages when men would joust and duel to the death for the privilege of marrying and deflowering the finest of maidens.

As for advice… Do you mean, if I witnessed the situation as the well-proportioned lady in question (i.e. you), or if I was a chivalrous man sitting opposite and watching the sad little incident unfold?

This is where I should probably tell you that I have a bit of a ‘thing’ for busy train carriages. As I’ve already alluded to in my ‘Best places to have sex‘ articles, I do like trains. And busy trains really do it for me… … With that in mind, I give you my wisened advice: Sock it to him! Just scream something along the lines of Hey, stop touching me!, leap out of your chair and swing the aforementioned bag at him. There’s no way in this day and age that anyone will ever doubt the veracity of your claim — yay, feminism! — so there’s likely to be little or no repercussions for a dazzlingly protean display of ball-whacking  audacity in front of the other commuters.

However, if you prefer a more temperate approach, I’d suggest you simply ‘take it like a man’ and just take a photo of him with your phone. Then upload it to your computer, scrawl something rude across it with Paint, and put it on the Internet.

[What follows is one of the funniest things I've ever read... but maybe that's because it's 3am and I'm starting to lose it. -S]

Apron

Dear Big & Bouncy,

How would I have responded to him?  Um, I wouldn’t have.  I’m way too scared of getting knifed in the neck to start shit with obvious lunatics.  Especially lunatics in suits.  They’re known commonly as “Suitatics” or “Mafioso.”

The real issue here is not necessarily how I or anybody else would have responded– the real issue here is the whole confrontation.  Now, you say you love me, and I’m truly touched and flattered by that.  And, honeybear, I love you too, so I know you won’t mind when I tell you that both you and the suit-wearing dickhead were both behaving like five-year-old children on this particular subway ride.  So, maybe the guy shouldn’t have placed himself in between you and the other “mid-thirties comely lady,” but he did.  The last time I checked the New York State’s penal codes, standing in between two people on a subway isn’t a crime, even if there is space elsewhere in the car.

Right?  Right.

Here’s the sad, cold, hard, unpleasant truth of life: in subway cars, people touch each other.  To me, if I can ride the MTA from Brooklyn to Coney Island without enduring somebody’s finger in my asshole or their chin-zit on my shoulder, then I think I’ve done pretty okay for myself.  So his shoe was at the edge of yours.  So his bag was touching your leg.  Jesus Christ, you sound like a child in the back of the Oldsmobuick with your older brother on a family vacation to Hot Springs.  “He keeps touching me!”  “She won’t stop licking my seatbelt!”  “He keeps shoving his fingers in his eye sockets and rubbing the goo on my t-shirt!”

Um, yeah.  Get the fuck over yourself.

Seriously– if you had just endured his shoe touching yours and his bag touching your leg, you wouldn’t have made the totally unnecessary comment about his bag touching your leg, the comment that escalated this whole series of events.  And he wouldn’t have called you “Porky,” which I’m sure you’re not.  Now, was he in the right for doing that?  Certainly not.  He obviously wasn’t brought up by kind, egalatarian, loving parents.  And, if he was, he probably killed them and ate them the morning of this unfortunate subway ride– chalk his brusque comment up to a little indigestion.

I’m willing to bet that this isn’t the only instance of Subway Drama that has involved you, has it?  Honestly, if you’re going to live in NYC and ride the MTA every day of your life, you’re going to have to get used to people mashing your buxomness, stepping on your Nine Wests and breathing pickle steam down your neck.  That’s just the way it is.  And I tell it like it is.  ‘Cause I’m a 20 something blogger, and I’ve got snark leaking out of my ass, little bitches.  Don’t stand next to me on the subway, some snark might get on your skirt.

That about wraps it up for another week! Share my Ask Me Anything buttons around! (How smooth am I? Getting better at this self-promotion thing…)

I had a few personal questions trickle in this week, which I don’t mind, but they’re outside the scope of Ask Me Anything. Feel free to email any questions you might have though, or perhaps you might find the information you’re looking for on the ‘About‘ page. Alternatively, I might compile a few personal questions and post them all at once — but that’s getting awfully close to those list-style Internet memes that I do so despise.

No picture of me in a doctor’s jacket again! What a gyp! (Note the interesting derivation on ‘gypsy’ — never knew that!) You must be so disappointed in me yet again. But in my defence, this week’s been a really unpleasant mix of heat, humidity and stiflingly oppressive stillness. The only breeze is that which has been stirred up by the feeble fan that’s currently keeping my feet cool. So you get some angstily-answered questions this week and a re-used picture of me that you’ve probably seen before. If you’re not interested, go and watch my video blog from yesterday. Or go ask me a question!

Every question this week has something to do with love or sex or relationships!
(Sorry, I know it’s a bit over the top… but yes, now you know what my eyes look like… yay!)

Dear Sex-pert Seb, [This feels more like a tabloid each week, excellent -S]

I want to do something for my man which will make him smile every time he thinks about it… and I don’t mean baking an amazing cake! I mean something naughtier.

As someone who is obviously experienced in naughty things, what can you suggest?

- Sexless in Seattle

A juicy one to start with. It probably comes as no surprise to you, me being a man and all, that the only real thing I’ve been able to focus my thoughts on over the last week, during this heatwave, is… sex. I’m all hot and sweaty and so my thoughts inevitably drift to when I was last hot and sweaty. Not being the kind of person to do any exercise outside of the bedroom, my mind wanders to all of the beautiful women that I’ve made love to.

You came to the right person: Sex-pert Seb! I’ve read a lot of girl magazines (Cosmo, Marie Claire, etc.) over the years (I told you, I’m inquisitive) and consider myself a bit of a guru when it comes to this particular topic. The suggestions tend to vary from downright-weird to the hmm-that-sounds-quite-nice-actually but they nearly all revolve around one thing: oral sex (or cooking for him, misogyny be damned!)

There are a lot of variations, some more difficult and/or degrading than others — I’ll give you an easy one to start with: go down on him while he’s asleep, in the morning. It’s a very, very good way to wake up, I assure you.

For more information, search the Internet for the many guides on the topic, but here’s SexInfo101’s to get you started: Fellatio I – Basics.

Geek Master S,

I write to you in greatest secrecy because… because it’s about a girl that I like. But she’s a geek, so she might be able to find this if I give you too much information. Anyway, there’s this girl I like, but I don’t know how to make her love me! Or at least for her to take me seriously! She’s more of a geek than me. She likes all sorts of weird stuff like comics and TV shows with vampires in. I watched Buffy though, and that’s alright, but the rest… I dunno.

Anyway, my question is, how can I be the guy she wants? We are good friends right now, but sex/relationships seem like the last thing on her mind, but I must make her mine!

Live long and prosper (that’s what you geeks say right?),
Clueless Wannabe Geek

Ah, young padawan (that’s a trainee Jedi, from Star Wars), you have much to learn — but it is a good, ripe topic worthy of your focus! The geeks will inherit the world, if they have not already done so, and it’ll be a better place for it! Fortunately, I’m about as big a geek as it gets, so I’ll try to impart some useful knowledge that’ll hopefully a) make you a better person (more of a geek) and b) get into her pants.

First, you need to at least be interested in her and what she does (this is good advice for any girl, incidentally). If she likes vampires, you better start liking vampires, or at least try to read the latest Twilight book. Or invite her around for a Buffy/True Blood marathon. If she likes comics, ask her which super hero/universe is a good one to start with, and go buy it! For bonus points, accompany her to some kind of comic/geek convention and dress up according to her wishes.

As long as you’re interested, she should fall into line pretty quickly. You don’t even have to be an alpha geek yourself, she’d probably be more than happy with someone that doesn’t hush into silence her latest thoughts on the ‘continuity of Star Trek: The Next Generation episode 42′.

For more information, I have to refer you to my own awesome Geek Guides: Why geek girls are awesome (well duh), Geeks make good lovers (this is why you want to make her yours, trust me…)

Sebby-poo, [I got called this for a short period at school by girls. It was not a good time in my life. -S]

I think I’m gay… I like girls. I don’t know if it’s a problem per se, or if it will become a problem later on… but right now, I’m just a bit confused, you know? Is it a phase? Should I tell someone to get it off my chest, or will that only make it worse in today’s day and age? I guess that’s what I’m doing now by telling you?

I suppose I’m looking for advice, if there’s anything I should know. Some background info: I’ve had a few boyfriends but nothing long-term. I’ve had sex with one boy and it was… nice. Nothing special! I recently kissed a girl at a house party… we were drunk… turns out she’s liked me for ages though… and it did feel nice, leaving me wishing something more had happened!

Help me! Am I gay or straight or just…

- A Confused Girl

Well this one’s tricky and ‘are you gay?’ is a good place to start. Sexuality has always been a contentious topic: is it genetic? Nurtured? Instilled by popular culture? The prevailing theory at the moment is that it’s a big mix of nurture and nature — your genetics and hormonal balance might play a big role in it, but so does your upbringing and experiences. No one really knows to be honest (no doubt we’ll learn more about it in the next few decades now that homosexuality is becoming ‘OK’ in modern society). The only real measurement of gayness is: do you feel more attraction (in the full sense — mental and physical, ’till death do you part) to other women? If so, then you’re gay.

But that’s OK!

It’s quite important to remember that being gay does not lock you into various stereotypes and mannerisms. You don’t have to cut your hair short and adorn yourself with tattoos. You don’t have to slap on some lipstick and make out with other girls in clubs (though you can do either if you like). You already have a potential girlfriend lined up, which is good; she can show you the ropes, and you won’t have to wander into the treacherous and seedy world of ‘gay bars’ to experiment. Talking of experimentation: who knows, it might turn out that you’re not actually into girls after all. Perhaps you’re simply curious about things, or you’re out of a disaffected relationship with a boy!

Most of all, don’t worry. Being gay is more socially accepted now than ever before! That doesn’t mean you’ll fit in everywhere, especially in mature or religious communities, and you must accept that their point of view on homosexuality is as valid as yours, and a lot more entrenched. Life as a lesbian might not always be easy, but the important thing is that you’re happy and able to be yourself.

What happens when you die?

If you’re not spiritually-inclined, death is just a moment in time. You’re alive and then, a moment later, you’re dead. There is a cessation of all that makes us physically alive: we stop breathing, our blood circulation halts and finally our brain activity flat-lines — we are deceased.

And medically speaking that is true. Your time is up; the grains of sand have emptied and the ticking has ceased.

On the other hand, if you believe in some kind of soul, something beyond the world that we can see and measure scientifically, death is more of a way-point on your travels.  You might believe that heaven awaits, or that your soul takes a little trip before returning back to the physical realm, but it doesn’t really matter: you believe that death isn’t the end of your story.

What we really have to do is define ‘death’, a task that many people would claim is very easy: it’s body death; a flat line on both the ECG (heart) and EEG (brain) machines. Someone whispers into our ear or shines a light into our eyes and there is no response, no reflex — that’s body death. But then why are there billions of people that believe that we’re not actually dead, that our soul has simply left the building in search of other stomping grounds or greener pastures? Death is meant to be the end! And it is for every other animal and plant in the world! Why does it have to be so tricky when it comes to humans, why do we persist in refuting death? Why do we insist that we ‘live on’?

Maybe, just possibly, there’s something to it. Perhaps there is a soul. Perhaps body death isn’t the end! What if we are just poorly-equipped to define ‘death’ scientifically? What if science simply refuses, by definition, to acknowledge something that is impossible to measure and define?

But then why is more than half of Earth’s population so strongly opposed to the finality of death? Why, for thousands of years, have we tried to define life after death? For millennia we have struggled to elucidate what really goes on after death as we traverse the great unknown — and curiously, after 6,000 years of modern civilisation, we still don’t even know how to get there! Attaining spiritual immortality in ancient history and religion reads like a hilarious list of scatter-gun, maybe-this-will-work approaches. First, right at the cusp of recorded history, there were deified statues and bloody rituals. Then with the first great civilisations we had burial rites and coins on our eyelids to ensure our safe passage into the afterlife. The Dark Ages saw a change from polytheism to monotheism and it became more about repentance, seeking forgiveness for our sins and regimented worship. Finally, with the Middle Ages and the glorious, opulent lives of feudal nobility and merchant oligarchies, immortality could be obtained by paying someone that’s close enough to an Almighty Being — i.e. buy some new stained-glass windows and you’re in.

The problem is: they can’t all be right. Is obtaining life after death simply a matter of mentally flagellating or prostrating yourself before the eyes of a suitably-powerful deity? Almost all religions claim that that they are correct and infallible, their scriptures often divined or prophesied from a god. They don’t all claim that other religions are false but most do — my god is more goddy than yours! — which causes a little problem: who’s right? Are they all right? Or, as I’m inclined to believe, are they all wrong? I won’t turn this into a theological discussion, but I do want to work out which religion got it right because the concept of everlasting life must be pretty enthralling if five billion people want to believe in it.

In fact, the concept that we might simply cease to exist, both body and soul (if it exists!), is a relatively new concept. An enlightened concept that we’ve been scared of acknowledging all along, just in case it’s true. We’ve finally arrived back at the stage where challenging or disproving religion doesn’t end up with you being burnt at the stake. We’re finally at the point where we can question our existence in this universe with some semblance of objectivity. Pure and absolute rationality is still a little way off — maybe quantum mechanics has the real answers? — but we can still revisit with a critical eye, unfettered by either dogma or tradition, the concept of allaying or postponing our ultimate death.

Science has gone a long way to explaining many things we’ve historically considered ‘magical’ or ‘miraculous’ but there are still many unknowns. There are a whole slew of phenomena that can be explained by the existence of a ’spiritual universe’ too — in fact, it’s a very good way of explaining away almost anything that remains a mystery to us. Eventually though — and this is guaranteed — someone will get to the bottom of near-death experiences and the continued consciousness that people experience throughout brain death. In a truly ‘eureka!’ moment a scientist will discover exactly what happens, if anything, when we die.

It’ll feel like the unravelling of the greatest of magic tricks: one of the few remaining mysteries of human existence ripped apart and laid bare for all to see. And then, like all exploited magic — or technology — it’ll just become a ubiquitous part of everyday life: if we do have souls, we’ll make glorious plans for the afterlife; if we don’t we’ll be able to finally stop wasting our time trying to earn and validate our ticket to the afterlife.

I hope people won’t be too disappointed when they find out that all those years of prayer and sacrifice and unwavering belief were for nothing. The Norse and Greek had the right idea: perform amazing deeds of strength and bravery, kindness and mercy. Achieve immortality through renown alone. Of course, they also knew that if any gods just happened to be watching they were hitting two birds with one stone.

(Seagulls!!)

“I need to go to the loo!”

She spoke with an East London accent as she dragged me by the hand through the crowd of the festival. Was this it? After two weeks of tantalisingly close encounters would my first taste of female Faroese flesh take place in a portable toilet? Rather than choosing which variety of condom would I instead have to choose which of the 10 toilets would be our destination?

“You wait here!” I pouted; it was not to be. She still spoke with that curious, East London accent. But why had she made me follow her? If I can’t screw an inebriated girl at a festival – while sober myself! – what kind of man am I?

She staggers out of the toilet and sizes me up. Accompanied by the acrid smell of piss, alcohol and vomit she is suddenly a lot less attractive. She must’ve noticed the brief flicker of disgust on my face. “Shall we go to my tent?” Still the odd accent and this time followed by a giggle that she probably thought girlish but it fell flat, tumbling out of her still-wet lips, still sticky from her last drink.

“I think I ought to go… they’ll be waiting for me on the boat.”

“But I’ll show you a whale of a time!” A pun delivered in the light, airy and common accent of a Londoner — I had to laugh. Looking at her again, sizing her up, I thought she was more of a dolphin, but I let it lie: she wasn’t thin, even in the most complimentary of lighting or lack thereof. But neither was she American in stature.

“Okay. But before we continue… I have to ask… why the accent?”

“I studied in London for a few years! Stop asking silly questions. Come on then mate! Let’s take a stroll up the hill towards the tents!”

And so we walked up the hill, contraflow to the throng of drunk stoners making their way to the beach-side stage for the next noisy band.

She had slightly narrow eyes, a forehead that seemed to cover at least half her head. She was short — but then again almost every Faroe is — and she walked with a bit of a limp.

But it was a music festival. Who would know…?

When in the Faroes, do as the Faroese do… Veni, vidi…

Still trying to catch up with, like, everything. Yesterday I emptied my inbox; today I’m going to try and make some headway on Google Reader…

I’ve been slowly trawling my way through thousands of photos from the last month. Turning up some gems!

I could tell you about the expression she had on her face, but that’d spoil the mystery. Just look at that ELBOW! I just want to squidge it. And maybe gnaw a little. (Also, check top left corner — ‘you rack’, or ‘you rock’?)

Next, a couple of live music photos, something I haven’t done in a long time (not since university really — photos here). I was actually really good by the time university ended — and I also picked up tinnitus, an affliction that still haunts me today! But years of landscape photography have filled my life since university and the live music muscles have atrophied and grown slack.

These two are pretty damn cool though:

You can click either for larger versions — the second one is very dark, you will need to make sure your screen is calibrated correctly…! You have to be able to see his facial expression to fully appreciate the photo.

And now, for your education and mine, a black and white version of the same photo:

Which version do you prefer? And for bonus points, why?