‘You know, Sebby, you didn’t include the photos from after the Peter Pan show…’

That was my mother, rudely barging into my room. You know, the parental ‘Can I come in?’ manoeuvre, spoken as she opens the door.

Sometimes she takes a while to get to the point, but I already knew where she was going with this one.

‘But mum, I already embarrassed myself enough with the head-in-bowl photo.’

‘Those girls obviously loved you in that doggy outfit, Seb. You have to start thinking about getting a wife, and if that involves dressing up as a dog… I’m sure Moses would turn a blind eye if it meant you could find a nice wife. One that likes doggies.’

And so, through the undeniable power of motherly coercion, I bring you the photos from after the show. Out of the doggy suit and into the emo-kitchen-down-lights that you’re probably all used to by now.

Just remember, this Sunday, that no matter how bad a situation you’re in, how unfortunate circumstances might be, even when it seems like there’s no end to your suffering or sorrow — there’s a guy with pigtails, a blacked-out eye and beard pretending to look like a dog for your benefit.

And that’s Sebby’s Sunday Sermon. Have a nice day!

For those of you that read this blog on a regular basis you’ll know that my mother likes to comment. In fact, reading my blog is part of her ‘breakfast routine’ — she can often be found with a cup of tea and pastry in-hand as she reads my blog in the morning, her face displaying a terrible, nervous grin as she discovers yet another disgusting fact about her ‘beautiful, first-born son Sebastian’ (that’s how she introduces me to friends).

Every Thursday morning, like clockwork, she yells up the stairs: ‘That’s not true is it Sebastian?!’

And every time I answer with a noncommittal ‘Maybe… now where’s my coffee?’

Basically, my mother and I have a very close relationship. We talk about almost everything. She’s not quite as smart as me, but she’s a lot brighter than people give her credit for! She’s funny, though not generally witty, but occasionally she pulls out a good one. And that’s what this story’s about.

As always… for more TMI Thursday stories, check out Lilu’s infamous blog!

I’m going to tell you the origin of our ‘Embarrass Each Other’ game. It’s a very self-destructive game but just too damn fun to give up. The basic idea is simple: try to embarrass mum/Seb as much as possible. Normally this is achieved by talking very loudly in public places: theme parks, supermarkets, malls, that kind of thing. Teenage boys have a lot of things they’re embarrassed by and, believe it or not, so do ageing women!

So we’re at the supermarket on Saturday, buying food for the week. It’s very busy. We find ourselves in the ‘toiletries’ aisle, home of shampoo, toothpaste and… objects of a more private nature.

“Hey, mum, don’t you need to pick up a pregnancy test? What with all those random guys you’ve been sleeping with…”

I start off quietly, low-key. One old lady turns to look at my mother disapprovingly but we ignore her.

“Shall we check if they have those special condoms for people of a smaller, midget-like stature?” She’s louder. A couple of teenage girls turn to giggle at me. Low-blow, mum.

“What about those adult diapers? You know, those nappies that you can wear to prevent ‘embarrassing moments’. They’re just over here I think…” No more Mr Nice Guy. Right in there with the incontinence pants. We’ve often joked that my sole purpose in life is to look after her when she’s older and less… in control.

“Oh, look, they have special razors for that unibrow of yours! AND you can use it when you finally get some facial hair! Two birds with one stone!” (OK, so I was a late bloomer…) — I don’t think she realises just how loud she’s shouting, but people at both ends of the aisle have stopped to look at us. Even those paying for their food and the staff have started watching us.

“Ahhh, look! THE THRUSH CREAM! FOR THE ITCHING! Really, anything to stop you whining about that damn burning sensation!”

My mum pouts and falls silent. I’ve won; not without taking a few blows, but I’ve won, that’s what matters. I’m smiling like a smug idiot that’s just won the Special Prize. People are looking at me as if I’m dribbling down my front and walking with a limp usually reserved for limb-dragging quadriplegics.

And then my girlfriend appears. She waltzes down the aisle, unaware of the drama that’s just unfolded. She stops at one shelf and picks up a pack of extra-small condoms. She stops again and picks up a tube of thrush cream. Only then does she notice my mother and I.

OH SHI–

This is a continuation from a series of entries I wrote chronicling my childhood and teenage years. For some reason I got sidetracked — I wrote about ‘that tale from my teenage years‘, and before I knew it I was writing about my crazy relationships and sexual encounters.

And then I got talking about The American. I often write as if I’m not affected by what unfolds — chilled, objective — but the truth is… I am. I am effected. I’m not soulless. I’m not frigid or cold. I just don’t often let my feelings bubble to the surface. I don’t linger or fester. But yes, you might look at these broken relationships of mine, these squandered chances, and wonder: ‘How come he sounds so remote, so unbothered?’ – well, the real truth is: I am bothered. I am right there, reliving the memory as it flows through my synapses to my fingertips. Unfortunately — or fortunately — I have an incredibly vivid imagination. I can recall almost any instance in time and be there – and when I write, I’m tapping into those memories. I frown and smile and sigh and cry as I write. You just don’t get to see it… (Should I apologise here? Maybe?)

As to why it all comes out ‘a little distant and removed’, I have no idea. It seems I’m objective and sensible to a fault. Perhaps I’m just too damn rational, if that’s possible.

Anyway, when I was younger, from 10 through 17, I was a lot less rational. I was shy, reticent. I could be made jealous very easily. I had little to no self-confidence. All I really had were my dreams. And computers.

I know it sounds dramatic, but it’s true. I had two immutable things that no one could take away from me: dreams and computers.

I think you probably already know quite a lot about my love affair for computers… so dreams are what this entry’s about.

These are the roles I dreamed and the fantasy lands I drifted to when I was being teased, pushed around, bullied.

Things I’ve Wanted To Be, Since The Age of Three

What do you want to be when you grow up, Seb?

I’ve never wanted to be an astronaut, believe it or not. In fact, my mother and I can only recall three things that I’ve ever wanted to be:

• A driver. I’ve always loved cars, vehicles, speed, acceleration. I don’t know if this comes from some innate love of engineering, maybe. At the age of 24 months I famously located the keys to my school’s bus, got into the bus, and started the engine. For a long time I wanted to be a Quad bike driver, off-road style. Later, after I was allowed behind the wheel of my dad’s Porsche, I wanted to be a racing or rally driver. I have some fun stories to tell about me and cars; I’ll try to tell them soon. I’d still like to be a rally driver.
• A lawyer. I’m pretty sure my mother came up with this one, rather than me showing an actual interest in litigation. ‘You’re great at arguing’ she would say. ‘You enjoy arguing a lot, don’t you dear?’ — and she wasn’t wrong. I love arguing. I love proving a point. I banter for the sake of bantering — though that’s not something you are likely to see unless you are a very close friend, or family member. I can be very intense when arguing something. But I don’t think I ever really wanted to be a layer. I’d probably be a very good one, but there’s no… urge there, for whatever reason.
• A military engineer and/or spy. Structural engineer that is. I’m not sure where this one came from, but from about the age of 16 through 20 I wanted to work for ‘king and country’ (or queen, as the case may be.) I wanted to build bridges over rivers in war zones. I wanted to be a ‘sapper‘. I think my dad’s dad was a sapper, but I never knew him, he died when my dad was young, before I was born. Later, when my attention turned more towards technology, I wanted to be a spy. Not quite like James Bond, but perhaps some social engineering involved… and a few hot Russian girls. Counter-intelligence, hacking, propaganda — behind-the-scenes stuff! I’d still like to be a spy. But not as much as I’d like to design video games…

Which brings me up to almost-present time! After school I went to college and studied photography, purely as an artistic outlet. At university I studied Computer Games (and computer networks — and if you’ve read my ‘About’ page, you’ll know that I now want to make video games).

After I graduated university I knew only two things: 1) I didn’t want to work in an office from 9 to 5 — and 2) I want to travel the world and see what the rest of Earth (and the universe?) has to teach me. I learnt more about life in four years at college and university than in the 16 years beforehand. In the last few years, as I’ve travelled from continent to continent, country to country, city to city — and across the Rubicon! — I’ve learnt a lot more than university could ever hope to teach me.

I’ve discovered that it’s very hard to have a purpose when you’re always discovering new things that you can be. How can I stop and design video games when there might be something even cooler just waiting to be discovered? (This bit ties into my ‘What makes me tick?‘ entry.)

I honestly can’t fathom why anyone would cease moving, set up shop and extend their tendril roots. Why work in an office from nine through five for 45 years. Why.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Seb?

I don’t know, mum. I might never find out. But the journey is the best bit, right?

(Click for larger)

Ho ho ho!

…

Everyone else seemed to be doing Christmas cards so I thought I’d jump on the bandwagon. It being Thursday, the last sensible blogging day before Christmas, I tried to be festive and fold in the too-much-information thing. [Obligatory link to Lilu, The Queen of TMI's blog]. Did I succeed? You can hardly tell the cat’s been composited in, right? I tell you, I’m never doing cat photography again. I thought it was meant to be easy! Damnit, I’m a bona fide PEOPLE PHOTOGRAPHER now! She kept scarpering ‘neath the tree with her tail ‘tween her legs. No amount of coaxing would get her to play ball: she just wouldn’t eat the fucking tuna. So yeah, the cat was there in spirit, but I did cheat a little; sorry. (That really is tuna in the bowl, incidentally — I do have some integrity.)

So, Merry Christmas to you all, or a happy and festive winter holiday if you don’t do Christmas. I’m not meant to do Christmas, being a Jew and all, but… well… it’s very close to Hanukkah (which was last week) — what’s a few days going to matter? It’s not like our calendar is anywhere near accurate after 2000 years anyway. It’s just religious scripture mumbo jumbo; where’s the spirituality in fixed dates? I think we humans just like organised, predictable holidays… makes our life more tangible, secure, safe.

I think I can squeeze in a few posts next week, before the New Year. They’ll probably take the usual, banal ‘review’ format — I might, if I have one of those rare, sentimental moments, even ask you about how your year has been.

Have a lovely few days anyway. Eat too much! Don’t drink too much! Relax — properly, deeply, wholly — and enjoy the holiday. You’ve earnt it (probably).

P.S. My mother also wishes you a Merry Christmas! She bubbled most effusively at the idea of her festively-dressed living room being on my blog. It does look rather nice!

Merry Christmas! Or Winter Solstice! Whatever!

As the last few days of 2009 and the decade dribble lazily through the hourglass’s pinch of incessant, unstoppable time, my focus turns inward. I’m not prone to introversion — really, it’s sometimes a little worrying how little I stop to care; least of all care about myself. Obviously, the delicious irony is that the moment I try to think about why I don’t care, I stop caring and think about something else. I guess it’s something deep-seated; or perhaps it’s just not good to care about all the small things?

God knows I’ve done OK so far, without the over-analysis, without the stopping-to-think. Water off a duck’s back. Don’t stop in a storm or you’re liable to get drenched. Maybe nothing bad has happened to me because I’m not waiting for it to happen? We make our own luck, right?

2009 has been a fantastic year; the best of my exciting quarter decade [oops -S] of living. I feel incredibly grateful to have shared it with all of you. I have this blog to thank — or blame — for almost everything that happened to me this year. I have this blog to thank for good, for bad, and for the ugly.

I have a lot to write, and not a lot of time to do it in (damn Christmas), so I’m afraid this will spill into tomorrow’s entry, and maybe even Thursday.

From the top then:

The Good of 2009 (#1): The Blog

Let me gush for a moment; don’t try to stop me [it's late as I write this, so I might ramble]. I’ve been writing for years — but probably not as long as you think. I stopped writing creatively back when I was 16. No real reason: my interest just moved on to other things. I kept a LiveJournal through university, mostly for my family, but it wasn’t particularly deep nor was it well-written. This year… I have begun writing properly, for the first time.

Seriously, before this year, the last thing I wrote was an exam for GCSE English, aged 14. If you look back to the beginning of this blog — way back in January 2009 — you’ll notice that my, er, control of the English language has improved! I can’t read back without wincing; it’s a bit like looking at old photos with bad haircuts, I guess.

Anyway, at the start of the year I gave up my previous job, website design and programming, with the intention of writing. I didn’t really have any other ideas at the time. I just wanted to write.

Basically, I feel like I have something I should share with the world. Writing is a very good way to do that. Speaking is even better, but people that know me in real life will tell you that I’m already good at the speaking thing. I’m rambling. My hope is, by reading, that you feel slightly better off than if you didn’t read.

The Bad of 2009 (#1): No Girlfriend

Yes yes… cry me a river…

It’s now been, shit… three years since I had a girlfriend? No, it must be two… surely…

Anyway, it’s been a long time. If fault must be ascribed, I suppose it’s only fair that it should sit squarely on my shoulders. I mean… I could’ve been more proactive in the whole girlfriend-seeking thing. My mother usually chimes in around now to say ‘Seb, you won’t get a girlfriend if you never leave your room’ and she’s not wrong. If this was a New Year’s resolution thing, I’d probably be saying, at this juncture, that I need to get out more. Fortunately, it’s not yet New Year, and these aren’t my resolutions… so I won’t be getting out more.

I simply like my own company a lot more than that of other people. Sad, I agree. Perhaps I haven’t met the right person yet? (This is to do with friends too: I have no friends, thus no girlfriend.) Obviously I have to go out to have a chance at meeting the right people. Catch-22 (which is a good book by the way, if a little crazy; reading it at the moment).

Perhaps I should just travel more. I didn’t travel enough this year. Or maybe I shouldn’t work so hard so that I can get out a little more and recover the friends I once had. I do hate general ‘out’ places though: pubs and clubs are so banal, so pointless. Cinemas are a little better. Restaurants are great — but you have to get to the restaurant stage. It’s hard for me to describe, without you being inside my head, the actual issue. I won’t bother right now — let’s just leave it at ‘I like my own company’.

But I’d like someone to snuggle. Definitely. And maybe some sex. But more the snuggling. Actually, it’s more so that I have someone to bounce my crazy plans for world domination off, but let’s keep that one quiet for now.

The Ugly of 2009 (#1): Working Too Hard

Ah the double-edged blade of effort. What is too much effort? And what is not enough?

Can a man of such young years, still without a solid career, even consider the idea of working too much? Surely these are the years when I should be working my (sadly) flat ass off to make a name and a position in the world for myself.

But at the same time, I am an artist, I am creative. All work and no play. So far I’ve got by with making sure work is creativity. With my new writing job (I’m now a lead/editor!), and an urge to actually get the cogs turning on a few grandiose machinations, playtime has taken a back seat.

I can’t help but think that kicking back and enjoying well-earnt and delectable pleasures is something I ought to do. I just don’t know if I should take a break now, or in another year. I’ve done so much this year that I probably shouldn’t stop now, but I don’t want to burn out.

* * *

More tomorrow!

(Click for larger… you know you want to!)

Have I done enough to secure my spot in hell? Surely I must be getting pretty close… [More hell-seekers can be found over on Lilu's blog!]

This photo’s for everyone out there that’s been caught without toilet paper either at home or in a public bathroom.

For everyone that’s tried in vain to find a scrap of paper in your pocket or handbag that can be shoehorned into anal submission.

For those of you that have done the ‘John Wayne Walk’ across the bathroom to get the toilet paper that has either a) rolled away from you or b) been left in the wrong place by someone else (WHY??)

But most of all, this photo is dedicated to those of you that have BEEN THERE. Those of you that have exhausted all available options. To those that have actually used your hand to scrape warm and squidgy-brown shit from between your legs.

[By the way, my mother took this photo. Yes, ours is a special relationship. Freud would have a field day.]