Underwater Bananas

The Discomfort Room

2009-02-16T14:13:00.004Z

Anyone that tells you that they are not afraid of visiting the dentist, in my opinion, is an enormous liar! Just recently I paid a visit to my dentist so he could perform some minor repairs on my gnashers! Apparently I grind out all of my worldly resentment during the night when I am frolicking in Neverland! As a result, it seems all this late night grinding had had a detrimental impact on my molars, and the dentist deemed it necessary to restore them to their former brilliance.

Now I wouldn't say I find myself overly consumed by fear as I meander up the driveway to the dentist’s office. After all, it's not really an office; it's simply a regular house that has had the front two rooms cunningly refurbished to appear dentist-like. When you get in there, the rest of the place is still a house! There's probably someone upstairs reading the newspaper on the toilet and scratching their nuts as you sit back in 'The Chair' for your 9:00am appointment in what is probably one of the most unbearably sterile rooms any normal house has ever seen! But there is an element of apprehension and a nervous unease in your gut as you sit on the comfy sofa, surrounded by the inaccurate crayon-work of local kiddies that certainly would not have impressed any art critic during the renaissance! This room is all a ruse, an elaborate veil to put you at ease and subdue that voice in your head that keeps saying "in a minute it is highly likely that you will feel discomfort, possibly even pain. I'm not gonna sugar coat it for you, there is a genuine chance you might feel pain in and around your mouth at some point in the next 10 minutes or so".

Then comes the call, and you pick yourself up with a nice fake grin smeared all over your stupid face and walk into the surgery. Except it's not a real surgery, it's someone’s lounge that's been covered in mirrors and filled with modern adaptations of the remorseless instruments once used in torture chambers in the 1600's! However, apparently, if the chap wielding these tools of terror is wearing white latex gloves and a baby blue facemask, this allows him to place a sign on the door saying 'Dentist' instead of 'Dungeon' and gives him the legal right to charge extortionate amounts for his painful proceedings!

Once in the chair we now enter into the period of idle chitchat, probably designed to put you at ease, but which usually just elevates the tension (perhaps they like to play with us in this way, like a fish on a line, a bear in a trap, Geppetto in the jaws of the whale!). In recent visits, inexplicably, my dentist has chosen to continue these conversations as he begins to probe my gob with his rotund digits...

"I've just come back from a skiing trip with the family to Lake Tahoe!"

... And you feel compelled to attempt some kind of audible answer!

"Oooo weeeallly ahhh, I wen ere in daaa sumda, it booootfuuuul."

The only time this ridiculous conversation ends is when the dentist and his assistant decide you are prepped and primed to become the centrepiece in a little game called 'How Many Dental Utensils Can We Fit In Your Mouth?' At this point they come at your face with all sorts of weird looking stuff; strange tubes for sucking your saliva, mirrors on cocktail sticks, tiny little pickaxes stolen from Papa Smurfs shed, and all manner of scratchers and scrapers! It turns out my mouth was full at three! I'm not sure that is enough to see me turn pro and land lucrative sponsorship deals, but perhaps my mouth was not designed to be a receptacle for dental implements!

So finally, as the whole ordeal comes to an end and with all manner of dental debris cast out of your mouth, you sit up, rinse... relax! At this point a strange thing happens. Jubilantly shaking him by his latex clad hand you skip back into reception and pay your exorbitant fee without so much as a shred of discontentment. For if you are back in the warm embrace of the waiting room. You cannot be… in the ‘Discomfort Room’.

The Rage

2009-02-09T11:39:00.022Z

The Rage has been a part of every human that has ever walked the planet, and will reside within all new blood to grace this earth henceforth! The Rage occupies a small space in the depths of the human body, between the stomach and the soul. It doesn't matter if you are the most peaceful and placid person in existence, The Rage is within you and will rise to the surface on occasion. Fortunately for most of us this happens in our most private moments when there are no prying eyes to witness our shame.

For anyone still wondering what The Rage is, allow me to explain. The Rage is that moment in the morning where you just can’t remove your shirt from the hanger in the wardrobe, resulting in a furious over exertion of strength that causes the hanger to cripple under the strain and explode into a dozen fragments. Now standing there with shirt in hand you kick the shards of the mangled hanger across the room as you curse the STUPID BASTARDS who crafted such a feeble instrument, because it clearly wasn't built to withstand the 10,000 tonnes of pressure you just forced through it! The Rage is the furious tussle you have with the duvet covers as you try to make your bed, franticly waving your arms madly as you discover your apparent inability to get the four corners of the duvet into the four corners of the duvet cover! It is the man that has been attempting to dig up a tiny shrub for 30 minutes and ends up throttling the scrawny bush moments after hurling his shovel ten feet across the garden at it. It is the person that frantically tugs and jerks the zipper on their jacket (that they have calmly attempted to do-up seven times already, without success) screaming "I WILL NOT BE BEATEN BY A FUCKING ZIP!!"

It was a recent bout of The Rage that led me to question what it is and why it manifests itself. I was playing my guitar and became hugely frustrated to the point that I raked the pick over the strings with such fury and poor musicianship that one of the strings snapped and recoiled like the crack of a whip, giving me a bloody finger for my trouble! My reaction was to drop the instrument that had lead to my intense displeasure and state outloud to myself "I'M NOT SORRY!!"

Ultimately The Rage is a suffocating sense of frustration that comes from being unable to accomplish something you think you should be able to achieve with ease. But it is an overwhelming anger disproportionate to your insignificant failure. It is your way of showing the powers of the universe that in moments when tact, skill and sanity abscond, you will result to the most basic of human abilities, that of brute force! "If the wall is too high for me to climb, I will simply smash through it!" And as sweet as your success is when you stand there with your shirt in hand, devoid of hanger, there is an awful sense of shame in your victory as you survey the devastated remains of a brave hanger, guts spilled out across your carpet, that was only doing his job! From the wardrobe you can almost hear the sobbing of the other hangers for their fallen friend, and you are left wondering, what caused this day to begin with such a horrific act?

Fortunately, for those of an easier disposition, there is an upside to The Rage... it can make us laugh! If after your riotous outburst you can take a moment to float up out of your body, look down on yourself and see how truly foolish you look, and laugh, then you have secured the only victory that was ever there to be won from the start! Ultimately, if you can't laugh at yourself for causing such uproar over something so trivial you won’t be able to banish The Rage back to that dark corner in your subconscious. Laughter really is the best medicine and I salute those with the power to laugh at themselves. Now excuse me, I have to go and buy some new hangers!

Much Ado About Muffin'

2009-02-03T12:03:00.000Z

After unashamedly buying into the 'Great American Starbucks Culture' as I meandered my way around the United States this past summer, I began to indulge on a rather regular basis, and a trip to Starbucks went from an occasional treat to something of a frequent occurrence.

By the time I hit the road on a monumental 13 hour drive from Nashville to Miami in late September it became apparent that I was a bigger fan of their blueberry muffins than I cared to admit. Not a fan in the same sense as teenage girl fans of High School Musical who scream hysterically as one of the ridiculously 'Hollywood' stars brushes past them before the premier of film number 27. I don't want to conjure up images of a crazed traveller banging on the doors of a local Starbucks demanding they OPEN UP so I can get my berry fix for the day! But my fleeting penchant for these fluffy little guys had indeed grown to new proportions, and you become aware of how stuffing one down your face has risen on your list of important things to do when you drive for an extra hour on the freeway, past several other coffee houses and gas stations, audibly cursing Florida's lack of Starbucks to yourself (alone in the car). But at least you are aware of the issue as you scream "FUCK THIS PISS ASS STATE"...short pause ...shame. At this time I feel I should make it clear that I have nothing against Florida, only at the time the sight of another Costa Coffee sign pushed me over the edge!

Anyway, I got to wondering how I fell quite so much for these overly expensive snacks, and why no others would do. Was there real magic in those Starbucks berries? Was I so brand loyal that I wouldn't try something new? Or was it that the 4 pack I bought from a 24 hour convenience store in San Francisco made me want to puke so much I actually considered making my self sick into a bucket just so I could take it back to the store, pour it over the counter and politely ask for a refund! "Errr, excuse me sir, your muffins have made me sick... I don't do sick muffins!" This was the most likely cause for my decision to hunt down the nearest Starbucks franchise, even if it was a lengthy drive! However, I did often wonder if I was an addict, and if they were secretly slipping crack into their recipe! I mean, as illegal as it is, it's a brilliant plan. Get you hooked on their muffins, and after some time... voila, monopoly!! If it was the case and people knew it, I wonder if it would affect their purchase behaviour, or would they still arrive every morning, slowly scoffing ...ahhh delicious crack muffin! At this juncture I should probably also mention that I am not accusing Starbucks of putting crack in their muffins. But if the news ever breaks, remember you read it here first!

Whatever the real reason, since my return to England I have not been able to find a decent enough replacement muffin to slake my morning blueberry lust! Perhaps muffin makers in England don't have the same experience, perhaps they cater to the different tastes of the English pallet, or perhaps the muffin market in the UK is not sufficiently large enough to warrant investment into muffin R&D! Whatever the reason, I feel I need to do whatever it takes to leave my muffin addiction in the past, in America, where it belongs!

Goodbye sweet crack muffin.