My Brain Hurts
This weekend was spent travelling to London, revising for my theory test and reading copius amounts of literature.
Animal Farm was conquered in one sitting, I am a long time Orwell fan but only just got around to reading his seminal classic. Its good. very good, but you should know that.
When that fell, I went straight onto Hunter S Thompsons "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign trail '72", a book which was mysteriously out of print during the last US Presidential Campaign, its re-release kept being delayed until - maybe out of frustrated anticipation - Hunter took his own life. Low and behold, new printing marking his death, with thoughts by less interesting people than himself on his life, yours for only £7.99. When did books get so expensive? There is no VAT on these things either.
Still, its shaping up to be an excellent book, though perhaps not as instantly accessable as Fear and Loathing in Vegas. The thing that really pisses me off about HST: I was meaning to read his books for ages and after a cancelled Amazon order (they couldnt provide on the Campaign Trail) I went onto Iain Banks. And then what happens? HST kills himself and I look like just another schmuck only reading his work because of the associated glory that comes with his death. God damn it.
Last week saw me reading the excellent Brave New World by Aldious Huxley, a brilliantly paced cautionary tale warning of the increasing dangers of consumerism, a book that hasn't aged a day since its 1932 publication. Nothing short of amazing and all the more fun that the majority of the book was absorbed whilst I was having a tattoo done. Two pastimes which shouldn't be mutually exclusive but due to the growing insular nature of todays society, they have become two hobbies which seem more and more disparate. Back in the studio in one week.
Catch 22 next week, and if I can find it: Farenheit 451.
Lots of good comics too: Couscous Express by the brilliant yet under-rated Brian Wood, She-Hulk Vol. 2, the sensationalist yet fun Battle Royale vols. 3 and 4, Goodbye Chunky Rice (by the author of Blankets).
All in all, some eclectic reading.
Finally managed to watch all of Dr. Strangelove without getting distrated by other vices too.
My Brain Hurts and I want to write but I am stuck at work.
My point though: An alarming amount of whom I might consider influences have or had interesting experiences with Mescalin. Should I look into it? Did they tap into something? Maybe Alan Moores fabled idea-space? Would my work improve? Would I get published?
Important questions each and every.
But then you think: "shit, most of them are dead."