tyger tyger

I was 15 when I got my first phone. It was a separate landline. I had my own number and answering machine. I was a king.

One Eskimo said to another, “Hey Frank, can you hand me that spanner, I need to fix my bike.”

My grandfather could tell stories. They weren’t always true, but that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t the story that was important, it was the telling of the story that was. One night, when I was on the verge of blooming into manhood, my grandfather sat me down. Instead of telling me a story, he imparted some wisdom. He said, “Son, everyone’s life is just a series of stories to everyone else. Sometimes the stories are true, sometimes the stories are bullshit. But none of that really matters, because people only know what you tell them. But son, remember this, whether you’re spouting truth or spreading lies, make sure you tell it well.”

Ya, my grandfather could tell stories.

Thousands of feet pounding on the pavement. A cacophony of drums, bass, joy and debauchery. It’s like an ocean of humanity. The sound of beers being opened, beers being finished, stories being spread and lies being told, has amassed on one city street in order to silence the noise of the status quo – the daily grind. This night, this day, is to lose control. It is to be free of the constraints of moral shackles and to live as we were as children – albeit drunken children. The street be the medium, the alcohol be the paint and the day be the catalyst for a wonderful masterpiece of overwhelming freedom. Not without price, but also not without reward. Tonight I dance. I drink. I sing. I feel. For tonight is Distortion.