The Lady GaGa video (two more people feel about it the way I do!) is just one of the many inventive ways in which thirtysomethingness continues to be catching up with me.

I swear I haven’t planned to become one of those people who mutter sentences starting with “those yoof of today”. Who get irritated by loud music playing at fashion retailers. And then they get irritated by the fact that all t-shirts seem to have juvenile prints on them (really? there are girls who would go for a bloke wearing a t-shirt saying “FUCKING GENIUS” with 12 pictures of various positions underneath? or a t-shirt saying “I RECYCLE GIRLS”?). And then as they walk home they see two teenagers in very lowly pulled pants — starting below their buttocks more or less — and they roll their eyes and go “jesus, what in the Alexander McQueen HELL are they wearing”.

Nevertheless, that’s exactly what I have become.

I listen to the Music Of Today and roll my eyes thinking “this has been done before, and so much better as well”. I realise it’s irrelevant, because pop music has never been about originality, and that it has never been aimed at thirty-somethings, but I can’t help it: it HAS been done before, and it HAS been done better. Which is why I can’t possibly enjoy Lady GaGa the way most of her uber-loyal disciples do. And because I hate stupidity in lyrics, I can’t possibly chart Ke$ha. Or Black Eyed Peas.

Then I look at my vinyl collection. And that’s even before I look at my CD collection. After carefully removing all the CDs I will never play again from the shelves and sticking them in a box (because I can’t possibly make myself throw them away) I ended up with 700+ CDs. I paid very good money for a lot of them. Almost none of them are worth that money anymore. Yet an iTunes download of the same music sometimes costs more than the CDs with thick, nicely printed booklets. Physicality of the object, thus, became a con rather than pro, and I can’t help but think those yoof of today are voluntarily getting screwed. (Except of course they have the last laugh, because they don’t REALLY pay for downloads.) Which doesn’t change the fact that it is me who has invested shitloads of money into CDs which right now aren’t really that much more than a waste of space.

The current H&M collection features jeans shirts, jeans jackets and jeans tops, last seen in the 1980s. I don’t only remember 1980s, I also remember the shame with which we laughed at the pictures only a few years later. What would make that stuff fashionable again? Oh yes — the yoof of today, who don’t yet realise the embarrassment they will feel next year when looking at the pictures they take today.

Movies made today? A very large part of them is either visual extravaganza without a plot whatsoever or badly acted remakes of movies made 30 years ago whose only fault is the fact that it’s impossible to add product placement to them. The remaining few are, perhaps, good — but the time it takes to separate the dross from the amazing? Who has that time in the age of information when you need to get a live feed of your neighbour’s cat’s bowl contents?

Those yoof of today get served shit on a golden platter. And they, ultimately, are the winners, because both them and me are force-fed the same excuse for entertainment, but I am a bitter old queen mumbling about “the Old Days used to be so much better you know” while they actually enjoy themselves.

Christoph Waltz, who has just received an Oscar (TM) (R) (C) for his role in Inglourious Basterds, has made a very special movie before that he would like to share with all of us… and who are we to not help him realise the dream?

Yes, I know drinking is not the most obvious subject on this blog. But in our quest for readership satisfaction we are ready to touch upon the most controversial of the most controversial [That will be enough - Ed.]

My tattoo artist said to me the other day that he thought Germans and Poles wouldn’t get along simply for the reason that they had different drinking habits. Germans, he said, love to drink beer until they fall under the table. Poles, he said, like to drink vodka until they throw up under the table. Those two were simply incompatible, he said. Also, the ways we get drunk are different; Germans sing horrible songs and grab waitresses’ backs, Poles fight over politics and religion and get really angry and depressed afterwards (and during). And when I say Poles fight, I don’t mean they are having a heated discussion. I mean that broken bottles are used.

This would explain why I never really got along with Poles either. I hate vodka. I can take it when mixed with juice or coke, but I could never join the (indeed) traditional shot shooting sessions. Mostly, may I explain, traditional among either groups of sweaty males bonding over their somewhat non-intellectual jobs or teenagers bonding over the fact they have a bottle of strong liquor at hand. Nevertheless, my mom, who belongs to neither of those groups, tends to serve vodka in glasses with meals as well, and to add insult to injury, she serves it warm. Beats me as to why she considers that acceptable, but I simply don’t join in.

My own drinking habits mostly involve dry red wine, rarely beer. And I am a choosy beer drinker, I don’t like what normally passes for “biertje” in Amsterdam; ideally I’ll have a Guinness, or one of those double-fermentation beers that could knock down a horse, but Heineken and Grolsch leave me completely uninterested. Also, generally I tend to drink very little nowadays, unless I am on holiday in Poland, interestingly, where I go to such extremes as having TWO AND A HALF BEER ON ONE EVENING or my mom’s Drink (it’s what it is called) consisting of grapefruit juice and warm vodka. (Much more acceptable with increasing quantities of juice.)

I am not sure which culture this makes me fit with, to be honest. I don’t feel that close to Germans or Poles, or Dutch. I like the idea, romantic as it is, of Irish people getting drunk on Guinness and singing “Danny Boy” and “Carrickfergus” while crying for the glorious past, but as I have never witnessed nor join such ceremony, I do not know how pleasant I would find it to be actually executed. (Also, I don’t know a single word of “Carrickfergus” other than the title.) Which nations like nothing best than dry red wine? Zee French? Do zee French actually ever get drunk at public places, and if yes, what lands under the table, are they jolly or sad drinkers and do Mylene Farmer songs get sung during the process?

More research is needed, but as it is 8:40AM at the moment you must forgive me for not commencing with it immediately.

the point im takin so long to make is that 90s mary j blige was *awesome.* im talkin biggie smalls hook sangin, k-ci from jodeci lovin, bubble coat wearin, grand puba co-rhymin mary. like i mean, im glad that she?s happy. really. im just gettin tired of hearin about it. it?s what i call the india(dot)aire effect. india has an awesome voice (mary, not so much though, id argue), and the stuff she sang about on her first album was really, really important. and it wasnt less important on the second album.. it was just like an unneccessary exclamation point to the first. and by the third it was just fucking annoying. OKAY. WE GET IT. YOU?RE NOT YOUR HAIR AND YOU LOVE YOURSELF. STFU. i see mary travelling the saaaaaaaaaaaaame worn path.

now u may be askin urself, ?self, how come it doesnt get annoying when folk only sing about pain and trials and hardships?? because, man, that?s the stuff that makes *good* music. great pain breeds great art. ain?t that how the sayin goes? is that even a saying at all? if not, it is now, cite me when u use it. but really. more people know drama better than sublime, uninterrupted happiness, i think. plus happy people are just grating after awhile, no? i dunno. maybe its just me.

Thing is, I am also traveling that worn path, and what can I say, it makes me happy, and I guess that’s why this blog has maybe a third of the readership that followed my old blog that was all about self-deprecating dark stories from the dating hell. Maybe I should be glad I am not a professional songwriter after all!

By the way, I wrote a shit long diatribe about beauty, botox, steroids and Susan Boyle not being nominated for a Brit award, then I looked at it and realised it sums down to “I am old and those yoof of today don’t get shit”. Hmmm.

It wasn’t until I’ve been stopped on the street today by a boy 10 years younger than me who enthusiastically exclaimed “I LOVE your headphones!” that I realised how uncool I became.

I bought those headphones — by a certain not very well known brand I won’t mention — largely due to their cool value; I wanted to buy something that’s damn cool, vislble from a large distance, expensive… but mostly has warranty that covers the damn thing being driven over by a bus. I had replaced four pairs of headphones in the last six months because their injuries were not covered by warranty and to be honest that’s a bit enough. Plus, the bright green colour ensures that fellow cyclists will notice that I am listening to music and, hopefully, ring their bells louder or summat. So I had bought uber-cool expensive headphones because of safety and good warranty.

Those headphones fit absolutely nothing I was wearing, which consisted of black coat (cheap and warm and nice, C&A), blue jeans (big torn ones from H&M, and anyway with my legs you can’t wear fashionable stuff, because fashionable stuff assumes you’re anorexic) and black leather boots (warm, comfy and, erm, that’s about all that can be said about them). Underneath I was rocking a purple scarf, which was covered by the coat and thus invisible, black cardigan and black muscle t-shirt, which is kind of cool, but still doesn’t match those headphones.

A whole other thing is what I have been listening to. It wasn’t what I am listening to right now (i.e. Susan Boyle, whose album I will review here soon), but it wasn’t much better. It was Madonna’s “Open Your Heart”. Which I followed by Annie Lennox’ “Diva” in its entirety.

My coolness reached its peak when “We are technology” was played on the Polish radio repeatedly, Martina and me were doing interviews for MTV and I had a regular DJ slot at a club so cool waiters would ignore you for an hour before lowering themselves to notice your presence, even if you were the only person present apart from staff. I wore the perfectly right clothes, listened to perfectly right music (and played it during my DJ sets), and whatever I would choose to put on would be good, because I was cool. When I had long black hair it was cool, and when I shaved my head leaving a blonde mohawk it was also cool. Mind you, I was also 24.

Thing is, it wasn’t me adapting to become cool; it was simply a great timing that ensured that what I liked was fashionable. I kept on listening to — and playing electronic music from the 80s, it’s just that Felix da Housecat happened to hit a golden mine when he sampled “Passion” by The Flirts for his breakthrough hit “Silver Screen Shower Scene” and followed it by sampling Human League, who themselves attempted a comeback with criminally underrated “All I Ever Wanted”. And then that time has passed, and electro sound has gone back to the underground, and got replaced by indie guitar rock. I stopped DJing, Technologic’s second single didn’t get much love from the radio, and that was about it.

Ever since then I have been doing what everybody does — that includes you, dear reader, as much as that shocks you — aging. At the age of 32 certain routes are closed for me. I will never become a professional tennis player; I will never be Madonna’s dancer; I will never be a teenager again, basically, and I will never be a part of the Twenty-Something Bloggers club. I might still become a professional boxer, but I should hurry up.

Being cool is also about keeping up with the times; with the Current New Sounds, trends in clothes, movies, actors, books, social networking. There’s something called Twilight out there, which features emo twink Robert Pattinson who has been more often than not described as lacking personal hygiene; there’s Lady Gaga, who has an amazing image not supported by music I would like to listen to more than once — she sounds like a third rate Britney Spears, and if I want to listen to Britney, I have the original at hand; the jeans available in the stores are almost exclusively skinny, which is bad news if you happen to work out a lot and you’re not one of those funny people who only exercise their chest and biceps. Generally, I know what’s cool, but I don’t give a shit.

I am not cool anymore. I don’t have time for that. I don’t want to listen to Lady Gaga, Marina And The Diamonds, Florence And The Machine, Ellie Goulding or Owl City simply because they are a New Fresh Thing. I know what Chris Lowe has to say about “even if it’s bad, it’s good because it’s new” and I disagree; I prefer to listen to music that I already KNOW is good, rather than spend my valuable time on listening to stuff that I could possibly like… or not. When faced with a choice between Janet Jackson’s “Number Ones” or Lady Gaga’s “Fame Monster” I will choose Janet. I played Gaga once. She didn’t set my world on fire. I played the CD again, and it got on my nerves. There will be no third chance. I’m BUSY.

Why buy a new pair of jeans that won’t fit me if I can wear my old leather pants that do? Why subscribe to Facebook, Twitter, formspring.me and 40 other uber-fashionable social networking sites if I don’t have time to meet my friends — actual living breathing humans — for drinks? Why would I bother listening to Florence And The Machine’s album if singles bored me to tears? Why would I watch mega-stupid people on “Jersey Shore” if I still haven’t found time to watch “City of Angels”?

Yes I know — admitting that makes me uncool. But so what? I’m 32. I will never be cool again, unless I become a celebrity writer (you can be a cool celebrity writer at the age of 60) simply because I am ancient. Seeing what MTV has become (my gym often has MTV on) makes me mutter sentences containing the words “youth of today” and “when I was younger, MTV played music”. I have no interest in being cool ever again unless I get paid for it, and it would better be GOOD money.

As ripped off Dark Cloud Nine.

1. What did you do in 2009 that you?d never done before?

Yoga! I have started and I have no intention of quitting anytime soon.

2. Did you keep your New Years? resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I checked my blog and there are no New Years’ resolutions for last year so obviously I haven’t made any. *phew*

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yeah, cousins’ wife. Cute baby.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Yes.

5. What countries did you visit?

Oh the usual, England and Poland. In general I travelled a lot but only to places I’ve already been to. Don’t ask me why. *slightly ashamed*
(more…)

The Noughties are almost over — and in two days the Teenies officially begin. Here’s a few predictions from me — on the subjects that I actually know something about. (Not much about cars then.)

The Teenies will be the age of backlash against current state of the world, where information remains current for about two seconds before becoming obsolete. A neo-hippie movement will begin, one that will renounce internet, Perez Hilton and Twitter, and vow to go back to the dark ages when the only source of all knowledge was cable TV. It will most probably start with a Facebook campaign.

The major record labels will collapse and/or become multimedia companies along the lines of Live Nation, involved in every aspect of music delivery and memorabilia, from selling t-shirts through concerts to releasing the recordings. CD sales will stabilise at the level of about 20% of the download sales, with the extra-limited editions priced around 50-70 euro, including a lock of artist’s hair, t-shirt, picture disc vinyl and similar shit forming a large portion. On the other side will be iTunes downloads offering the bare minimum, sound recording at acceptable quality and absolutely nothing but a tiny bitmap in the way of artwork. (By the way, when I say “recordings”, they will largely be recorded at artists’ homes, as most studios will go out of business.) Eventually recorded music in form of download will become either free or largely discounted, perhaps with subscription model led by companies such as last.fm, and CDs/vinyl/blu-ray audio will be the deluxe collectors’ format.

Books printed on paper will be next; Apple’s (iSlate?) tablet will open the gates for a device that works like Amazon’s Kindle but looks cool. Then the sales of paper books will stabilise at about 20% of the download sales. The paper copies will be bought by neo-hippies, pretentious people and old farts like me. Everyone else will have moved on to minimal rooms in minimal houses with white walls and Apple products on white, spotless desks housing all their media.

(Eventually Apple backlash will begin, and it will look very similar to that love-hate relationship people have with Microsoft. But Google will be first.)

The division between people who create things and people who use things will grow, eventually leading towards the kind of society described by Wells in “The Time Machine” — Eloi versus Morlocks.

Nokia will go out of business, unless they either downsize by 80% or fire absolutely everybody who has worked on their user interfaces in the last 5 years. (Mind you, I haven’t seen the latest Nokias, because the models of the last 5 years ensured I will never want to touch one again.) In the meantime, all traditional mobiles will be replaced by smartphones, with the exception of models aimed at seniors.

Tobacco will be outlawed.

There is only one problem with my resolutions for 2010, and that is the fact that I have loads of them, and I don’t really see days being expanded to 36 hours to accommodate all that I want to do.

First, I want to record new music. Not just go on about it and about how I haven’t got inspiration, but, like, sit my lazy ass at the Big Mac and DO IT. I have done some exciting stuff in the past, and most of it happened when I wasn’t trying to do commercial music but just did it because I was feeling creative. I am feeling like being creative again. Whether it is the loooooong elaborated over triphop record or a Depeche Mode circa 1986 record, remains to be seen, but at least one of them has to be completed in 2010.

Second, and that’s kind of connected, I have to write more. Not just blog more, although that could be good as well (seeing as Typing in Stereo turned into Here’s Where I Post My Chart blog). Fiction perhaps? (I’m a bit too young for memoirs, no matter what Geri Halliwell with two to her name before the age of 14 has to say about that.) Perhaps the long-rumoured fitness blog with REGULAR updates? I’ll see. But, again, one of those has to happen in 2010.

Third, I am going back to my “challenge” and by that I mean that I haven’t quite been asked to participate in the six-pack competition that my workmates are having, but that doesn’t mean I can’t win it anyway. I’ve been going on about how I will one day have visible abs that I can as well put the beer away and do it. (Note: I am NOT going to not drink anything on New Year’s Eve. There is dedication and there is sheer masochism.) Here’s my 2010 resolution: abs inspiring teenage girls to spontaneously combust.

Fourth, raygrant.com has to actually get some content. Other than “coming soon”. And by the way, I redesigned Typing in Stereo, but it never progressed past Photoshop. Time to turn that into code. Both have to happen in 2010.

Fifth, I have looooooong wanted to go to a hip-hop dance class, and always thought, I’d soooo like to do it, but really, I’d probably be the oldest kid present. They would point at me, laugh and call me “grandpa”. Thing is, I keep on thinking that I would love to go and I also keep on not becoming any younger. In 2010 I will join a dance class. (And that’s in addition to Manfriend’s suggestion that we should join a ballroom dancing class.)

Sixth, I will buy new underwear. Yes I know that sounds easy, but I have a rather refined taste, and nothing that I have seen in the last four months satisfied it with the exception of underwear that is so obscenely outside my budget that I had to censor it out of my head (and my credit card statement). There must be wearable underwear below 100 euro a pair in the world, and I am determined to track it. In 2010. (This one has to happen, because I am not yet ready to become one of those men who wear stretched boxers with holes in the crotch area.)

And seventh, which is kind of connected with third, I am sticking to the gym. I paid for a year in advance Mozdammit and I am not letting that money go to waste. I will not be one of those heterosexuals people who age gracefully and dress their age and grow beer guts and say things like “my metabolism slowed down after thirty, that’s why I’m no longer thin” while eating pizza and trying to beat their own record in sitting down without getting up.

Eighth, ninth and tenth? I’ll keep on the good work and improve the weaker bits. I’ll be an amazing designer, even better boyfriend, get more tattoos (you can never have enough hats, gloves and tattoos), do some courses, continue with yoga on a weekly rather than “erm, I promise to come to the class sometime soon” basis, and generally I will be like a cross between Madonna (minus crotch-pumping and cameltoe), Hugh Jackman and Marian Keyes. Mind you, with my luck that could mean being regularly mistaken for a 50-year-old, becoming all hairy and spending some time in rehab, but hey! if it makes me bloody rich and gets me piles of awards, I’m going to try.

What are your resolutions? Anything particularly unusual?

In February I wrote:

Less than two weeks ago I called my mother and found out my grandmother has cancer in her glands. The doctors said they could perhaps operate, but she could as well die on the operating table ? she?s not exactly young. They didn?t know where the cancer came from; she had it in her jaw before, and apparently the glands are a secondary place to have cancer, so it meant that it either came from the one in her jaw a few years ago, or? somewhere else. [...] I am going to Poland this weekend to, well, say goodbye. The doctors refused to give an estimate of how much time she has left; she?s in very bad shape altogether, and the cancer isn?t her only problem, although it is the biggest. I have to go there, visit her, keep on smiling and being upbeat and pretending everything is OK and that I?m there sort of accidentally and not at all because I fear I might never have a chance to tell her again that I love her.

A few months later doctors said that actually it wasn’t cancer; it was something else, but they didn’t know what. Then she got better. Then she got worse again. Then she got better. Then, recently, she landed in hospital with a lung inflammation; she was about to be released on Friday. But on Friday morning she had a massive brain hemorrhage and is now in the coma. Within five days doctors shall determine whether she shall die or survive… but remain unable to breathe on her own, speak, move or interact. Basically, her brain is now dead, and body shall follow, they just don’t know for sure when.

In February I was shocked, horrified, stressed, whatever else you can think of, I was all those things. Now, though… the last 9 months have been really hard for her and for my Mom and family. I don’t really want to go into detail, but when a very active person gets grounded in bed, it isn’t very easy, neither for that person nor for people surrounding them. Her hospital visits, despite the lack of cancer, became more and more frequent, her personality changed, my family almost split in two over the treatments, money, time they could/would devote to her. I saw her again in the summer, I was lucky like that. It did occur to me that it was the last time, when I visited her just before my flight, and saw a very, very thin person, almost hidden by a duvet, lying in bed and breathing with difficulty. I said my goodbye, and I said I loved her, and she said she loved me too.

I don’t really have any ideas for a nice round ending of this post, you have to forgive me here.

*

Life wrote the ending (yes it’s a cliche thing to say), my grandmother died today during the day, without regaining consciousness.

So people are talking to me about my 30 day challenge. Some are impressed. Some are pissed off. Some are condescending. Some are laughing about it.

The most familiar reaction is actually irritation: “It’s easy for you.” Or: “Well, I would do that too, but I have children/I live in a small town/I don’t have time/I don’t know how to do that.” When I start to explain how to do that, the person dismisses me with a quick “oh nooo, I really don’t think it’s my thing”. Then they grab a donut.

(True story: I had a flatmate who was trying to lose weight. He would approach it like this: breakfast — a few grapes; lunch — a few grapes; dinner: a big cake since he was so good all day. That was years ago. Apparently, though, he is still doing it — a friend told me they went to a party together and ex-flatmate was going on about his healthy lifestyle while consuming an entire bag of crisps.)

I know all about excuses, because I was a king of excuses for 29 years. I couldn’t work out because: it was tiring, time-consuming, I didn’t know how to do it, everybody would stare at me, I didn’t like people who went to the gym, I didn’t have time, didn’t know any gyms nearby, didn’t want to look like a bodybuilder, and — above all — my weight gain was simply a result of old age, I told myself, eating my pizza with side salad, because I was a healthy eater after all.

Original motivation for me to start working out was of two kinds: 1. it was either that, or buying new wardrobe in larger sizes — I couldn’t fit into any of my pants anymore except for one size 34 pair that was threatening to burst any moment; and 2. my boss, who told me he worked out five times a week, which I found a scary, unnatural and… exciting idea. Is it POSSIBLE to work out five times a week? I wondered. Doesn’t that KILL people? But my boss looked very much alive.

That was three years ago. My motivation changed. First, I wanted to lose weight. Then I wanted to gain strength (let’s face it, you don’t become a huge bodybuilder unless you use steroids and work waaaaaay harder than 99.9% people going to gyms do… but a nice muscular figure has NEVER gone out of fashion, and it’s so handy to be able to lift your own luggage). Then I just fell in love with the lifestyle, with lifting, sweating and relaxing at the sauna afterwards and the pleasant ache and feeling I did well.

Food-wise? Protein shakes and meat form a large part of my diet. People who complain about how disgusting protein shakes are, obviously never had one, or not since the Nineties. The new brands are cheap and taste like melted ice cream, which is very much up my alley, I love ice cream.

So why do I need to do the 30 day challenge? First of all, there’s focus; it’s easy to tell yourself “yars, yars, I am eating healthy, so there’s no harm in another glass of wine” or “yars, I had a leg workout today, so there’s no harm in having a huge bowl of spaghetti for dinner”. It’s okay if you do that once or twice a week, but if you do it everyday, you are quite unlikely to become ripped. Second of all, I like to prove to myself that I can do it. And third, I lost over 1.5 kg fat within the first 9 days. Unlike people on stupid diets consisting of grapes, ice cubes and “bowel relaxing tea”, I didn’t lose water or muscle tissue. I lost fat. And suddenly, 9 days later, I went from “you’re not fat, darling, just a bit… rounded here and there” to having a nice, flat stomach. Beat that.

It is okay if people laugh about it. It is okay if people roll their eyes and mutter something about insanity. It is okay if people say “I wish I had your determination” while munching on a donut with double glazing. It is okay when they say “I wish I knew how to do it… BUT DON’T TELL ME”. Because it’s not about them. It’s not even about boyfriend (although I suspect he might enjoy the end result). It’s not about anyone else. It’s about me. My motivation is me. Sure, pictures of ripped men that I put on my fridge, mobile and computer wallpaper help in a way — they help me stay in focus when I have impure thoughts about pizza — but at the end, I am my own motivation. And if you don’t have that kind of motivation, you’re doing something wrong.