A life well hypothesised.

Hypothetically speaking, I could be dead tomorrow.  Hypothetically I could become extremely famous tomorrow, hypothetically speaking I could fall in love in tomorrow, hypothetically speaking none of these things are likely to happen.  Hypothetically speaking is an easy to way to breeze through the hours on a nice summer’s day.  A couple of questions that are regularly part of a hypothetical yarn with pals are as follows: What song would play at your funeral and What song would you have for your first dance with your bride or husband or goblin?  So I went a little further to dissect the hypothetical possibilities of my life and how things might pan out.  It’s indulgent, self centred and a little bit creepy, but it was also a laugh and it allowed me an excuse to peruse and file my music library (27,000 songs if you don’t mind umpire!)  I’m not saying that life will turn out this way or if I even want it to but it does allow me to think out six questions that we will all likely have to encounter one day.

Song to be played at my funeral

Thinking about one’s own funeral is not exactly the most heartwarming past time.  I mean, who is going to pay for it?  Will anyone go?  How will it all unfold?  I’m predicting that on the latter subject, it will probably be a hang gliding incident in Honolulu at around 5 P.M on my honeymoon. The sun sets on another beautiful day but my hang gliding instructor didn’t quite understand the logistics of working with an idiot who doesn’t listen to instructions.  Enough of the reason that you are all gathered in this church today and onto Willie Bee and the life he led.  He was, to be frank, a bit of a likable douche.  He left no stone unturned in matters that didn’t require that level of analysis and thought and this kind of summed him up.  An odd lad, unusually dressed with a penchant for singing to himself and talking to a mirror for hours.  Anyway, in the light of today’s pretty uncool events he wanted this song to be played.  It meant something to him.  And if you haven’t cried yet in regard to his death, be courteous and weep a little whilst listening to this song.  Give the man some goddamn tears!

Song to be played for my first wedding dance

I predict that marriage won’t really come to me until at least my 30s for I have no money and being a selfish man, I don’t particularly want to be bothered by anyone bar myself until I own a racehorse and a couple of goldfish.  But when that day comes and I tie the knot (for at least a few days, months, perhaps years) to a woman (or man, you never know) who I love dearly then I will continue my selfish ways and select the entire playlist for the wedding.  I would suggest that I probably will have a song that is special for both of us but as I can’t exactly predict if my future partner will be a Coldplay fan, a Frank Ocean fan or God forbid, a Pink fan, so I’ll just go with my gut.  As we slow dance our way to paradise and I ensure that the drama of the situation is heightened to the point of nausea inducing waves of electricity and pangs of indignation amongst the crowd who aren’t directly involved in a most passionate and consuming relationship, this song starts turning.

First city to live in other than Melbourne

Melbourne is my home and I love it.  I love the swell of the football crowds during September, the laneway bars, the parks and the beaches.  The late nights with friends and the pitter patter of rain on the bricks outside my house as June hits and you realise that the winter at its worst is nowhere near as cold as a regular November day in Berlin. I love the obsession with weather that has either developed due to social awkwardness or a particularly green conscious population which is unlikely when considering the conversations I have with regular Joe Blow’s about the inconvenience of water restrictions and that ‘bloody carbon tax!’.  However, there comes a point in one’s life when a career calls or boredom pushes you to seek something more.  And of course most expats end up in London or New York or a major city along those lines.  However, why reduce the choices to so few when the possibilities are quite extensive.  A year on the Amalfi Coast, a summer in Lagos, Autumn in Massachusetts.  I love the countryside and the beach but I still hold a soft spot for the hustle and bustle where things are constantly happening.  I still want to avoid being overrun by the bullshit of a city that never sleeps where everyone is in an obnoxious hurry.  So there is a fine line to choose from here.  Nice cafes, a relaxed atmosphere, an opportunity to meet particularly inspiring people.  Minus the whole Anschluss period just prior to the Second World War, Austria has a pretty solid reputation and Vienna is one of the prettier parts of Europe and the world.  I don’t speak German so that might be a bit of an issue and I’m not too sure about their take on likeable douches but I still feel that Vienna quite possibly could be that number one city… A large proportion of the population are without an official religion, always handy for those who tend to follow the word of Warne and a powerful history in the arts.

If all else fails, The Wire paints Baltimore as a particularly exciting place to live…

First major personal crisis

Most people who know me would bet on the following.  A nervous breakdown after 130 copies of my book are sold in the opening week despite hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on advertising campaigns which generally culminated in a few of us yelling out of a megaphone driving past in a Morris Minor Convoy whilst the rest of the money was spent on long lunches and trips to Vienna.  It isn’t a bad bet, however I would probably be more inclined to anticipate a financial crisis occurring after I embark on my fifteenth university course without finishing a single one when I am 48.  The straw that broke the camel’s back will more than likely be an editorial course readying myself for the rejuvenation of novellas in hard copy form despite kids around the world becoming more dependant on the opinions and works of famous writers such as Jennifer Lopez and Pit. A. Bull whom quit their fledging careers in ‘pop’ music in an attempt to redefine themselves as writers formerly from the street… or block.  I’m also not restricting myself to such examples.  A marriage to an inanimate object, an involvement in a four way wedding where I am the only party to be divorced for my intolerable sexual habits and an understudy for an actor in a one man show where two parts have been written (he plays both, they couldn’t trust me with the four line role of the paralysed brother who sits unmoving for three acts, I wriggled too much) are all potential options.

First name of first born.

Tradition or trend?  A lot of names have past their used by date, like Agnes and Barry, which is my middle name and I am rightly shattered about it falling out favour.  So I’m just going to go out on a limb and name my kids after musicians that I like.  Wolfgang and Aretha.  No. I don’t want my kids to resent me and become meth addicts when they hit 25.  However, calling my first son Otis would make me extremely happy. Is that such a crime to take pleasure out of my own first son’s eventual pain in having to explain why he is named after a soul singer who died before he reached the age of 30?  What if he hates Otis’ music?  What if he hates me?  What if I begin to hate my own kid?  All relevant questions.  I’m sticking by my guns.  And if my kid is similar to a boy named Sue?  Or more aptly, a girl?  Well, I have always had some attachment to the name Natalie.  Natalie Portman is up there in my top 5 women that I’d fall in love with and sacrifice my undeniable potential in the field of tapestry for to look after our kids and pot plants.  There’s a little class in the name and a little party there too.  But then there is Eva.  Eva Cassidy.  And Alicia.  Alicia Keys.  And Regina.  I don’t even like the name but Regina Spektor is a sparkling light in my life.  I’m too selfish to have kids quite yet.

The ten songs at my 50th birthday celebration.  

This is basically an gratuitous segment to state the 10 songs that have thus far defined my 22 some odd years.

Fleetwood Mac – Dreams

Michael Jackson – The way you make me feel

Jeff Buckley – Lover, you should’ve come over

Frank Ocean – Lost

Cold Chisel – Forever now

Flo Rida – Good feeling (just fucking with you…)

Just a parody from a couple of lads I know, not suggesting that this would be played at my 50th… depends on how much I want to drop their name.

Billy Joel – New York State of Mind

Otis Redding – Try a little tenderness

LCD Soundsystem – All my friends

Roachford – Only to be with you

Aloe Blacc – Green Lights

So I’m crossing my fingers in the hope that I don’t have to think about these questions seriously for quite a long time but at least my life is going according to plan in my daydreams and that is all that really counts, isn’t it?


One comment

  1. So weird – I just listed my three funeral songs earlier this week.

    For the record (and because I’m sure Mark wasn’t listening when I called him at 8am to tell him), they are:
    1. It’s Over – Aimee Mann, because it’s poignant and sad and sweet and desperately, self indulgently hopeless in a perfect Aimee Mann way
    2. Here Comes The Sun – Nina Simone (NB. Also my wedding song) because it makes my heart feel like it’s being thawed out after a long hibernation
    3. Wired for Sound – Cliff Richard, because it’s Wired for fucking Sound.

    You write like I used to in my early twenties, before my mid-twenties cynicism hardened my literary flow into a solid crust of permanent writers block bound together by an eye-rolling, self-loathing fear of unoriginality and a persistent, crippling inner voice. Don’t let it happen to you. x

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