A Sunday, as good as any other. Temperature’s reaching thirty, I’m enjoying a lunch with bunch of mates, indulging in foreign cuisine, hmmm, so good it’s almost bordering debauchery. Yet there’s a cloud hanging over my head. Or rather two of them. The first one that makes me run to a car just seconds after parting ways with friends, the other one slightly larger, harsher, more irritating, hanging exclusively over me. I am moving.

I’ve been moving all my life. While some people never leave their village, I cannot count a number of beds I laid my bones across. I do not mind — I really don’t; it’s only the act of actual moving that makes me a bit dizzy, slightly nervous and remarkably unpleasant.

To fight above mentioned distress, I invented and over the years mastered and perfected a recipe for moving:

Point one, above all, is — don’t panic. That should be written in large, friendly letters on any recipe anyway.

Point two, almost equally important — do nothing. For as long as possible, ignore the inevitable. Act as if nothing was to come. Pretend it’s business as usual. Ideally, do not even talk about it. Keep it for yourself. The more people know, the more people ask annoying questions. The more people give you advice. The more people want to attend a farewell party and (often the same ones!) a housewarming one.

Point three — listen to music that can be enjoyed quietly in a lounge. Trying desperately to avoid using that derogatory word lounge music. Basically, we’re talking about something The Wilbury brothers would approve of. Something between Ray Charles and Beck. The choice is yours. Relax, take it easy. You may even want to try breathing exercises. They come handy soon.

Point four — without discussing this point in detail, please google Blitzkrieg. As fast as humanly possible, the following has to be done: pack all the necessary stuff, sell everything that is not necessary and can be sold, give away or throw away (meaning recycle) anything that cannot fall into previous categories, disconnect services, move out, move in, unpack, reconnect services. Welcome home!

Point five — have a cigar and a decent drink. You’d need it, trust me. Scotch, quality wine or cranberry juice are acceptable. Having bath is essential to stay sane.

Hovering between third and fourth point, and trying to move on (a bit sarcastic when considering to move out and move in), I’m contemplating. Looking around, recording a final reel of a surreal mental flick set in this place. Everything comes back in flashbacks. Each piece of a furniture, each spot of an apartment tells a story. If they can be memorised, they go with me. If not, they have to stay behind, I don’t feel like taking prisoners. Of course, there’s a scent of nostalgia in the air, though evaporating as soon as I get to the blitzkrieg point.

And then — once unpacking is complete, I’ve had a bath and maybe an imaginary Red Apple cigarette, it’s time to start filming a new flick somewhere else. Actually, I can’t wait.

I’ve been living in Sydney (on and off) for about six a half years and I’ve never made it to any sporting event. I mean one in which I would actively participate. Until today when I joined the crowd and enjoyed unparalleled experience of Sydney’s own City to Surf.

Honestly, I didn’t feel like talking about it until this morning as I wasn’t quite sure if I would run. One reason was my world-famous laziness, however, there was also an official one (in case somebody pretended to be interested) — my sore right foot. The second obstacle was healed by my wonderful therapist just in time so I only had to fight my reluctance. I won. Shite. Now I’m sore all over.

So for the first time this millennium, lucky Sydneysiders and even luckier visitors could see me running. And what a picture it was! I saw some Japanese tourists taking photos of me off Vaucluse, obviously trying to capture arrival of foot-and-mouth disease to Australia.

Nevertheless, I have to admit I wasn’t by far the funniest of the family-reunion-styled bunch of 65.000 workout-hungry earthlings.

I noticed at least two Borats in mankini, champs pushing supermarket trolley with slabs of beer (that got gradually emptied as the race progressed), a fellow pushing his mum in a wheelchair (this member was actually faster than me, bugger!), and even guys carrying their laziest mate on a stretcher. Where were my friends? Where were my brothers when I needed them most? I could have enjoyed a free ride trough Australia’s poshest suburbs without a drop of sweat!

Instead, I was left to jog through 14k route. And yes, it does hurt. Especially if it’s the only 14k one has done ever since leaving high school. Chasing chicks cannot count, as it rarely involves actual act of running.

Sun was spitefully beaming at me, vile volunteers were throwing cups of Gatorade at me, bored millionaires at front gardens of their luxury mansions were recklessly watering me with hoses, leisurely smoking cigars, big bands along the route were torturing me with jazz tunes, yet nothing could stop me from finishing victoriously in my new track record.

Looking forward to your congratulations.

One day in March Gabriel landed in Sydney. After shaking hands, we made it to the city, lunched together, hanged out for a while, had a dinner in a local Czech restaurant and after couple of beers, we started making music the very same night.

I appreciated Gabriel’s visit ‘cos not only brought he eight-year-old Bacardi waiting to be terminated by two displaced Slovaks, he also tuned my guitar. Thank you, brother. Would you have three weeks on your hands plus dosh to burn, pop in anytime, it needs tuning again. And please don’t forget the bottle!

As it happened, Gabriel also unintentionally brought the vibe with him. So much for the chances.

That night we penned She has a soul, a subtle piece about a girl searching for Mr Right. As it’s widely known and I’m happy to discuss it over and over would the need arise, there’s no Mr Right — but Gabriel and/or myself.

However, our heroine overlooks Gabriel and has never heard of me. She might be sort of drowning, instinctively searching for meaning of life and love. For the record, I’m quite aware that meaning of life is 42, though I’m not sure if our dear audience knows that meaning of love starts with Gabriel’s or my telephone number. (For these who are about to call: Gabriel handles northern hemisphere, I do the southern one.)

Without knowing the reason, composing was a piece of cake. Straightforward. Summer breeze. It wasn’t until Gabriel returned to U.K. that he realised what was behind the breeze and consequent ease. It was a girl. A genuine babe somewhere out there, radiant, peachy, vibey, relaying waves of desire and motivation over the oceans.

Indeed.

However, by the time we realised who the lucky one was, she was gone. Never mind. Her long distance vibe inspired a tune. That is what most struggling songwriters long for. Including lousy pretenders like Gabriel & me.

It’s been well over a month since any of us had a second to spare to add content to this site. Few things happened, though. Charlie blowing out his first candle, Tony resigning as a Prime Minister of United Queendom and Apple releasing their long anticipated iWonder. And, not to forget, Emilia coming over to check out our world. Welcome!

We’re rolling on!

I just went through a funny ordeal: had a DVD stuck in an optical drive. It couldn’t be ejected and had to be physically removed from a dismantled drive. Sounds cool now but I warn you not to try it at home. Surgery can change into autopsy any second.

***

I was watching a DVD movie the other day and once I finished I was to eject it from my MacBook Pro’s SuperDrive. Hitting the eject button, DVD disengaged and after few seconds engaged again, disappearing and reappearing as a mounted device on a desktop. Obviously, my Mac enjoyed the movie too and decided to keep it for itself.

Funny, thought I. Something’s going on. Tried over and over to same results, fighting the film. Tried to restart and hold the trackpad button. Nothing, or rather the same again. At this moment, normal people call technical support and give up. But since when am I normal?

The very first thing I did was to search Internet forums. How to get a jammed DVD of the drive? People come up with different ideas, they use credit cards, paper clips, tweezers, turn computer upside down, or whatever else, just to trick the drive to release the offending movie. So I tried all of these, slowly coming to a sad conclusion: I will have to dismantle the whole bloody thing!

Love Actually running on a fully functional, yet semi-dismantled MacBook Pro which still has the SuperDrive top casing removed.

What can I say. Got repair guides from the Internet (www.ifixit.com and powerbookmedic.com are a great source), all necessary screwdrivers, summoned my two assistants (one of whom took photos) and conquered the Mac. It takes roughly 30 screws to get to the drive.

However, once I had a drive, I still didn’t have a movie. So even the SuperDrive had to be dissected into pieces. Then, finally, I had my beloved DVD back. It was brand new few hours ago and now looked at me beautifully scratched by a credit card (which I rendered useless, too) and punctured by tweezers (they survived).

Now, talking about autopsy is one thing and trying to operate without qualification is the other. Yet, I put it all together. Drive was a bit tricky though with proper pressure applied to its screws it engages and releases discs far better now than before. I know ‘cos I let the laptop run while still on a slab, adjusting the screws for the best performance.

This is me enjoying a glass of bourbon while Peter is admiring my precise work.

The rest was a piece of cake. Top casing with keyboard, screws, memory, battery, more screws and ready to fire! All good.

And what was that movie, you might ask? I answer very quietly, OK? Notting Hill. You won’t tell anybody, promise?!