Lately, I got into trash movies. You know, ones that nobody watches, and even if someone does, he or she is embarrassed to talk about because they’re so awful. Awful to the point that people want to forget them straight away, however not dreadful enough to become cult classics. For now, of course, as I smartly suspect they grow into the league of finest same way the best wines do.

Yes, these are the movies I watch lately. It all started rather accidentally as one night I decided to watch something different. That different was Because I Said So. Although I expected a bad movie, I was dying for it to finish. Still, I just couldn’t storm off. The movie was so tragically atrocious that I just thought – hey, what if they did it on purpose to create a timeless masterpiece that Quentin Tarantino would scrutinise and appreciate? I haven’t had a chance to talk to Mr Q lately, but I believe he wouldn’t. It’s creepiness and freakiness that’s missing. Important ingredients, mind you!

Than I ran into another one, that goes under a name of T4xi. For those who are trying to find a reason for such a stupid name, there’s a hint. Maybe it’s a sequel. Or maybe it’s a sequel of a sequel. Or, what if it’s a sequel of a sequel of a sequel. Yes, that must be it. One might also encounter this disaster under a pseudonym Taxi 4. Without letting too much out, it’s a French comedy. An evidence that Gaulish flicks can be as hopeless as their American counterparts. Fortunately, not all of them are.

And next example: I attempted to see… Hm… An older one… How was it called?? So bad I even forgot its title. Body? Bladder? Belly? Yes, that’s it! Bingo! Real hard core stuff about Afro-American businessmen. Impossible to dig, impossible to cope with. Outstanding gem. I couldn’t distinguish between all them niggaz, they were all kind of blending into one. Pity they weren’t wearing badges. Anyway, I can still highly recommend it to those who are about to enter the trade.

And there is so many others that I just can’t get out of my mind. Take Date Movie. One gets sick just mentioning it. Still better than Basic Instinct 2. And the ultimate epic of the nineties, probably first movie I ever walked out on, Showgirls. Though, I have to admit, it was so extremely grim that it’s already on its way to be a cult classic. A piece of crap is turning into masterpiece.

Thinking about it, I might be doing the best thing: watching trash means watching future finest. See, how clever? So would you know of any marvels-in-waiting, please do not hesitate to let me know. A short email or comment will do. And thanks for watching!

It was probably 1994 or 1995, one of those fantastic years when I was doing absolutely nothing and enjoyed doing so in a super cool fashion; in other words, life was about hanging out, picking up girls, drinking and writing pieces about love, loneliness and despair. Like things that later became lyrics for Gabriel’s One Night Stand.

Sometime about that time, there used to be a weekly film quiz in a local newspaper. Three questions, one lucky winner of a VHS tape. VHS tape, people, as that was well before DVD times. As you surely understand, there was no IMdB, not even mentioning hippie know-it-all Wikipedia at the time either. In fact, there was hardly anything on the Internet at all (as I do not consider Apple, Cisco, Sun, Xerox and Playboy sites relevant to this article). Yes, whoever wanted to enter, they had to know, guess, or dig (oh!) through real heavy weight encyclopaedias.

As it happened, once, there was Cyril Collard’s Savage Nights to win. Some might say a cult movie. By chance — as I’m down to Earth — I knew or figured out the answers. So it made perfect sense that the tape was to be mine. Yet, what if somebody else knew the answers, too? Hm… The more cards sent, the higher the chance the tape would make it my way. Hm…

My parents’ place was a hangout joint. We used to play table tennis downstairs and local version of D&D upstairs. So there were always mates coming in and out. Each of them gladly filled a card for me, no hesitation. Except for Gabriel. While he did, he had a decent whine about one’s limited share of luck and him potentially giving up his fair part in my favour. That reminds me that I must ask him to explain his theory in full for our broad audience one day.

Eagerly, I’m waiting for the following week. Flicking through pages in anticipation — and there it is: Gabriel won me my Savage Nights! I can see his sad eyes to these days. Bleak, gloomy day, we’re sitting in a downtown bar, sipping apple juice, and Gabriel doesn’t have to say anything, telepathy worked rather good those days already. I’m getting a dose of his limited luck theory quietly and wirelessly. He just sacrificed a share of his luck that he didn’t want to. I owe him this, I have to pay him back. Even starring at the glasses is exhausting. Air’s too heavy to breathe. We’re leaving silently against lousy weather.

2007. Gabriel lands in Sydney, bringing me Savage Nights paperback as a present. And when I’m looking at him, I can still see a bleak, gloomy day with ourselves sitting in a downtown bar way across the planet.

He just stopped by to remind me. I have to pay him back. I still owe him a share of his luck.

Yes, it must have happened. We have expected it. Here it is. And what did it do to us?

Both authors of this web turned thirty within last couple of months. Threw few parties as expected to celebrate making it into respectable adults and… Has anything changed? Speaking of myself, absolutely nothing has changed. I still feel one day like being twelve and the next like being seventeen. And oscillating between the two extremes. It’s funny.

Or, maybe there is few things that I’ve noticed. But rather gradually, not suddenly or unexpectedly.

I noticed I have friends who are older. Considerably older. They are real old farts. There is some who are about sixty, and even one who’s well over eighty. I couldn’t imagine having friends even in my father’s age some five years ago. Now I find it obvious. They think the same, they do the same, we have something in common, we’re friends. Age does not matter anymore. At all.

I noticed I’m accepted. It must have something to do with grey hair and starting wrinkles, I have no better explanation. I get called “sir” instead of a “young man”. Am I not young anymore? I was told for years that life was just starting at thirty.

With acceptability, there’s also responsibility. Out of the blue, it’s not surprise that I’m in charge of others. Scratching my greying hair, I am to decide what they’re gonna do. I should be responsible (and I am trying my best to be, of course).

And I’m not punk anymore (not that I ever was). I’m stoic, self-composed and laid-back. Without making an effort to render this post too humorous, sometimes — quite incidentally — I happen to be. It seems that my judgements have real ground underneath. Some of them, at least. One or two I can recall… I am no longer eager to “go south” as I used to in my late teens, now I am south enough and I am to go north again. The tide is slowly turning.

And one thing that alone makes me sure I’m grown? I don’t feel like spending nights out anymore. I can’t care less. If I don’t feel like going somewhere, I don’t go, even if friends go. I don’t care. It’s not the end of the world if I don’t see something or if I miss something. I prioritise.

Looking at the lines above, it seems that there is actually far more to being thirty than I expected. And that is still not all. I double-checked with my brother in London, and he also gets some regular reminders: gas & electricity bills, rent/mortgage repayments, and everybody’s favourite taxes to pay. These are the annoying details, and one has to get used to them. If one cannot get one’s own way, one must adjust to the inevitable…

But there are bright moments, too. Take parenthood. One sees a baby grow (if one has one, I might add). Enjoys teaching and learning together. Motivating. Exploring. Conquering. Experiencing. That can be the real joy of thirties, I guess.

So after all, there is a lot to be in one’s thirties. Or maybe (almost) nothing, if one chooses so.

Since for those who entered their thirties and don’t feel ready yet, there’s a cheap trick: it only takes a clean shave and a short haircut to look ten years younger. It won’t fool the taxman, but it might be just enough to start a conversation with that super-cool teen who just moved next door.

Is anybody else violating intergalactic law? Some formatting features are not functional, but basic stuff kinda works.

It was late summer of 1994, or let’s rather admit it was early September of that year and I was hanging around in Prague with no particular agenda after holiday work nearby. Being recently introduced to new indulgences and a legendary (and now extinct) underground joint TAZ, I was feeling incredible. And I was incredibly stupid.

David Gilmour and company, minus Roger Waters, were in town. They were playing the Strahov stadium, the largest concert venue in the world. And I thought to myself: well, they’ve been around for such years, they’re gonna be around for some more. I don’t have to go. I’ll see them next time.

Well, as hippie as I was, I didn’t foresee there wouldn’t be any next time. The tour of 1994 turned out to be their very last. As a matter of fact, they only made it back to England and by the end of October, there was no more Pink Floyd. Finito. Until, of course, all of them, meaning incl. Roger Waters (minus the Crazy Diamond Syd Barret) stormed Hyde Park during Live8. While I was in Prague again at the time, I couldn’t make it to London. I felt so sorry!

But I was given one last chance. It was sort of a consolation prize, however it was still worth it. Roger Waters (minus the others) came over and knocked on the door in Sydney. It was the opening gig of his 2007 summer tour appropriately named The Dark Side of the Moon. Meaning he was to deliver the album in its entirety.

Roger, who’s gonna turn mccartneyan sixty-four this year, is dividing his shows into two parts, first consisting of Pink Floyd essentials and some of his own work (like Leaving Beirut with anti-Bush rhetoric) and the second including complete DSOTM and few encores. Sydney was no exception, he even played the same list he’s carrying around since last year.

The show was carefully scripted, visually stunning and sophisticated, one could see direction of “the creative genius of Pink Floyd” behind it. However, there was something a bit unexpected (at least for these who didn’t bother to read reviews of previous gigs) – Roger didn’t sing many of the Dark Side songs! He left former Dave Gilmour’s vocal parts to guitarist Dave Kilminster, meaning that he could play bass and bludge for a larger part of the second act. Audience was surprised but understanding and rewarded the new Dave with their goodwill and sincere applause.

Though everything was more or less prepared, Sydney got a revised version of Roger’s flying pig with a new graffiti, asking for yet another David, David Hicks, Australian held in Guantanamo for five years to be sent home. It’s about time, I guess.

It all finished as planned: after Comfortably Numb, the group was gone in a flash. Lights went on and some twenty-thousand Floyd-hungry fans with different degree of greying hair dispersed to their homes, reliving a dream come true. Walking down the stairs I could feel tranquillity filling the space.

Wish there were more experiences like this one.