2013년 11월 30일 토요일

About 'become an officer in the air force'|...Service AIR FORCE: Office...secretary, in ... the NCIS as an “Admiral...senior officers that... became almost...police forces. In the sea... a court...







About 'become an officer in the air force'|...Service AIR FORCE: Office...secretary, in ... the NCIS as an “Admiral...senior officers that... became almost...police forces. In the sea... a court...








Soon               after               returning               from               Spain               in               the               summer               of               1972,               David               was               launched               by               his               dad               on               an               intensive               programme               of               self-improvement.

Through               home               study               and               with               the               help               of               local               private               tutors,               he               set               about               making               up               for               the               fact               that               he'd               left               school               at               16               with               only               two               General               Certificate               of               Education               passes               to               his               name,               where               a               respectable               amount               would               be               no               less               than               five.
               He               took               Karate               classes               at               the               Judokan               in               Hammersmith,               and               among               his               fellow               students               were               hard-looking               young               men               -               some               of               them               flaunting               classic               '70s               feather               cuts               -               who               may               have               been               led               to               the               dojo               by               the               prevailing               fashion               for               all               things               Eastern,               such               as               the               films               of               Bruce               Lee,               and               the               "Kung               Fu"               television               series.
               There               were               swimming               lessons               at               the               Walton               Swimming               Pool,               where               he               fell               hard               for               a               beautiful               elfin               girl               with               a               close               crop               hairstyle               which               made               her               look               a               little               like               a               skinhead               girl.

She               beckoned               to               him               once               to               come               and               be               with               her,               but               he               just               stood               there               as               if               frozen               to               the               spot.

His               heart               wasn't               in               the               swimming               though,               and               this               soon               became               clear               to               one               of               the               teachers,               who               once               told               him               with               devastating               frankness:               
               "I               don't               know               why               you               bother               even               turning               up."
               Music               did               interest               him               though,               and               although               he               was               an               idle               slacker,               he               was               yet               successfully               initiated               into               the               basics               of               the               Rock               guitar               solo               by               shy               guitar               teacher               Gerry               Firth,               who               taught               from               a               tiny               little               abode               down               an               alley               in               nearby               Walton-on-Thames,               and               whose               middle               aged               appearance               belied               a               deep               love               of               the               rebel               music               of               Rock               and               Roll.
               On               one               occasion,               David               tried               to               persuade               him               of               the               superior               merit               of               Classical               music               on               the               basis               that               it's               "well-played",               which               Gerry               countered               with:
               "Well,               isn't               Rock               Music               well               played?"
               David               was               baffled               by               his               argument,               because               despite               his               own               preference               for               Rock,               he               had               no               great               belief               in               its               artistic               merits.
               Another               thing               that               bewildered               him               about               Gerry               Firth               was               his               admiration               for               teen               idol               Marc               Bolan,               a               man               he               had               always               despised               as               much               for               his               girlish               appearance               as               his               simplistic               three-chord               Rock.
               "Don't               you               find               him               effeminate?"               David               once               asked               him               disgustedly,               fully               expecting               Gerry               to               express               due               horror               at               Bolan's               startling               pretty               boy               looks,               while               expressing               admiration               for               his               catchy               tunes;               but               Gerry               trumped               him               with               an               answer               that               caused               his               jaw               to               drop:               
               "Not               as               excitingly               so               as               Mike               Jagger!"
               "Mick               Jagger",               said               David,               correcting               the               older               man.
               "Mick               Jagger",               Gerry               conceded,               but               he'd               made               a               sixteen               year               old               boy               look               old,               which               was               quite               a               feat               for               a               man               who               favoured               sleeveless               sweaters               and               Oxford               bags.
               Late               in               the               summer,               David               signed               up               for               five               years               service               with               the               London               Division               of               the               Royal               Naval               Reserve               based               on               HMS               President               on               the               Embankment               of               the               Thames,               and               not               long               afterwards,               it               became               clear               to               him               he'd               been               singled               out               by               some               of               the               older               ratings               for               his               own               burgeoning               pretty               boy               looks.
               He               was               flattered               rather               than               offended               by               the               revelation,               as               if               it               had               implanted               a               seed               of               narcissism               within               him.

To               a               degree               then,               it               was               a               case               of               an               ugly               duckling               suddenly               finding               himself               to               be               a               swan,               and               enjoying               the               resultant               notoriety,               such               as               that               latterly               conferred               on               the               young               Spaniard               of               the               Bar               Castilla.
               It's               not               that               he               wasn't               aware               of               being               good-looking               before               '72,               but,               having               always               been               a               typical               feisty               ruffian               of               a               boy,               it               had               never               really               registered.

Having               said               that,               he               had               always               been               a               dreamer,               and               had               never               gone               through               a               phase               of               detesting               girls,               as               so               many               boys               do.

What's               more,               he'd               nurtured               a               sentimental               streak               all               throughout               his               teens               that               placed               him               somewhat               at               odds               with               his               peers.
               While               still               only               about               fifteen               and               pretty               thuggish               for               the               most               part,               he               was               yet               susceptible               to               notorious               tear-jerkers               such               as               "South               Pacific"...whose               movie               version               he               saw               at               the               flicks               at               the               tender               age               of               15.
               British               director               John               Schlesinger's               screen               adaptation               of               the               uber-romantic               Thomas               Hardy               novel,               "Far               from               the               Madding               Crowd",               was               another               film               that               affected               him               very               deeply               indeed...too               deeply               perhaps               for               an               adolescent               boy,               and               it               may               have               been               partly               responsible               for               an               obsession               with               lost               love               and               high               romantic               tragedy               that               was               to               become               a               defining               feature               of               his               life.
               But               the               softening               process               that               took               place               in               the               closing               months               of               1972               was               inexplicable               in               its               sheer               intensity               nonetheless.
               It               received               a               further               boost               when,               towards               the               new               year,               he               saw               former               Bubblegum               band,               the               Sweet,               on               a               long-forgotten               teenage               Pop               programme               called               "Lift               off               with               Ayesha".

They'd               once               incarnated               everything               he               detested,               yet,               watching               them               prance               around               in               high               heels               and               make               up,               pouting               and               preening               like               a               quartet               of               hysterical               transvestites,               he               underwent               what               was               little               short               of               an               epiphany.
               Then,               several               months               later,               Pop               veteran               David               Bowie               appeared               on               the               chat               show               Russell               Harty               Plus               with               his               eyebrows               shaved               off               and               sporting               a               glittering               chandelier               earring,               and               so               David's               devotion               to               Glam               became               total.

Even               David's               mother               Miss               Ann               Watt               was               charmed               by               him,               when,               towards               the               end               of               the               interview,               after               Harty               had               asked               him               an               absurd               question               about               his               shoes,               he               referred               to               the               chat               show               host               as               "silly",               before               flashing               an               impossibly               radiant               smile:
               "Aww,               he's               sweet,"Miss               Ann               Watt               emoted,               who               was               also               enchanted               by               Elton               John;               but               when               she               caught               sight               of               the               cover               of               the               New               York               Dolls               first               album,               which               David               had               ordered               by               post               through               his               usual               outlet,               she               told               him               that               apart               from               the               hardest               pornography,               she               couldn't               imagine               anything               quite               so               offensive               to               the               senses.
               Bowie's               sphinx-like               charisma               was               so               potent               that               even               some               of               the               most               unreconstructed               of               macho               men               were               drawn,               irresistibly,               to               his               art,               which               combined               the               most               infectious               Pop               melodies               with               complex,               deeply               literate               lyrics,               and               yet               it               was               one               purveyed               by               a               man               who               would               once               have               moved               those               same               men               to               thoughts               of               violence...and               still               almost               certainly               did.

But               the               zeitgeist               of               the               nation               was               changing.
               The               cult               of               androgyny               was               a               powerful               force               in               Britain               in               1973,               having               been               earlier               incubated               by               both               Mod               and               Hippie               culture,               and               musical               acts               as               diverse               as               the               Stones,               the               Kinks,               Alice               Cooper,               the               Stooges               and               T.Rex.
               Furthermore,               it               was               reinforced               in               the               cinema               by               several               movies               featuring               angelically               beautiful               men.

And               yet,               you               still               took               your               life               into               your               own               hands               if               you               chose               to               parade               around               like               a               Glam               Rock               star               in               the               mean               streets               of               London               or               any               other               major               British               city               -               to               say               nothing               of               the               countryside               -               and               therefore               few               did.


               David               fantasised               about               fame               and               adulation               as               a               Rock               and               Roll               or               movie               star               as               never               before               throughout               the               Glam               era,               and               built               an               image               based               on               David               Bowie,               spiking               his               hair               like               him,               and               even               peroxiding               it               at               some               point.

Not               surprisingly               then,               he               didn't               really               fit               in               in               Molesey,               unlike               his               brother               who               wasted               little               time               in               becoming               part               of               a               local               youth               scene               centred               mainly               around               football,               traditional               sport               of               the               British               working               classes.


               As               to               David,               he               came               into               his               own               in               La               Ribera,               and               it               was               towards               the               end               of               the               summer               of               '73               that               he               finally               started               being               noticed               in               a               big               way               by               the               local               youth,               most               of               whom               were               from               either               Murcia               or               Madrid.

He'd               croon               for               crowds               of               La               Riberan               boys               and               girls,               who'd               make               requests               for               their               favourites:
               "Oye,               David,               canta               la               de               Gilbert               O'Sulliban!"
               "Conoces               Cat               Estebens?"
               "Canta               como               Sinatra!"
               An               ever-evolving               group               forged               an               incredible               closeness               that               summer               that               lasted               for               a               full               four               years,               and               oh               what               magical               summers               they               were               for               both               Dane               and               David.

They'd               never               forget               them,               nor               be               able               to               fully               recapture               the               purity               of               the               joy               they               knew               in               the               still               so               innocent               Spain               of               the               immediate               pre-Franco               years.
               Even               later               in               '73,               the               minesweeper               HMS               Thames               set               out               for               Bordeaux               in               Gironde               in               the               south               west               of               France.

It               was               David's               first               voyage               as               an               Ordinary               Deckhand               with               the               RNR,               and               he               was               just               seventeen               years               old.


               He               struck               up               a               friendship               with               the               most               unlikely               pair               of               bosom               buddies               he               ever               came               across               in               the               RNR               or               anywhere               else.

.
               One               half               was               Micky,               a               tough-talking               working               class               ladies'               man               of               about               23,               who               was               rumoured               to               be               a               permanent               year               long               resident               of               HMS               Thames.

The               other,               an               older               man,               possibly               in               his               mid               thirties,               but               just               as               much               of               a               lad               as               Mick,               even               though               he               boasted               the               patrician               manner               of               a               City               of               London               stockbroker               or               merchant               banker.
               Mick               took               David               under               his               wing               with               a               certain               intimidating               affection:
               "We'll               make               a               ruffy               tuffy               sailor               of               you               yet,"               he               once               promised               him,               even               both               men               knew               he'd               never               be               anything               other               than               the               most               useless               mariner               in               the               civilised               world.
               To               make               it               clear               just               how               much               of               a               lubber               David               was,               there               was               one               occasion               when,               during               some               kind               of               conference               being               held               below               deck,               he               was               asked               by               an               officer               what               he               thought               of               minesweeping,               and               he               replied:
               "It's               a               gas!"
               On               another,               after               the               ship               had               been               prepared               for               a               major               manoeuvre,               and               every               hand               was               in               their               respective               allotted               position,               he               was               found               wandering               about               on               deck               in               a               daze,               and               when               asked               what               he               thought               he               was               doing,               he               casually               told               them:               
               "Just               taking               a               stroll..."
               Incidents               like               these               made               him               the               object               of               good-humoured               banter               onboard               the               Thames,               where               he               served               as               a               kind               of               latter-day               Billy               Budd,               but               without               the               seamanship.


               Its               crew               spent               its               final               night               in               a               club               in               the               southern               port               of               Portsmouth               ,               though               it               might               just               as               easily               have               been               Plymouth.

The               main               event               was               a               hyperactive               drag               artiste               who               tried               desperately               to               keep               them               entertained               with               cabaret               style               numbers               sung               in               a               high               woman's               voice,               and               bawdy               jokes               told               in               a               deep               manly               baritone,               but               he               was               way               out               of               his               depth,               and               the               boys               of               the               Thames               subjected               him               to               a               savage               barrage               of               heckling.

At               one               point               -               perhaps               in               the               hope               of               seeing               a               friendly               face               -               he               turned               towards               David,               and               excitedly               trilled:
               "Ooh...you               look               pretty,               what's               your               name?"
               "Skin!"               the               sailors               bellowed               back,               as               in               "a               nice               bit               of               skin",               Navy               slang               for               a               desirable               youth.
               A               little               while               later,               the               tar               with               the               beard               who'd               been               sitting               next               to               David               all               night               asked               him               to               hold               the               mike               for               him               while               he               performed               Rossini's               "William               Tell               Overture               "on               his               facial               cheeks.

He               ended               up               passed               out               on               the               table               in               front               of               him               after               having               collapsed               face               down               with               an               almighty               CRASH!
               But               he               wasn't               the               only               one               to               suffer               such               an               undignified               fate               that               bacchanalian               night.
               Back               onshore,               and               David               resumed               his               growing               passion               for               all               that               was               louche,               bizarre               and               decadent               in               music,               art               and               culture.
               However,               increasingly               from               '74               onwards,               he               turned               away               from               what               he               now               saw               as               the               old               hat               tackiness               of               Glam               Rock,               convinced               that               Modernist               outrage               had               nowhere               left               to               go.

Instead,               his               devotion               started               to               centre               on               the               more               refined               corruption               of               the               golden               age               of               Modernism               of               ca.

1890-1930,               and               especially               its               leading               cities,               in               terms               of               their               being               beacons               of               revolutionary               art,               and               of               e,               luxury               and               dissolution.

They               included               the               London               of               the               Yellow               Decade,               Belle               Époque               Paris,               Jazz               Age               New               York,               and               most               of               all,               Weimar               Republic               Berlin.


               At               some               point               in               '74,               he               started               using               hair               cream               to               slick               his               hair               back               in               the               style               of               F.

Scott               Fitzgerald,               sometimes               parting               it               in               the               centre               just               as               his               idol               had               done,               and               to               build               up               a               new               retro               wardrobe.
               These               went               on               to               include               a               Gatsby               style               tab               collar,               which               he               wore               either               with               striped               collegiate               tie,               or               cravat               or               neck               scarf.

Over               this,               he               might               wear               a               short-sleeved               Fair               Isle               sweater,               a               navy               blue               blazer               from               Meakers,               and               a               belted               fawn               raincoat               straight               out               of               a               forties               film               noir.

His               grey               flannel               trousers               from               Simpsons               of               Piccadilly               typically               flopped               over               a               pair               of               two-tone               correspondent               shoes.


               There               were               those               cutting               edge               artists               who               appeared               to               share               his               love               affair               with               the               languid               cafe               and               cabaret               culture               of               the               continent's               immediate               past.

Among               these               were               established               acts,               such               as               David               Bowie               and               Roxy               Music,               and               newer               stars               such               as               Steve               Harley               of               Cockney               Rebel,               and               Ron               and               Russell               Mael               from               L.A               band               Sparks,               who'd               recently               come               to               Britain               in               search               of               Glam               Rock               glory.

Some               of               Roxy's               followers               even               went               so               far               as               to               sport               the               kind               of               nostalgic               apparel               favoured               by               Ferry               himself,               but               they               were               rare               creatures               indeed               in               mid-seventies               London.


               As               for               David,               he               wore               his               bizarre               outdated               costumes               in               arrogant               defiance               of               the               continuing               ubiquity               of               shoulder-length               hair               and               flared               denim               jeans.

In               1975,               he               even               had               the               gall               to               go               to               a               concert               at               West               London's               Queen's               Park               football               stadium               dressed               in               striped               boating               blazer               and               white               trousers,               only               to               find               himself               surrounded               by               hirsute               Rock               fans.

The               headliners               were               his               one-time               favourites               Yes,               whose               "Relayer"               album               he'd               bought               the               year               before;               but               his               passion               for               Progressive               Rock               was               a               thing               of               the               past.

He'd               moved               on               since               '71,               towards               a               far               deeper               love               of               darkness               and               loss               of               innocence.


               But               there               was               nothing               even               remotely               dark               about               the               time               he               fell               in               love               with               a               Dutch               girl               while               sitting               Spanish               "O"               level               in               June               1974               in               Gower               Street,               Central               London.

She               didn't               look               Dutch;               in               fact,               with               her               tanned               complexion               and               long               dark               brown               hair,               she               was               Mediterranean               in               appearance,               and               even               had               the               name               to               match:               Maria.
               It               was               probably               she               who               approached               David,               because               he               was               so               unconfident               around               girls               in               those               days               that               he'd               have               never               made               the               first               move,               and               in               all               the               time               he               knew               her,               he               didn't               have               the               guts               to               tell               her               how               he               felt.

So,               once               they'd               completed               their               final               paper,               he               allowed               her               to               walk               away               from               him               forever               with               a               casual               "I               might               see               you               around",               or               some               other               cliché               of               that               kind.


               For               about               a               week,               he               took               the               train               into               London               and               spent               the               days               wandering               around               the               city               centre               in               the               truly               desperate               hope               of               bumping               into               her.

One               time               he               could               have               sworn               he               saw               her               staring               coolly               back               at               him               from               an               underground               train,               possibly               at               South               Kensington               or               Notting               Hill               Gate,               just               as               the               doors               were               closing.

Typically               though,               he               was               powerless               to               act,               and               simply               stood               there               like               a               lovesick               fool               as               the               train               drew               away               from               the               station.
               In               time,               his               infatuation               faded,               but               even               into               his               fifties,               certain               songs               -               such               as               "I               Just               Don't               Want               to               be               Lonely"               by               The               Main               Ingredient,               and               "Natural               High"               by               Bloodstone               -               would               recall               for               him               those               few               weeks               in               the               summer               of               '74               which               he               spent               in               hopeless               pursuit               of               a               woman               of               whom               he               knew               quite               literally               nothing.


               Later               on               in               the               year,               and               fully               recovered               from               this               absurd               unspoken               passion,               he               found               himself               once               again               in               the               beautiful               little               former               fishing               village               of               Santiago               de               la               Ribera.
               The               summer               of               '74               was               one               of               the               most               blissful               he               ever               spent               there,               and               there               were               a               good               few               of               those.

Each               afternoon,               he'd               meet               up               with               friends               both               male               and               female               on               the               jetty               facing               his               apartment               on               the               Mar               Menor,               which               was               more               or               less               deserted               after               lunch,               where               they'd               listen               to               Bowie               on               cassette,               or               Donny               keening               "Puppy               Love"               on               a               portable               phonograph,               and               generally               enjoy               being               young               and               carefree               in               a               decade               of               endless               possibilities.
               To               some               youthful               Spanish               eyes               back               in               '74-'76,               David               was               an               almost               impossibly               exotic               figure               from               what               was               then               the               most               radical               and               daring               city               in               Europe,               and               he               played               his               image               up               to               the               hilt.

In               truth,               though,               he               was               barely               less               sheltered               and               innocent               than               they,               and               how               wonderful               it               felt               for               him               to               bask               in               their               soft               Mediterranean               loveliness               for               a               few               brief               seasons.
               However,               there               was               a               change               that               came               over               Spain               with               Franco's               passing,               and               the               birth               of               the               so-called               "Movida",               which               could               be               said               to               be               the               Spanish               equivalent               of               London's               Swinging               Sixties               revolution.

Perhaps               it               didn't               happen               right               away,               but               by               David's               last               vacation               in               La               Ribera               in               the               summer               of               '84,               it               was               he               who               was               in               awe               of               the               local               youth               rather               than               the               other               way               around.

They               seemed               so               cool               to               him,               dancing               their               strange               jerky               chicken               wing               dance               to               the               latest               New               Pop               hits               from               Britain.

By               then,               of               course,               most               of               his               old               friends               had               vanished               into               their               young               adult               lives,               and               his               time               as               the               undisputed               English               prince               of               La               Ribera,               had               long               passed.


               He               returned               to               London               in               late               summer               '74               with               a               deep               tan               and               his               long               hair               bleached               bright               yellow               by               the               sun.


               Only               days               afterwards,               he               found               himself               on               HMS               President,               moored               then               as               today               on               the               Embankment               near               Temple               station.

This               involved               his               passing               through               Waterloo               mainline               station,               which               wasn't               tourist-friendly               as               it               is               today,               with               its               cafes               and               baguette               bars,               but               a               dingy               intimidating               place               complete               with               pub               and               old-style               barber.

There,               he               was               approached               by               an               old               sailor               who               kept               going               on               about               how               good               looking               he               was;               but               he               was               no               predator,               just               a               sweet               lonely               old               Scotsman               who               wanted               someone               to               talk               to               for               a               few               minutes,               and               David               was               happy               to               oblige:               
               "I               love               ye,               Davy,               he               kept               saying,               I               love               ye..."
               He               even               went               so               far               as               to               agree               to               a               meeting               with               him               the               same               time               the               following               week,               but               he               had               no               intention               of               keeping               it.

Besides,               it               wasn't               long               before               HMS               Thames               was               on               its               way               to               Hamburg,               second               largest               city               of               Germany               and               its               principle               port.
               Once               they'd               arrived,               one               of               the               CPOs               warned               David               not               to               wander               around               Hamburg               alone,               for               fear               he               might               end               up               being               ravaged               and               dumped               in               some               back               alley,               or               worse:               
               "You'll               end               up               raped,"               he               muttered               darkly.
               He               duly               joined               up               with               a               group               of               about               three               or               four               other               ratings               on               his               first               night               ashore,               and               they               headed               straight               for               the               Reeperbahn               in               the               bewitchingly               vicious               St               Pauli               red               light               district,               where               there               were               the               obligatory               streets               lined               with               working               girls               and               bars               with               the               most               explicit               movies               projected               onto               its               walls...all               in               such               stark               contrast               to               the               leafy               outer               suburbs,               where               David               found               himself,               possibly               a               day               or               so               later,               through               a               specially               organised               coach               trip.
               A               gang               of               them               ended               up               in               a               park               where               David               had               his               picture               taken               on               a               bridge               by               a               reporter               for               the               Surrey               Comet,               before               a               group               of               breathless               tittering               schoolgirls               asked               him               to               join               them               in               some               photos,               and               he               of               course               obliged,               flattered               by               their               attentions.
               On               the               way               back               to               the               ship,               one               of               the               sailors               announced               he'd               been               quite               a               hit               with               the               Hamburg               teenyboppers,               while               another               wryly               opined:               
               "It's               cos               'e's               blond,               innit..."
               Whatever               the               truth,               their               simple               unaffected               joy               of               life               must               have               seemed               so               touching               to               David,               especially               in               the               light               of               what               girls               barely               older               than               they               were               subjecting               themselves               to               a               mere               few               miles               away.
               Sometime               in               1975,               David               became               a               student               at               Brooklands               Technical               College               which               lay,               then               as               now,               on               the               fringes               of               Weybridge,               an               affluent               outer               suburb               of               south               west               London.
               In               semi-pastoral               Brooklands,               as               in               his               beloved               La               Ribera,               he               learned               to               be               a               social               being               after               years               of               near-seclusion,               first               at               Pangbourne               and               then               as               a               home               student.

So,               attention               came               to               be               a               potent               narcotic               for               him               in               the               mid               1970s.

However,               despite               constant               displays               of               flamboyant               self-confidence,               those               who               tried               to               get               to               know               to               know               me               on               an               intimate               level               found               themselves               confronted               with               a               paradoxically               diffident               and               inhibited               individual.


               The               regular               Brooklands               Disco               was               a               special               event               for               David.

On               one               occasion               early               on               in               a               Disco               night,               he               got               up               in               front               of               what               seemed               like               the               whole               college               and               delivered               a               solo               dance               performance,               possibly               with               white               silk               scarf               flailing               in               the               air,               to               a               fiery               Glam               tune               by               Bebop               Deluxe,               and               just               blew               everyone               away,               if               their               frenzied               cheers               and               applause               was               anything               to               go               by.


               On               another,               a               trio               of               roughs               who               may               have               gate               crashed               the               Disco               only               to               see               in               David               the               worst               possible               example               of               the               feckless               wastrel               student               strutting               and               posturing               in               unmanly               white,               took               him               aside               at               the               end               of               the               night,               doubtless               intent               on               a               touch               of               the               old               ultra-violence:
               "Oy               you,               we               bin               watchin'               you,               you're               a               poof,               ain'tcha..."
               But               David               stood               his               ground,               insisting               that               despite               what               they               may               have               thought               about               him,               he               was               just               as               straight               as               they.

Apparently               convinced               of               this,               they               vanished               into               the               departing               crowds               after               muttering               a               few               dark               threats,               leaving               his               cherubic               face               intact.


               '75               again,               and               David's               music,               swimming               and               Martial               Arts               sessions               were               no               more,               but               the               private               lessons               continued,               mainly               with               a               young               academic               called               Mark,               who               lived               alone               but               for               several               black               cats               in               long               time               Rock               star               haven               Richmond-on-Thames.

He               was               a               quiet               slim               young               man               with               long               darkish               curly               hair               who,               as               well               as               being               a               private               tutor,               was               a               successful               session               musician.


               Mark,               who               specialised               in               the               French               Symbolist               poets,               exerted               a               strong               influence               on               David               in               terms               of               his               growing               passion               for               European               literature               and               Modernist               culture.

However,               it               was               the               less               known               literature               of               Spain               that               they               studied               together,               from               the               anonymous               picaresque               novel               "Lazarillo               de               Tormes"               -               which               was               written               around               1554               -               onwards,               and               embracing               Quevedo,               Galdos,               Machado,               Dario               and               Lorca.
               He               was               also               an               early               encourager               of               David's               writing,               a               lifelong               passion               that               was               ultimately               to               degenerate               into               a               chronic               case               of               cacoethes               scribendi,               or               the               irresistible               compulsion               to               write.

As               a               result               of               this,               he               became               incapable               of               finishing               a               single               cohesive               piece               of               writing               until               well               into               the               eighties               when               he               managed               to               complete               a               short               story               and               a               novel,               both               of               which               he               went               on               to               destroy               but               for               a               few               fragments.


               It               was               largely               through               Mark               that               David               came               under               the               spell               of               the               Berlin               of               the               Weimar               Republic               of               1919               to               1933:
               After               he'd               expressed               interest               in               a               copy               of               one               of               Christopher               Isherwood's               Berlin               novels,               "Mr               Norris               Changes               Trains",               conspicuously               placed               in               front               of               him               on               his               desk,               Mark               told               him               in               animated               tones               that               it               had               inspired               the               1972               movie               version               of               the               Kander               and               Ebb               musical,               "Cabaret".

In               fact,               while               a               work               of               art               in               its               own               right               written               for               the               screen               by               Jay               Allen,               and               directed               by               former               dancer               Bob               Fosse,               "Cabaret"               had               been               largely               informed               by               Isherwood's               only               other               Berlin               story,               "Goodbye               to               Berlin".
               Seeing               "Cabaret"               later               on               that               year               was               a               life-transforming               experience               for               David,               one               of               only               a               handful               in               his               life               brought               about               by               a               film,               and               the               beginning               of               a               near-obsessive               preoccupation               with               the               Berlin               of               the               Weimar               era               of               192
               So               much               that               has               become               familiar               to               the               West               and               beyond               in               the               last               half-century,               from               the               deconstructive               philosophies               that               dominate               our               academia,               to               the               theatre               of               outrage               that               is               the               essence               of               Rock               music,               pre-existed               in               some               form               in               the               Berlin               of               the               Golden               Twenties,               during               which               she               existed               as               the               undisputed               world               epicentre               of               the               Modern               impulse.
               Under               her               auspices,               great               artistic               freedom               thrived               in               the               shape               of               the               painters               of               the               New               Objectivity               movement,               such               as               Beckmann,               Dix               and               Grosz,               the               staccato               cabaret-style               music               of               Kurt               Weill,               Fritz               Lang's               dystopian               "Metropolis",               and               the               provocative               dancing               of               Cabaret               Queen               Anita               Berber,               and               her               epicene               companion,               Sebastian               Droste.

And               then               there's               the               notorious               sexual               liberalism,               which,               as               depicted               in               pictorial               depictions               of               her               cabarets               and               night               clubs,               has               carried               a               power               to               shock               even               as               far               as               the               jaded               21st               Century.
               But               beneath               the               glittering               carapace,               she               bore               within               her               the               seeds               of               her               own               ruin,               for               despite               the               genius               that               flourished               alongside               the               licentiousness,               she               was               operating               largely               in               defiance               of               the               Judaeo-Christian               moral               values               that               have               long               formed               the               basis               of               Western               society.

Given               that               several               other               European               and               American               cities               were               hardly               less               hysterically               dissolute               than               Berlin,               it's               little               wonder               that               the               key               Modernist               decade               of               the               twenties               has               been               described               by               some               critics               as               the               beginning               of               the               end               of               Western               civilisation.
               In               its               wake               came               the               Great               Depression,               the               unspeakable               horrors               of               the               Second               World               War,               and               the               collapse               of               the               greatest               empire               the               world               has               ever               seen,               all               of               which               were               succeeded               in               turn               by               the               dawning               of               the               Rock               and               Roll               era,               and               its               quasi-religious               exaltation               of               youth,               which               some               critics               see               as               the               very               triumph               of               Western               decadence.
               Decadence...that               loaded               word               had               a               very               special               meaning               and               power               for               David               Cristiansen               in               the               mid               1970s...ever               since               his               mother               had               used               it,               in               fact,               in               reference               to               a               series               of               photos               of               Germany's               Weimar               era               featured               in               an               edition               of               the               Sunday               Times               magazine:               
               "Why               do               people               want               to               be               decadent?"               She'd               asked,               as               if               genuinely               concerned               for               those               featured,               which               of               course               she               was,               having               been               raised               in               a               Salvationist               home               in               the               idyllic               Vancouver               of               the               1920s,               and               therefore               imbued               for               life               despite               herself               with               a               Christian               worldview.

But               to               David               Cristiansen,               the               answer               was               obvious,               because               in               his               Rock               and               Roll               eyes,               decadence               was               so               heavy               with               the               mysteries               of               the               most               forbidden               sins               that               he               could               scarcely               wait               to               become               its               incarnation;               and               while               he               would               fall               far,               far               short               of               his               goal,               he'd               almost               die               trying               to               attain               it.






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become an officer in the air force


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become an officer in the air force
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    1. chezodysseus.blogspot.com/   10/16/2011
      ...a participation in God’s very...And nowadays the Pomo’s have...catastrophic mistake into a Plan and call... officers who don’t...work, or the Air Force Academy ...
    2. belmontclub.blogspot.com/   12/02/2004
      ...American military officer, gave...next is a matter of contention. The Air Force Magazine ...recommendation. In his book Eisenhower... became the ...
    3. zengersmag.blogspot.com/   04/06/2007
      ...We now have a force that threatens...90 percent reduction in carbon emissions over the next 10 to 12...less and more: a local, ... or become extinct as a ...
    4. swanblog.blogspot.com/   09/19/2004
      ...Suddenly the Air National Guard became worthwhile and honorable, but only in Texas for the second half of... an error (hopefully... officer training...
    5. ibloga.blogspot.com/   12/15/2009
      ...today! John Eidsmoe is a retired U.S. Air Force lieutenant colonel, pastor with the Association of Free Lutheran ...to the Foundation for Moral Law in Montgomery, Alabama. 1 It ...
    6. brokendownoldwarhorse.blogspot.com/   12/26/2005
      ...train with a B-24, heavy... in New Mexico.... The troops...and Italian forces, he ... Air Force, 756...Captain and became Squadron... Officer. That particular...
    7. coverthistory.blogspot.com/   04/17/2006
      ... in a book ...Counterpoint: The Journey of a...a Warrant Officer during WWII... Air Force band). Apparently...He then became a violinist...
    8. jagmire.blogspot.com/   02/05/2007
      ...Service AIR FORCE: Office...secretary, in ... the NCIS as an “Admiral...senior officers that... became almost...police forces. In the sea... a court...
    9. theunitedstatesofmonsters.blogspot.com/   08/15/2007
      ... the entire arsenal of the US air force and projecting US air...Russia and any other potential rival. In 2006, with Iraq becoming a military and political disaster for...
    10. ibloga.blogspot.com/   10/15/2011
      ...or bad weather, Air Force Pedros...because they fly in all weather and they...Colonel Patrick Frank, the 4-4 Cav brigade commander... for an Apache escort. Finally...
    11. Become An Officer In The Air Force - Blog Homepage Results

      ...I joined the military, I've...: 1) Stay in for 20+ years, 2) Become an Officer, 3) Pursue my Buddhist... Air Force member with no religious...
      ... College; became an associate pastor at a Bronx...his master’s degree in urban planning...2001-2009); President of the National Association of Latino...



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