Fate Amenable to Change

My name is Reginald J. Williams. You can call me Reggie. Or Reg. Just not Reggie Baby. At least not until I get to know you a little better.

I divide my life into three distinct stages: infancy, when my parents lovingly wrapped me in diapers; “Little Reg,” when for some bizarre reason I was weaned from nappies and forced to conform with the tyranny of briefs; and my present state as an independent, self directed adult, finally free to do as I please. Only recently did I gain the perspective to look back at my life and see the reason why my young adulthood was marred by such deep seeded unhappiness. I was a monster, by all accounts, and I admit it. A surly and compulsive drunk, I was no joy to be with. I had no way of truly demonstrating who I really was because I was unable to fully express my inner desires and joys. That’s all changed now, though, and I couldn’t be happier.

I work in a corporate clothing company called Petersons that supplies uniforms for hotels in the Bangkok area as well as several resorts in Thailand. About six months ago, I was invited along with my wife to a dinner with some colleagues celebrating the closing of a big deal with the Evason Six Senses—a very exclusive resort chain with branches throughout the region. The morning of the dinner, my wife got a call from our usual babysitter saying she wouldn’t be able to look after the kids. We called my wife’s sister as well as her mother but neither could fill in. It looked like we were out of luck, until I suddenly remembered that one of the girls from my office, Fon, had mentioned that her sister had some kids and that she just loved to play and spend time with them. I knew Fon was a darling girl—just the sweetest person you could imagine—so I asked if there was any chance she might be able to come by and look after our kids for while. To my delight, she agreed.

Fon was 23 and had graduated from ABAC several years before. She worked at the desk at the Dusit Thani Hotel for two years before she decided that aspect of the hospitality industry was not for her, and came looking for a job at Petersons about eight months prior to this incident. She was not pretty, but cute and innocent in that way Thai girls can be, with small features and stringy black hair. She was always laughing and jovial at the office and everyone liked her…well, everyone except our Chief Financial Officer, Somkiat, but I think he just realized he was gay after being married for three years, so he had a lot on his mind at the time.

That evening, Fon arrived at our house around 7pm. We introduced her to Sam and Des, our two little ones, and they seemed to all get along immediately. Without incident, we said our goodbyes and left her there, saying we’d be home by 10pm.

My wife and I met with our colleges at the Four Seasons, and I got quite intoxicated over dinner. As usual, I ended up offending my colleague’s wife, making lewd suggestions that she used to sleep with one of her former bosses— which I know for a fact that she did, the slut, but whatever, that’s not the point right now. The point is, on the way home, my wife drove. She was not speaking to me because she was angry that I had ruined another dinner with my uncontrollable drinking. Honestly, though, I couldn’t help it. At that time, I was an extremely unhappy person. I didn’t even realize the reason for my unhappiness—although now, of course, it’s quite clear. I was unfulfilled—emotionally, sexually, excretionally…you name it. Imagine if you had to live never being able to even have the satisfaction of a good bowel movement. That’s how I was living. I never got to really go.

The good thing is, I realize that now and I’m admitting it to the world. Hear me say it—I was unfulfilled, and it’s not my fault. My parents raised me in a certain way, indoctrinated me with a certain set of principles, taught me to believe this and that, as they thought was right. But they were wrong. They didn’t know, and by all accounts I really shouldn’t be blaming them for doing what they thought was best for me, but I realize the truth now. It’s OK though. I’m cool with it. I just wanted to complete that with you.

As we arrived home, I petitioned my wife to stop the car at the curb, so I could step out to vomit, which I did, promptly. This infuriated my wife even more, so she just drove into the garage, closed the door and turned off the lights.

I laid down on my front lawn and stared up into the sky, the stars just beginning to shine through the ages of space where they began. Why am I so unhappy? I thought to myself in the cold sobriety that followed the puke session. What is my problem?

Not long after that I went inside and headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Unthinking, I opened the door without even knocking, and was shocked to see Fon standing above the toilet wearing what looked like children’s diapers. I couldn’t help but notice they had elastic leg bands and pink and yellow teddy bear illustrations on them. Thinking back, they were probably Medium Absorbency Mommie Pokos. She looked like a little child in them, but she was not. I was shocked into silence, and it wasn’t until she reached down to pull up her jeans (with no rush, I may add, almost as though she was planning on being walked in on) that I started to apologize for barging in on her. I was greatly embarrassed, but I must also admit—enormously excited by seeing an adult wearing diapers.

When we had our first child, Sam, I was very forthcoming with my wife in volunteering for diaper duty. At the time, I rationalized it as a husband’s responsibility—she had carried our child for 8 months, it was now my turn to take care of it. But it was more than that. I really enjoyed the act: not the messy bits, but the act of putting the diapers on her—the process of powdering the bottom, slipping the nappies on, then wrapping her up nice and snug. We kept Sam in diapers for almost five years, at my suggestion, and it was only when the family doctor suggested we potty train her that I immediately told my wife we should have another child.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was gaining joy not from the act of changing diapers, but from the intimate fantasies I would entertain while doing it—fantasies that always involved the thought of someone putting diapers on me, powering my bottom delicately, and wrapping me up nice and snuggly. I still wasn’t prepared mentally to admit this, but it’s the truth. I also wanted to fantasize about making them messy, but again, consciously that would have to come a bit later.

I offered to drive Fon home that day, but she insisted on taking a taxi. I said the least I could do was walk her out to the main road and she obliged. On our way out I heard that familiar swish sound she made, a sound I had heard frequently in the office but discounted as some kind of female undergarment she wore at “that time of the month.” Now I realized the truth, and I must admit, it made me smile.

Once we were out of earshot of the house, I thought it was only right to apologize again for my rudeness.

“I really am sorry about walking in on you,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said and smiled.

“So…I hope you don’t think this is too direct, but I…well, I couldn’t help but notice, you have unusual underpants on.”

She was quiet and I feared I had gone too far. Then she said, “Do you like them?”

My heart leapt. “Well, I would be lying if I said they didn’t make me feel…mmm, a certain way.”

Her eyes looked into mine like two amethyst crystals searching for light in the darkness. “Yes, I thought you might. Maybe we could talk about it some time…”

A taxi approached, she waved it down and said goodbye. I went back into the house, my head spinning from the realization that I had found an adult wearing diapers. It seemed to me like the world had just turned on its head. I didn’t want to face my wife, so I went into our pantry and started rummaging around the drawers and cabinets until I came upon what I had been looking for—a few of my sons’ leftover diapers. I tenderly opened the package I had stashed away here for the past few years. I took the first piece my hand touched, and I pressed it to my face, as if I were greeting a long lost lover. I breathed in deeply, embracing the scent of baby freshness. Suddenly I heard the door behind me open.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” my wife said.

“Uhh, nothing,” I said pulling the diaper off my head. “Fon had mentioned she wanted a few of these for her sister’s kids…I just wanted to check to see if these were still fresh.”

“Still fresh?” my wife said, “Reggie, I don’t think diapers go bad.”

“Oh yes, they do,” I replied. “They most certainly do. But not these. These are still good, I think, though their absorbency probably couldn’t handle a really heavy load.”

“Oh God,” she said with a face like a dried prune. “What is wrong with you tonight?”

She left me and went to bed. I put the remaining nappies back in their hiding place in the pantry and soon followed her.

( + = & )

The next day I went to the supermarket and browsed through the adult diaper section, admiring the range of product choices on offer. It was a real cornucopia of options. I bought the cloth variety; as I thought it would be more economical to hand wash them myself.

When I got home I was delighted to find my wife was at a soccer game with the kids, so I had the place to myself. I went into the bedroom. The sun was streaming through the windows in translucent golden rays. I took out my purchase and placed the package on the bed. With sweet temperance, I took the first pair out and strapped them on. Heavens, they felt good! Nice and tight in the crotch area, so I felt like someone was giving my package a firm hug. I was really excited by the whole thing. I was going to put my pants back on, but didn’t get that far. As I stuck my right leg into the pants, I caught a look at myself in the mirror and realized what a critical turning point this was in my life. This was it, a regression to my true and natural state, a triumphant return to diaperhood from which I could never again have to leave. So I decided to just enjoy it.

I was watching America’s Most Wanted in the living room about an hour later when my wife came home with the kids. She saw me sitting on the upholstered couch with nothing on but a cloth diaper, eating a family sized package of Lay’s Potato Chips, and immediately told the kids to go to their rooms. They looked at me, but didn’t seem to see anything wrong. I think they appreciated me getting back to being myself—I can see that now. They knew I was just being me, so they didn’t say anything like, “Hey dad, why are you wearing a diaper?” or something stupid like that. They saw me, and they understood right away. Sometimes, kids just know.

My wife was another matter, though. From then on, she was always giving me shit about wearing diapers around the house or under my suit going to work. She just didn’t understand the liberty they afford. I love it. I can shit or piss in them, and do whatever else I want in them, too. I clean them all by hand afterwards, so I can just make a mess whenever and not worry about damaging the environment. I don’t really do it that often—once or twice a day, maybe. But it’s not really about that. It’s more about the security I feel wearing adult diapers. And it just feels right. I don’t know if you can really understand that, but you’re just going to have to believe me on this one. I’m returning to nature. I’m finally being myself.

About five months after that, my wife left me and gained custody of the kids, too, so I had to say goodbye to all that. Sucks, sort of, but whatever. Fon and I became close friends and we met some really cool people in town, too. We have baby parties and stuff, and it’s a cool scene, you know? It’s just chill. I even stopped drinking. I am who I am, and that’s all I can ever be. How can you blame me for that? I’m just me, Reggie Baby, the Diaper Man. You’ll know me by the swish.

The Decemberists

The Crane Wife

You won’t find many albums coming out this year sounding like The Decemberists’ newest release. Uniquely ambitious, the album is devoid of hooks and catchy lyrics, instead putting all their faith in 19^th century balladry, the homegrown, DIY folk sound of Neutral Milk Hotel, and progressive rock. The album title comes from a Japanese folk tale songwriter and front man Colin Meloy encountered and attempted to put into song form. The epic he created is broken into several parts and scattered around the album—an impassioned effort that’s interesting to watch unfold. Similarly, “The Island” is a 12-minute epic ruled by the organ sweep and wah guitar of Pink Floyd that’s equally enthralling to sit and hear float by. It’s not exactly the kind of catchy stuff you encounter regularly on major label releases, but it’s certainly the best thing The Decemberists have yet put out.

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah

Some Loud Thunder

They may have turned heads with their debut album, but on their sophomore effort, these Brooklyn blog rockers crash and burn. Though they still touch upon all the indie soft spots (Talking Heads, The Rapture) their production concept (over-distorted in a bad way) is self-indulgent and song quality hardly approaches their first album. Sorry, boys, your 15 minutes are now over.

NIRVANA dvd

Live! Tonight! Sold Out!

This DVD captures the essence and enormity of Nirvana with a sharply edited mix of concerts, television appearances and interviews following the band from unknown to unmistakable. The speed of their ascent is displayed in one priceless clip, where a fight erupts in the crowd during an early performance of “Love Buzz” on a small, poorly lit stage in Texas. Mid-strum, a jump cut shows the band suddenly playing the same song in a huge, beautifully lit amphitheater in Amsterdam, just a few months later. Immensely enjoyable for fans and casual music junkies alike.

I saw an awesome movie last night, The Science of Sleep, which was directed by Michel Gondry–in my opinion, one of the most creative visual artists out there now making feature films.

The main character of the film is a man who has confused reality with dreams. The story is unusual by Hollywood standards as it kind of ends with an unresolved love story. The thing that is so wonderful about the film, though, is that Gondry really succeeds in capturing that elusive yet intimately familiar sense of dream logic. You know, the way things work when you are dreaming… the disconnected way the mind puts things and places together; the way people can merge and separate; and how objects can be something other than what they appear to be. Gondry did this in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, as well, with equal success. It’s really amuzing to see it translated to the screen though, because it’s immediately recognizable. When you see the funny way that things don’t make sense at all, and yet they do, because you’ve seen things in your own mind work like that when dreaming, is great fun.
Recently I read David Lynch’s new book, Catching the Big Fish, in which he discusses creativity, meditation, and his creative process (though he may be a great filmmaker, the man can not write worth a damn. It’s kind of pathetic…whatever). In the book, he describes how some of his films he’s most proud of he got inspiration for in dreams. Makes sense, when you look at films like Lost Highway and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me. The way that things appear and dissipate, the liquid nature of personality…it’s the same sort of dream logic being exhibited there, only Lynch’s dreams and fantasies are far darker and more nightmarish than Gondry’s. Interesting though.

THE FRATELLIS

Costello Music

The Fratellis may sound like brainless, bubble gum indie rock, but they’re no dummies. Quite the contrary. They have their audience pinned down like an insect in a science lab—they know exactly what buttons to push, and do so in numerical sequence. It’s almost insulting, the way they make it look so easy. Go ahead, try to listen to Costello Music just once—I dare you. If you have any sort of affinity for Britpop, it’s not going to happen. From the get-go, The Fratellis win over the heart, hips and heels with “Henrietta,” where the guitars flip flop around with a drunken swagger and an infectious rhythm that’s part Oasis, part Operation Ivy, and enough attitude to intimidate both bands. The album overflows with fun, guilty pleasures, with numbers clocking in under three minutes and begging for rewinds. On “For the Girl” they yell, “She was into the Stones when I was into the Roses / She was breaking my bones when I was busting her noses.” No, it doesn’t make much sense, but who cares! It makes all the right references in all the right tones—plus, it rhymes! There’s about as much substance here as a can of Pepsi, but while the sugar high lasts, you’ll be happily bouncing off the walls with wild abandon. 

THE BIRD AND THE BEE

The Bird and the Bee

“Pixie pop” might be the most appropriate description of The Bird and the Bee, whose most notable characteristics are cute electronic production and the enchanting vocals of Inara George. Somewhat reminscient of French/German duo Stereo Total, this Los Angeles boy/girl combo incorporates more dreamy elements than their Euro-counterparts, bringing to mind the Debut-era Bjork, the chiming guitars of The Sundays and even Brigitte Bardot’s mindless musical stint. Inara’s adorable voice is layered in chimerical harmonies like a wedding cake with breezy bleeps, creating an enraptured soundscape that feels like you just dropped into an Alice in Wonderland-like rabbit hole. Light and lovely.

This week Bk had its 6th year Anniversary party. It was really fun! Here’s one pic. The rest are on the flickr page: check em here.

THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE QUEEN

The Good, The Bad & the Queen / Honest Jon’s

Though originally credited as a solo project with his partner-in-crime Danger Mouse producing, Damon Albarn’s current project has since been given a formal name—The Good, the Bad & the Queen. It only seems fair, seeing as the other members of the band are music stars in their own right (Paul Simonon, bassist from The Clash, Simon Tong, guitarist from The Verve and Afro beat drummer Tony Allen). It’s an odd assortment of talent, but listening to the record, the players almost seem irrelevant—Albarn’s personality dominates, no matter what company he keeps. Musically, the record strays little from Albarn’s other works, primarily composed of melancholy pop with vintage keys and quirky electronic elements. It’s a dreary ode to London with all the self-deprecating sadness therein. Simonon lends a lazy, dub-inspired rhythm to the mix, while Allen livens things up with an Afro jazz percussive slant. The aesthetic is experimental (for a pop musician, at least) and in places (“Three Changes,” “Kingdom of Doom”) achieves commendable heights. Comparing it to Albarn’s other works though, the album seems fractured, thrown together, and never achieves the shine, cohesive swing nor magic that Gorillaz or Blur had. It will grow on you, though, if you let it.

JAMIE T.

Panic Prevention / Virgin

Starting his career playing tunes solo in English pubs on an acoustic bass guitar, youngster Jamie T. rubbed elbows with legendary folksters like Paul Weller and Elvis Costello—much older chaps, yes, but artists with whom he somehow shares perspective, and indeed, talent. What sets Jamie T. apart from these dinosaurs, though, is that his influences don’t just stop with the singer/songwriter types—oh no. Jamie’s cool, laidback sound also takes on the Beastie Boys, The Clash, The Specials, Squeeze and a bunch of other freaks. What’s great about this album is that is it lacks all the serious pretension that so many indie rockers today possess…that kind of “we make MUSIC goddamnit, and that’s no joke” attitude, which is really rather lame. Jamie T. has no qualms about being totally lofi and using some crappy drum machine and four-track to record—as long as it feels right, and this album definitely does. Like Beck’s debut, Mellow Gold, Panic Prevention has a distinctive sound that pairs homegrown folk and stoned melodies with spoken lyrics/rapping delivered in a thick London drawl with lots of funny swearing. It’s really fun music. Coming from a guy so young, hearing such a singular and self-confident sound is a real thriller.

About 5 years ago when I was living in New York, my girlfriend was really into this place called Native Spirit on Broadway in SoHo. I don’t know if it’s still there but it was a rad place filled with all sorts of crazy stuff, mostly cowboy paraphenalia and Native American art. One lazy, unemployed afternoon, I wandered in there alone and happened upon a particular beltbuckle which I felt innately attracted to.

I spoke with the guy who worked in the shop and asked him what the symbol meant. He told me it was an Aztec calendar otherwise known as a Sun Stone. This photo is kind of blurry, but you can probably make out that there is a central figure, which represents the sun, and twenty small figures surrounding it. Each small figure represents a day of the month (in the Aztec calendar, there were 20 days in every month. Like the Gregorian Calendar, they too had 365 days in a year, however, their century consisted of just 52 years. At the end of a Aztec century, a festival would be held in which all the fires in the city would be extinguished. The festival would last 12 days, and at midnight on the last evening, a priest would watch the sky for a star of fire to reach its topmost height. When it did this, he would then take a chosen prisoner, remove the man’s heart, and replace it with a piece of wood. The heart was then laid on a piece of turquoise, and from this, a new fire would be lit, that would again rekindle all the fires of the city. Interestingly, as you can see in my photo, my belt buckle is tinted a turquoise color. Kinda weird, but probably just coincidental.

Recently a friend of mine went to Nepal and brought me back a mandala, which is a pictoral painting or drawing that is supposed to represent a microcosm of the universe. Here’s a photo of the guy who drew the one my friend bought.

The tradition emerges from Dharmic religions, such as Hinduism and Buddhism. The drawings themselves are usually extrmemely ornate and detailed, and the drawing of pictures itself a form of meditation for the artist. These ones are wonderful mandalas created by an artist named Clare Goodwin. Check her page for more cool images.

Navajo sand paintings–unrelated but very very similar to mandalas. This one is by a guy named Wallace Ben.

What does it all mean? Not sure yet but I am definitely investigating circular phenomena a bit closer. The universe may be trying to tell me something.