This is the first in a series of extracts from my forthcoming book Tears of a Duke. It's a harrowing tale of corruption, lust and jockey-politics set against the backdrop of a non-specific war. Edna is a young, black, disabled, gay, old woman struggling for acceptance and self-discovery. In this extract, Edna is auditioning for a part in a Broadway show.
***
The stage sagged under the weight of Edna's expectations. And thighs.
The clipboards and suits that lined the front row, greeted her with a gasp of astonishment and disgust (like a normal gasp, but with more chunks). The whispers spread like bush-fire, and Edna froze.
"How old are you?" asked a bespectacled man in his fifties.
"55, sir," replied Edna, quivering slightly.
"55? That's a little young for an old woman, isn't it?"
Edna had heard this before. Growing up in the projects, she'd always been young for her age. She had clearly been the youngest teenager in her school - this had been clear from the day of her thirteenth birthday - and this, together with her race, girth, and other physical abnormalities, had made her an easy target.
"No, sir. I am an old woman. An old human."
She knew this was a mistake. The indignant audition panel bristled like teeth on a novelty comb.
"Well? Are you going to audition or not?"
Edna centred herself. She nodded with conviction, and the music began to play. As the Australian strings swelled, and the vibrant jungle beats kicked in, she suddenly felt at home. Her gracefulness took everyone by surprise.
She jived, she jove. She shimmied, she shammied. She wove, weaved, waved, wuved. Edna Horsetits was poetry in motion. Poetry not of words, but of body and space. Poetry oozed out of every pore, rhythmically, hypnotically. Every organ was poetry.
Lungs? Poetry.
Liver? Poetry.
Pancreas? Poetry.
The oppression that she had battled her whole life was expelled like so much troublesome sediment. She let it all hang out.
The music stopped. Edna stopped. And for a moment: silence.
It seemed like an eternity, that silence. When in reality it wasn't an eternity, but just about twenty seconds (much less than an eternity).
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the bespectacled man wiped condensation from his lenses, and began to applaud. Gradually, the whole panel joined in. The theatre was overcome by a tidal wave of clapping and light hooting. The man climbed onto the stage and extended his hand.
Edna, moved beyond sense, reached out to touch his hand with hers. Their fingers were almost in contact.
But the handshake would never come. Instead came the nasal moan of an air raid siren.
And, as the klaxons blared like a Scouse child, all Edna could think about was the man she'd left behind.
"Billy! Oh God, Billy!"
***
Philip Hensher was an idiot. I'm an AMAZING writer.
Friday, 31 October 2008
Tuesday, 28 October 2008
Turn that frown upside down
My last post was so negative, I feel I should balance it out. Have a listen to the exuberant Mr Ben Kweller. This is one of the happiest songs I know!
Aw, life's not so bad after all!
Aw, life's not so bad after all!
Meaningless Indignation
I'm getting thoroughly depressed reading about the whole Russell Brand phonecall fiasco.
People are stupid. Most people, it seems. Even Guardian readers (and columnists).
I suppose it's reassuring in a way. There's a unifying umbrella of stupidity that covers all of us, crossing all boundaries of class, political views, education. We are bonded by the adhesive of mindnumbing over-reaction.
I listened to the Brand show and found it quite funny. Which is odd, because I've been to university. And I'm over fifteen. And I sometimes listen to classical music. This doesn't tally with what the press says. It must be some kind of genetic anomaly.
Although it was funny, I think it was stupid and wrong and a mistake. I don't think it was premeditated cruelty - just childish showing-off.
And that's it. It was a couple of people, who are sometimes funny, doing something stupid. It's not that big a deal. Andrew Sachs has the right to complain and be offended (and he is doing so quietly, with a lot of class, by the way). But the outrage in his name is ridiculous.
Much like the Johnny Vegas thing, people have come out of the woodwork to decry Brand and Ross. "They're not funny!" they cry. As if that makes any difference. It's stupid reasoning, because humour is subjective. I found it funny. And I'm three-quarters white, so I must know what I'm talking about.
Two people being idiots is not news. The debate is stupid. And it's everywhere.
I don't want to read it on every news site. I'm bored of it, but I can't escape it. (I suppose I could look away from the computer or go outside or something - but this seems like a last resort).
Fuck all the stupid self-righteous idiots blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Fuck people decrying the fall of 'moral standards'.
This isn't news!
After reading the views of the public, I feel like it would be good to lose about 80% of the population (I get to choose who, because my opinions aren't subjective like everyone else's).
I think I'm just in a bad mood. I'm over-reacting to an over-reaction.
There's no such thing as real morality, we're all just wasting time. We're all just differently-organised parcels of matter interacting with each other. How can 'wrong' and 'right' mean anything? There's no such thing as free will, there's no such thing as virtue. There's nothing objective about anything, because we can only understand it through the subjective organ of our brain.
Determinism makes your moral high-horse into a unicorn, and riding something invisible is a waste of everyone's time (and makes you look stupid).
In conclusion: if you're a twat (and there's an 80% chance you are), do us all a favour by cutting off your fingers and sewing up your mouth, so we never have to hear the faecal 'truth' oozing out of your microscopic brain.
***
Ah, genocidal Tuesdays...
People are stupid. Most people, it seems. Even Guardian readers (and columnists).
I suppose it's reassuring in a way. There's a unifying umbrella of stupidity that covers all of us, crossing all boundaries of class, political views, education. We are bonded by the adhesive of mindnumbing over-reaction.
I listened to the Brand show and found it quite funny. Which is odd, because I've been to university. And I'm over fifteen. And I sometimes listen to classical music. This doesn't tally with what the press says. It must be some kind of genetic anomaly.
Although it was funny, I think it was stupid and wrong and a mistake. I don't think it was premeditated cruelty - just childish showing-off.
And that's it. It was a couple of people, who are sometimes funny, doing something stupid. It's not that big a deal. Andrew Sachs has the right to complain and be offended (and he is doing so quietly, with a lot of class, by the way). But the outrage in his name is ridiculous.
Much like the Johnny Vegas thing, people have come out of the woodwork to decry Brand and Ross. "They're not funny!" they cry. As if that makes any difference. It's stupid reasoning, because humour is subjective. I found it funny. And I'm three-quarters white, so I must know what I'm talking about.
Two people being idiots is not news. The debate is stupid. And it's everywhere.
I don't want to read it on every news site. I'm bored of it, but I can't escape it. (I suppose I could look away from the computer or go outside or something - but this seems like a last resort).
Fuck all the stupid self-righteous idiots blowing this whole thing out of proportion. Fuck people decrying the fall of 'moral standards'.
This isn't news!
After reading the views of the public, I feel like it would be good to lose about 80% of the population (I get to choose who, because my opinions aren't subjective like everyone else's).
I think I'm just in a bad mood. I'm over-reacting to an over-reaction.
There's no such thing as real morality, we're all just wasting time. We're all just differently-organised parcels of matter interacting with each other. How can 'wrong' and 'right' mean anything? There's no such thing as free will, there's no such thing as virtue. There's nothing objective about anything, because we can only understand it through the subjective organ of our brain.
Determinism makes your moral high-horse into a unicorn, and riding something invisible is a waste of everyone's time (and makes you look stupid).
In conclusion: if you're a twat (and there's an 80% chance you are), do us all a favour by cutting off your fingers and sewing up your mouth, so we never have to hear the faecal 'truth' oozing out of your microscopic brain.
***
Ah, genocidal Tuesdays...
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
I might as well face it...
I don't think I have an addictive personality.
I drink too much Diet Coke, but I think that's more a case of laziness than addiction - it saves on washing up. Diet Coke contains aspartame, which some people think is addictive and harmful. But I don't really care. Some people don't drink aspartame and go sky-diving. I drink aspartame and don't go sky-diving. It's a balancing process.
I'm not being defensive about it. Or jumpy. Jumpy because of all the Diet Coke - yeah, that's right, not jumpy. Nope. I'm not addicted. I can stop any time I want. You betcha.
If I realise I am addicted, I can just make another balancing change in my lifestyle, like start looking before I cross the road, or stop doing heroin.
Really, laziness is my best friend. It stops me doing all kinds of harmful things. I could never be a gambling addict or a serial killer or a politician. It's just too hard.
(I think if I was an adrenaline junkie I'd just buy adrenaline on the street and inject myself. It saves all the activity. I could inject it directly into my eyeball, the insanity of which would give the whole thing an extra kick.)
Of all the seven deadly sins, sloth is my favourite. The good thing about sloth is it stops you doing all the other sins. When you're lazing about in bed, everything is good.
Greed and gluttony are still there, but I can't be bothered to get up or go out to get stuff.
I don't envy anyone when I'm in bed, because being in bed is the best state of affairs. That's not to say I feel pride, just contentment.
My laid-back attitude precludes any kind of wrath.
The only real competitor to sloth is lust. But luckily, lustful activities can also take place in bed. I think I could be motivated to do stuff because of lust (get up, turn my computer on, place an order, collect my parcel from the post office, take it home, unwrap it, plug it in, wipe it down etc). But I'd need a good lie-down afterwards.
If I was Kevin Spacey, Se7en would be an entirely different film. But just as graphic.
But really we're all addicts. We're all addicted to oxygen. And with oxygen, if you kick the habit, you kick the bucket.
I kicked a bucket once. Nothing seemed to happen. I thought I saw the head of death peeping round the corner, then withdrawing, disappointed. But that might be because I'd just injected myself with a lethal cocktail of aspartame, adrenaline, heroin, oxygen and Kevin Spacey. Right into the eyeball.
I drink too much Diet Coke, but I think that's more a case of laziness than addiction - it saves on washing up. Diet Coke contains aspartame, which some people think is addictive and harmful. But I don't really care. Some people don't drink aspartame and go sky-diving. I drink aspartame and don't go sky-diving. It's a balancing process.
I'm not being defensive about it. Or jumpy. Jumpy because of all the Diet Coke - yeah, that's right, not jumpy. Nope. I'm not addicted. I can stop any time I want. You betcha.
If I realise I am addicted, I can just make another balancing change in my lifestyle, like start looking before I cross the road, or stop doing heroin.
Really, laziness is my best friend. It stops me doing all kinds of harmful things. I could never be a gambling addict or a serial killer or a politician. It's just too hard.
(I think if I was an adrenaline junkie I'd just buy adrenaline on the street and inject myself. It saves all the activity. I could inject it directly into my eyeball, the insanity of which would give the whole thing an extra kick.)
Of all the seven deadly sins, sloth is my favourite. The good thing about sloth is it stops you doing all the other sins. When you're lazing about in bed, everything is good.
Greed and gluttony are still there, but I can't be bothered to get up or go out to get stuff.
I don't envy anyone when I'm in bed, because being in bed is the best state of affairs. That's not to say I feel pride, just contentment.
My laid-back attitude precludes any kind of wrath.
The only real competitor to sloth is lust. But luckily, lustful activities can also take place in bed. I think I could be motivated to do stuff because of lust (get up, turn my computer on, place an order, collect my parcel from the post office, take it home, unwrap it, plug it in, wipe it down etc). But I'd need a good lie-down afterwards.
If I was Kevin Spacey, Se7en would be an entirely different film. But just as graphic.
But really we're all addicts. We're all addicted to oxygen. And with oxygen, if you kick the habit, you kick the bucket.
I kicked a bucket once. Nothing seemed to happen. I thought I saw the head of death peeping round the corner, then withdrawing, disappointed. But that might be because I'd just injected myself with a lethal cocktail of aspartame, adrenaline, heroin, oxygen and Kevin Spacey. Right into the eyeball.
Monday, 20 October 2008
The Uncle of all Tricks
I'm now perturbed by it seeming that I haven't posted anything since Wednesday. The last entry was posted today, I swear!
I was so pleased about the thought at the time, but now I'm worried people will think this a sporadically-updated blog, instead of a continuous, constant documentation of my emotional collapse. I was cocky below, but now my own castle of hubris has collapsed like a house of glass cards built on sand (in a stone-storm).
So, I though I'd post something short to cheat the blog-Gods (Blods) of their devious mis-dating.
Luckily, I have an emergency video to share, which (in this time of crunch and misery), can bring hope to the nation. If you're not weeping with pride after watching this, you must be a homosexual, a demon, or a commie robot:
Incidentally, the rumours that there was a 70s Hanna-Barbera cartoon about a homosexual, a demon and a commie robot, are almost certainly false.
I was so pleased about the thought at the time, but now I'm worried people will think this a sporadically-updated blog, instead of a continuous, constant documentation of my emotional collapse. I was cocky below, but now my own castle of hubris has collapsed like a house of glass cards built on sand (in a stone-storm).
So, I though I'd post something short to cheat the blog-Gods (Blods) of their devious mis-dating.
Luckily, I have an emergency video to share, which (in this time of crunch and misery), can bring hope to the nation. If you're not weeping with pride after watching this, you must be a homosexual, a demon, or a commie robot:
Incidentally, the rumours that there was a 70s Hanna-Barbera cartoon about a homosexual, a demon and a commie robot, are almost certainly false.
Thursday, 16 October 2008
I See Tepid People
We went to go and see Josie Long do stand-up on Monday. I was going to write about it, but Lucy has done a better job than I would. Why not read the entertaining account of the whole experience on her journal?
The journal is rather funny, I admit. But she doesn't do enough jokes about Jesus or paedophiles for my taste.
***
I'm continuing this blog after starting it some time ago, so it will probably be dated incorrectly. I like that. I can make references to things that have only just happened (it's Monday now), but it will appear that I have predicted the future.
So, Spurs lost 2-1 to Stoke, huh? Shit. I mean, woooooooooh (that's my psychic noise).....
Spurs will lose 2-1 to Stoke, and have two men sent off!
Wooooh....
I probably shouldn't have prefaced my prediction with an explanation of how I did it. Who am I, Penn and fucking Teller? Surely I can't be both.
It's a good thing I didn't get my psychic noise confuse with my psycho noise (REE! REE! REE! REE!), or you would have got confused. The psychic noise is the same as my ghost noise, however. And my Ric Flair noise.
I'm finding the written word too constrictive (that's a word, right?). I might start putting little sound clips embedded in the text, so you have an appropriate soundtrack.
You can't get a full sense of my meaning without audio as well as visual input. In an ideal world I'd be able to convey taste, smell and touch as well, but technology hasn't yet enabled me to embed those senses.
As an attempt to convey them, I'll provide descriptions. This entry:
- sounds like hail-stones hitting a monkey
- tastes like champagne and Frazzles
- smells like freshly-cut cocaine
- feels like a sandpaper phallus
It's also room temperature (but providing you're in a room, this won't require synthesising).
The journal is rather funny, I admit. But she doesn't do enough jokes about Jesus or paedophiles for my taste.
***
I'm continuing this blog after starting it some time ago, so it will probably be dated incorrectly. I like that. I can make references to things that have only just happened (it's Monday now), but it will appear that I have predicted the future.
So, Spurs lost 2-1 to Stoke, huh? Shit. I mean, woooooooooh (that's my psychic noise).....
Spurs will lose 2-1 to Stoke, and have two men sent off!
Wooooh....
I probably shouldn't have prefaced my prediction with an explanation of how I did it. Who am I, Penn and fucking Teller? Surely I can't be both.
It's a good thing I didn't get my psychic noise confuse with my psycho noise (REE! REE! REE! REE!), or you would have got confused. The psychic noise is the same as my ghost noise, however. And my Ric Flair noise.
I'm finding the written word too constrictive (that's a word, right?). I might start putting little sound clips embedded in the text, so you have an appropriate soundtrack.
You can't get a full sense of my meaning without audio as well as visual input. In an ideal world I'd be able to convey taste, smell and touch as well, but technology hasn't yet enabled me to embed those senses.
As an attempt to convey them, I'll provide descriptions. This entry:
- sounds like hail-stones hitting a monkey
- tastes like champagne and Frazzles
- smells like freshly-cut cocaine
- feels like a sandpaper phallus
It's also room temperature (but providing you're in a room, this won't require synthesising).
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
Don't bother repenting. The kingdom of Heaven isn't at hand or anything. Pff.
Do you think Jesus was ever sarcastic?
I think I'd lose some respect for him if he was.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who think sarcasm is the lowest form of humour. There are plenty of lower forms (a man falling into dog shit, bad knock-knock jokes, American Dad).
It's just that I'd prefer the Messiah (or prophet or genial motivational speaker) to be reasonably straightforward. His message would be muddied by sarcasm.
"Oh no. What ever am I going to do with these loaves and fishes. It's not like I can multiply them or anything. Sheesh."
"Oh no, that's just fine. Do unto others in a way entirely different to how you want to be treated."
I don't think Jesus would have succeeded in his field if he had the wearying cadence of a Generation-X-er - wondering through the desert in a flannel shirt, rolling his eyes like Daria, listening to Alice in Chains, wearing big boots.
Part of Jesus's charm was his sincerity. If he'd been crucified ironically, Christianity would take a different bent. Sermons would be conducted with vicar's miming "quotation marks" all the time. Communion would have people questioning - if you can believe it - the notion of transubstantiation.
That's why Kurt Cobain would be a shit Messiah. Plus, his version of stigmata would be too messy (no one will wear a pendant depicting a flappy head-hole). You might get epic poems written about the fall of Courtney Love, I suppose.
But overall, I'm pleased that Jesus wasn't sarcastic. His clarity of thought has ensured that there is no doubt or debate surrounding his teachings, and we all live in harmonious certainty.
***
Let's just take a look at this entry, and point out the problems:
1) The central premise revolves around sarcasm - a concept that is almost impossible to convey through the written word (even with judicious use of italics). Why would anyone base their post on an idea that can't be properly explained?
2) It contains references to mid-90s popular culture that most people have forgotten about, and didn't happen long enough ago to merit nostalgia. It makes me seem stuck in the past.
3) None of the ideas are really explored fully, making the whole thing seem unsatisfactory.
4) There's a tacked-on bit of satire on religion at the end, which makes it seem like the whole thing was about making a wry point, instead of just being stupid nonsensical bollocks (which it was).
In the end, I think we can all agree that I've wasted a good deal of time writing this and then analysing it to a wearying degree. And I'm pretty sure that you, like me, admire my moxie and believe me to be some kind of rocket-powered, new-age James Joyce.
Feel free to tip your hat to me. Or cow.
I think I'd lose some respect for him if he was.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who think sarcasm is the lowest form of humour. There are plenty of lower forms (a man falling into dog shit, bad knock-knock jokes, American Dad).
It's just that I'd prefer the Messiah (or prophet or genial motivational speaker) to be reasonably straightforward. His message would be muddied by sarcasm.
"Oh no. What ever am I going to do with these loaves and fishes. It's not like I can multiply them or anything. Sheesh."
"Oh no, that's just fine. Do unto others in a way entirely different to how you want to be treated."
I don't think Jesus would have succeeded in his field if he had the wearying cadence of a Generation-X-er - wondering through the desert in a flannel shirt, rolling his eyes like Daria, listening to Alice in Chains, wearing big boots.
Part of Jesus's charm was his sincerity. If he'd been crucified ironically, Christianity would take a different bent. Sermons would be conducted with vicar's miming "quotation marks" all the time. Communion would have people questioning - if you can believe it - the notion of transubstantiation.
That's why Kurt Cobain would be a shit Messiah. Plus, his version of stigmata would be too messy (no one will wear a pendant depicting a flappy head-hole). You might get epic poems written about the fall of Courtney Love, I suppose.
But overall, I'm pleased that Jesus wasn't sarcastic. His clarity of thought has ensured that there is no doubt or debate surrounding his teachings, and we all live in harmonious certainty.
***
Let's just take a look at this entry, and point out the problems:
1) The central premise revolves around sarcasm - a concept that is almost impossible to convey through the written word (even with judicious use of italics). Why would anyone base their post on an idea that can't be properly explained?
2) It contains references to mid-90s popular culture that most people have forgotten about, and didn't happen long enough ago to merit nostalgia. It makes me seem stuck in the past.
3) None of the ideas are really explored fully, making the whole thing seem unsatisfactory.
4) There's a tacked-on bit of satire on religion at the end, which makes it seem like the whole thing was about making a wry point, instead of just being stupid nonsensical bollocks (which it was).
In the end, I think we can all agree that I've wasted a good deal of time writing this and then analysing it to a wearying degree. And I'm pretty sure that you, like me, admire my moxie and believe me to be some kind of rocket-powered, new-age James Joyce.
Feel free to tip your hat to me. Or cow.
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
A Hell of a Caucasian
An interesting fact from the BBC website:
Belarus is the only European country that still has the death penalty.
I'm proud of that. It means Europeans are really civilised. Even the French.
This fact actually came via the Daily Mail. I can only imagine the admiration for the Belarusians that the Mail displayed.
If only Broken, Blade, Black Britain could learn from the example of Belarus. If we could kill all our criminals (and brown people) we might be able to return to the glory days of Empire and Family Values and Del-Boy Falling Through The Bar and Oswald Moseley.
#And we will build Miiiiiiiinsk, on England's green and pleasant land!#
(Minsk is the capital of Belarus)
Hmm, interesting. Belarus is possibly etymologically derived from 'White Russia' - making it the favourite country of the Dude (although I think he'd be non-plussed by the whole state-approved murder thing).
Capital punishement is the kind of solution invented by a retarded child. It's like when I used to play Mortal Kombat with a childhood friend. Whenever he was about to be defeated, he'd go and hit the reset button on his Megadrive, and then gloat as though it was some kind of victory.
You can't just refuse to engage with things. You might think it makes you decisive and feared and a realist, but it really just makes you a big twat.
Belarus is the only European country that still has the death penalty.
I'm proud of that. It means Europeans are really civilised. Even the French.
This fact actually came via the Daily Mail. I can only imagine the admiration for the Belarusians that the Mail displayed.
If only Broken, Blade, Black Britain could learn from the example of Belarus. If we could kill all our criminals (and brown people) we might be able to return to the glory days of Empire and Family Values and Del-Boy Falling Through The Bar and Oswald Moseley.
#And we will build Miiiiiiiinsk, on England's green and pleasant land!#
(Minsk is the capital of Belarus)
Hmm, interesting. Belarus is possibly etymologically derived from 'White Russia' - making it the favourite country of the Dude (although I think he'd be non-plussed by the whole state-approved murder thing).
Capital punishement is the kind of solution invented by a retarded child. It's like when I used to play Mortal Kombat with a childhood friend. Whenever he was about to be defeated, he'd go and hit the reset button on his Megadrive, and then gloat as though it was some kind of victory.
You can't just refuse to engage with things. You might think it makes you decisive and feared and a realist, but it really just makes you a big twat.
Monday, 13 October 2008
Putting the 'you' in colour
After a purple patch of posting, my propensity to produce periodic prose has perhaps peaked - possibly permanently.
But I hope I can get back on the writin' wagon with a little bit of artless alliteration, and some sub-standard observations (eg. Is a purple patch what happens when Barney the Dinosaur wets his pants?).
Colours seem to represent a lot of different emotions. I suppose we're all slightly synaesthetic.
Feeling blue is bad, probably because being in the sea or the sky was also bad, before the invention of boats/parachutes.
People are green with jealousy because people yearn to be like broccoli.
Being 'in the pink' is a good thing - possibly because of the sexual connotations (although being 'in the brown' hasn't taken off as a phrase, reflecting a lingering linguistic homophobia).
Cowards are yellow, which is odd. You would think yellow's association with the sun would raise its credibility. I always thought people liked the sun, but I suppose some interpret each sunset as our life-giving orb backing down from a rumble with the moon.
Orange is orange. If you assign a fruit to a colour, you're not allowed to use it as a metaphor.
It's weird to think that colours are essentially arbitrary. It's all one big continuum of light waves. We just break the spectrum up in to easy-to-digest-chunks (not literally - except for the orange).
Everything in the world is made up of pretty much the same stuff, we're just using different highlighters and post-its and dividers like some revising nerd, hoping we'll be able to understand things better. A good idea in theory, but things still seem pretty messy to me.
So, those are my thoughts on colour. Here's a sneak preview of next week's analysis of shape:
Scalene triangle? You're having a laugh!
But I hope I can get back on the writin' wagon with a little bit of artless alliteration, and some sub-standard observations (eg. Is a purple patch what happens when Barney the Dinosaur wets his pants?).
Colours seem to represent a lot of different emotions. I suppose we're all slightly synaesthetic.
Feeling blue is bad, probably because being in the sea or the sky was also bad, before the invention of boats/parachutes.
People are green with jealousy because people yearn to be like broccoli.
Being 'in the pink' is a good thing - possibly because of the sexual connotations (although being 'in the brown' hasn't taken off as a phrase, reflecting a lingering linguistic homophobia).
Cowards are yellow, which is odd. You would think yellow's association with the sun would raise its credibility. I always thought people liked the sun, but I suppose some interpret each sunset as our life-giving orb backing down from a rumble with the moon.
Orange is orange. If you assign a fruit to a colour, you're not allowed to use it as a metaphor.
It's weird to think that colours are essentially arbitrary. It's all one big continuum of light waves. We just break the spectrum up in to easy-to-digest-chunks (not literally - except for the orange).
Everything in the world is made up of pretty much the same stuff, we're just using different highlighters and post-its and dividers like some revising nerd, hoping we'll be able to understand things better. A good idea in theory, but things still seem pretty messy to me.
So, those are my thoughts on colour. Here's a sneak preview of next week's analysis of shape:
Scalene triangle? You're having a laugh!
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Saptrack
I'm in a mood to listen to lush, soppy songs that sound like they're from a Disney film. I don't know why. Maybe I'm getting old. That might be why old films have those over-the-top melodramatic scores. In the old days people needed more clearly defined emotion. They wouldn't know whether to cry or not unless they heard a stirring swell of violins. Even at the scene of a dog autopsy (and those are very sad, as the dogs have a hard time using scalpels or mastering fairly basic forensic procedure).
Maybe I'm becoming an old woman. At least people will give up their seats for me on the bus.
Anyway, I'm the songs I'm particicularly thinking of are:
Amanda Palmer - What's the use of Wond'rin? (from my favourite album of the year so far: Who Killed Amanda Palmer?)
I can't find her version, but here is the orginal version, from the film Carousel
The Beatles - The Long and Winding Road (the original Spector-ific version)
(Despite this song being robbed of all it's dignity on X-Factor (just from over-use, the Will Young version was actually ok), it still works in a fuzzy, eerie Snow White-esque way.)
The Beach Boys - Their Hearts Were Made of Spring
I can't bring myself to link to a performance at Reagan's Inauguration, so here's a version by The Four Freshmen
I'll have to listen to my new Fall albums tomorrow to counter-balance the repugnant snuggliness of the whole thing. And kick a child in the leg. That'll make me feel better.
(Repuggliness)
Maybe I'm becoming an old woman. At least people will give up their seats for me on the bus.
Anyway, I'm the songs I'm particicularly thinking of are:
Amanda Palmer - What's the use of Wond'rin? (from my favourite album of the year so far: Who Killed Amanda Palmer?)
I can't find her version, but here is the orginal version, from the film Carousel
The Beatles - The Long and Winding Road (the original Spector-ific version)
(Despite this song being robbed of all it's dignity on X-Factor (just from over-use, the Will Young version was actually ok), it still works in a fuzzy, eerie Snow White-esque way.)
The Beach Boys - Their Hearts Were Made of Spring
I can't bring myself to link to a performance at Reagan's Inauguration, so here's a version by The Four Freshmen
I'll have to listen to my new Fall albums tomorrow to counter-balance the repugnant snuggliness of the whole thing. And kick a child in the leg. That'll make me feel better.
(Repuggliness)
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
My career as an observational comedian: Part III
Well, I've tried putting some thought into what I write here, but that never works. I'm surprised I haven't learned that by now. I should always just start writing and see what happens.
Oh.
Nothing seems to be happening.
Hmm.
I'm sure something will turn up...
What about...? No, that's stupid.
Hey, have you ever noticed how you never see cress anymore? What's the deal with that?
What, was cress just a... y'know... eighties plant? Imagine Rick Astley eating cress! Out of Maggie Thatcher's vagina!
Because, y'know, those things are also... associated with the eighties...
Astley and Thatcher, I mean. Not oral sex. That will never go out of fashion.
Hey, you know when you're on the bus right? Yeah? And you're sitting on the bus, yeah? You with me? And it's empty. And you're on the bus, right? And a crazy guy gets on the bus! And you're the only one on the bus, right? And he gets on the bus. And he walks towards you, all crazy.
And you think about this person. About how through a tiny change in their genetic make-up, they are unable to relate to society in the same way as you. And they can never be truly accepted by people who only view difference and deviance with suspicion and fear. And in fact they may well actually be able to relate to society, it's just that they're never given a chance, because they're shunned and excluded. Everywhere they go, they are looked at like they're a freak, a joke, an animal.
And this mental difference may be because of a genetic glitch, or even a traumatic social event, but whatever the cause, they are imprisoned in this bubble of otherness. You know this, sitting on the bus, you realise that this is a human being. You realise that we're all different and yet we all try to find a way to live in a society that distrusts difference. You want to reach out and tell the crazy person 'I'm like you! We are one!', and hug them, letting them know they're not alone.
But they're making funny noises, and swearing loudly. And they've got weird stains on their clothes. And they're carrying a plastic bag, with something in it that looks like a dead animal. It's probably not a dead animal. But you're not quite sure.
So you turn up your Walkman (or iPod, depending on what decade it is), and stare forward, trying not to make eye-contact, trying not to display the fact that you are a human being.
And the crazy man sits behind you, and you spend the whole journey hoping he doesn't do anything, like touch your hair or start singing.
And finally, just as you think you're free, you feel it.
Tap, tap, tap, on your shoulder.
And you can't escape it. Contact has been made. Your charade of inhumanity melts away, and you're just two people. Just two people, together on the bus.
So you turn around and say:
"For fuck's sake Dad, I get enough of your bullshit at home.
At least use the animal-carrier if you're taking Scruffy to the vet. He can't breathe in that bag."
Eventually, you get off the bus and have to wait ages for the next one. And three of them come along at once. As usual.
***
Fuck Peter Kay. This shit is easy!
Oh.
Nothing seems to be happening.
Hmm.
I'm sure something will turn up...
What about...? No, that's stupid.
Hey, have you ever noticed how you never see cress anymore? What's the deal with that?
What, was cress just a... y'know... eighties plant? Imagine Rick Astley eating cress! Out of Maggie Thatcher's vagina!
Because, y'know, those things are also... associated with the eighties...
Astley and Thatcher, I mean. Not oral sex. That will never go out of fashion.
Hey, you know when you're on the bus right? Yeah? And you're sitting on the bus, yeah? You with me? And it's empty. And you're on the bus, right? And a crazy guy gets on the bus! And you're the only one on the bus, right? And he gets on the bus. And he walks towards you, all crazy.
And you think about this person. About how through a tiny change in their genetic make-up, they are unable to relate to society in the same way as you. And they can never be truly accepted by people who only view difference and deviance with suspicion and fear. And in fact they may well actually be able to relate to society, it's just that they're never given a chance, because they're shunned and excluded. Everywhere they go, they are looked at like they're a freak, a joke, an animal.
And this mental difference may be because of a genetic glitch, or even a traumatic social event, but whatever the cause, they are imprisoned in this bubble of otherness. You know this, sitting on the bus, you realise that this is a human being. You realise that we're all different and yet we all try to find a way to live in a society that distrusts difference. You want to reach out and tell the crazy person 'I'm like you! We are one!', and hug them, letting them know they're not alone.
But they're making funny noises, and swearing loudly. And they've got weird stains on their clothes. And they're carrying a plastic bag, with something in it that looks like a dead animal. It's probably not a dead animal. But you're not quite sure.
So you turn up your Walkman (or iPod, depending on what decade it is), and stare forward, trying not to make eye-contact, trying not to display the fact that you are a human being.
And the crazy man sits behind you, and you spend the whole journey hoping he doesn't do anything, like touch your hair or start singing.
And finally, just as you think you're free, you feel it.
Tap, tap, tap, on your shoulder.
And you can't escape it. Contact has been made. Your charade of inhumanity melts away, and you're just two people. Just two people, together on the bus.
So you turn around and say:
"For fuck's sake Dad, I get enough of your bullshit at home.
At least use the animal-carrier if you're taking Scruffy to the vet. He can't breathe in that bag."
Eventually, you get off the bus and have to wait ages for the next one. And three of them come along at once. As usual.
***
Fuck Peter Kay. This shit is easy!
Monday, 6 October 2008
An amusing video (that you've probably already seen)
And the winner in the 'making me laugh at my desk like a mental patient' category is Peter Serafinowicz:
See more funny videos at Funny or Die UK
The Passion Police
On my way home from work, I usually pass by a big statue of Jesus. It's outside a church, so it's understandable. Of course, being a Christian symbol, it's not a statue of him standing proud and strong. It's not of him healing the sick, or walking on water, or feeding the hungry. Oh no. Instead it's that delightful image of his execution that all the youngsters find so trendy, wearing around their necks and such.
I don't know about you, but it gives my a deep spiritual joy, and a spring in my step, to walk past the effigy or a tortured man every day. No wonder the Church is going from strength to strength, what with such uplifting imagery. It's odd that no other major organisations have followed the same template - every McDonalds could have Ronald McDonald in the electric chair, Barnados could have papier mache children outside being abused, every branch of Zavvi can have a burning replica of Richard Branson waving you into the store.
It's handy that the symbol of Christianity is also the symbol of everything that's wrong with it.
Hey, you know Jesus? He taught us about love and forgiveness and everything, yeah? Well, we think the most important thing he did was being nailed to some wood, and dying slowly. Let's remember that instead. All that affection and respect for your fellow man - that's not important. We want the first thing to spring to peoples minds when they think of Jesus to be: 'oww!'.
So anyway, on Friday I was walking home, and there were a group of teenagers (who seemed to be tourists) messing around by the statue. They were joking around, and even took a picture of one of the group standing in front of Jesus with their arms outstretched. As an atheist, I couldn't decide if it was disrespectful or not. it probably was, but I'm more offended by the statue than the idiots laughing at it.
You'd think, wherever the tourists were from, Jesus is still quite familiar. I'm sure there are similar statues in their home country to laugh at. Maybe it's actually a deeply respectful tradition to mock the Messiah where they come from. Maybe they also do caricatures depicting the Prophet Muhammad as George Michael, and piss on Buddha.
It's probably more classy than ignoring the teachings of your spiritual figure and constantly throwing his grisly death in your face (not to mention eating his corpse on a weekly basis).
It's quite depressing that a lot of religious leaders see guilt as a more effective motivational tool than hope and morality. They're probably right, but it's still annoying.
So in the end, I went up to the tourist teenagers and, remembering the teachings of the Catholic church, I flayed them for a little bit, then nailed them up on lampposts until they died.
What Would Jesus Do? Suffer.
Suffer loads, apparently.
I don't know about you, but it gives my a deep spiritual joy, and a spring in my step, to walk past the effigy or a tortured man every day. No wonder the Church is going from strength to strength, what with such uplifting imagery. It's odd that no other major organisations have followed the same template - every McDonalds could have Ronald McDonald in the electric chair, Barnados could have papier mache children outside being abused, every branch of Zavvi can have a burning replica of Richard Branson waving you into the store.
It's handy that the symbol of Christianity is also the symbol of everything that's wrong with it.
Hey, you know Jesus? He taught us about love and forgiveness and everything, yeah? Well, we think the most important thing he did was being nailed to some wood, and dying slowly. Let's remember that instead. All that affection and respect for your fellow man - that's not important. We want the first thing to spring to peoples minds when they think of Jesus to be: 'oww!'.
So anyway, on Friday I was walking home, and there were a group of teenagers (who seemed to be tourists) messing around by the statue. They were joking around, and even took a picture of one of the group standing in front of Jesus with their arms outstretched. As an atheist, I couldn't decide if it was disrespectful or not. it probably was, but I'm more offended by the statue than the idiots laughing at it.
You'd think, wherever the tourists were from, Jesus is still quite familiar. I'm sure there are similar statues in their home country to laugh at. Maybe it's actually a deeply respectful tradition to mock the Messiah where they come from. Maybe they also do caricatures depicting the Prophet Muhammad as George Michael, and piss on Buddha.
It's probably more classy than ignoring the teachings of your spiritual figure and constantly throwing his grisly death in your face (not to mention eating his corpse on a weekly basis).
It's quite depressing that a lot of religious leaders see guilt as a more effective motivational tool than hope and morality. They're probably right, but it's still annoying.
So in the end, I went up to the tourist teenagers and, remembering the teachings of the Catholic church, I flayed them for a little bit, then nailed them up on lampposts until they died.
What Would Jesus Do? Suffer.
Suffer loads, apparently.
Thursday, 2 October 2008
Hickory-Dickory
It seems like only yesterday that I was mourning the end of October.
And yet, I'm back with her once again.
Time has an incredible habit of simultaneously moving quickly and slowly. I remember writing that entry quite clearly. And yet my life then - my old job, living in Devon - seems like a world away.
It's quite scary to think that time is so contingent on our mood and our perspective. The idea of a 'passage of time' is only a human invention after all. Different points in time are always there, just like points in space, it's just that we have a particular way of processing the information. I read a book about the philosophy of time once (or at least most of it, until it got too confusing). I've forgot most of it, though. Maybe I should give it another try. Or maybe I should just watch Back to the Future II again. It's been a while. And yet, at the same time, seems like only yesterday.
(It was only yesterday)
***
A watched pot never boils. A pot watch is sluggish at best.
A stitch in time saves nine lives (embroidered cat).
Time flies when you're having fun. Fun Times at Ridgemont High.
A stopped clock is right twice a day, unless it's a twenty-four hour clock.
Time makes fools of us all. A fool and his clock are soon parted.
Do second hand shops charge extra for the rest of the clock?
Watch your back. Keep watching the skies. In conclusion: be flexible.
Ti-i-i-ime is on my side. The times, they are a-changing. Time after time.
Man, there are a lot of time clichés! I could go on all day. But I haven't got the...
patience.
And yet, I'm back with her once again.
Time has an incredible habit of simultaneously moving quickly and slowly. I remember writing that entry quite clearly. And yet my life then - my old job, living in Devon - seems like a world away.
It's quite scary to think that time is so contingent on our mood and our perspective. The idea of a 'passage of time' is only a human invention after all. Different points in time are always there, just like points in space, it's just that we have a particular way of processing the information. I read a book about the philosophy of time once (or at least most of it, until it got too confusing). I've forgot most of it, though. Maybe I should give it another try. Or maybe I should just watch Back to the Future II again. It's been a while. And yet, at the same time, seems like only yesterday.
(It was only yesterday)
***
A watched pot never boils. A pot watch is sluggish at best.
A stitch in time saves nine lives (embroidered cat).
Time flies when you're having fun. Fun Times at Ridgemont High.
A stopped clock is right twice a day, unless it's a twenty-four hour clock.
Time makes fools of us all. A fool and his clock are soon parted.
Do second hand shops charge extra for the rest of the clock?
Watch your back. Keep watching the skies. In conclusion: be flexible.
Ti-i-i-ime is on my side. The times, they are a-changing. Time after time.
Man, there are a lot of time clichés! I could go on all day. But I haven't got the...
patience.
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