!!~~POST #300 - MAMMOTH CELEBRATORY BONANZA~~!!

So, it's here again.

For new confused new readers or forgetful older ones, this has become a tradition for some reason!

This is my 300th blog post, and this relatively unimpressive milestone must be marked by a long-winded entry bookended by a picture of me, altered in the style of a mental patient.

The first one of these, for Post #100, can be found here. The one for Post #200 is here.

One line from the latter:

I'm looking forward to seeing what the world is like by the time I get to 300 (hoverboards, hoverboards, hoverboards).

I'm remarkably prescient. Now every home has a hoverboard. I use mine mainly as a foot-rest, but I've also used it to batter invading crows.

It's certainly interesting to look back at my previous milestones. I don't think I've changed that much. I'm just much wiser and 20% more handsome. And of course, there's my prosthetic ear. But that's old news.

It's odd to have a dialogue with my past self. I suppose it's not really a dialogue - just an extended monologue. But when different parts of a monologue collide, it creates a whole new conversation. And given that time isn't an absolute linear construct, and I'm reacting to myself and anticipating myself, I think we can classify it as a dialogue. It's a solipsistic metaphysical chat, where we're both simultaneously bored and fascinated by each other.

Isn't that right, Post #400 Paul?

(It will take him a while to answer)


***

I really hate it when my phone rings. Whether at home or at work, it's a terrible thing to hear. It seems like a kind of home invasion - I feel violated by every ring. Every muscle in my body tenses, I clench everything.

I think the problem is impending conversation. I'm not good on the phone. My conversational technique isn't really conducive to phonecalls. I think I need to utilise my large array of facial expressions to avoid sounding like an idiot. I'm not good at filling up silences. I've tried making the horrifying sound of a Dementor or a drunk wolf, but that seems to increase the awkwardness.

When the phone rings, it's usually either my mum or an automated business call from a despicable marketing robot - which is fine.

My fear is that I'll have to speak to someone I don't know. They might not speak good English, or the phone line will be crackly and inaudible, making me have to repeat everything. I'm worried that I'll accidentally blurt out something stupid ("I love you!" or "I done an accident!"). It's especially bad at work, where I'm expected to know things, and know people, when in fact I know no-one and nothing (I'm going to put that on my CV).

I suppose I should get rid of my phone at home. I'm a glutton for punishment. Or I could just leave an explanatory answerphone message which says:

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I probably am in, but I'm scared. Like a mouse. A really cowardly mouse. People frighten me. Please leave a message after the tone. I won't get back to you, but it's not due to rudeness - just fear."

The odd thing is, as much as I hate phonecalls, I love getting emails. I check my Hotmail about three-thousand times a day. When I see a little number indicating unread messages, I'm overjoyed. It's like the sight of a bus you've been looking out for for an hour - a glorious thing.

It usually ends in disappointment, of course. The email will be from Tesco, telling me about cheap broad beans, or from Amazon telling me that people who have similar tastes to me like other things commonly associated with cunts.

But I still love the emails.

I suppose it means I'm a bad communicator. Or maybe just a non-verbal one.

That's why I like Facebook. I can contact the people I like, but just by writing stupid puns on their Wall, or indicating that I 'like' the status message telling me about a family bereavement.

I never get drawn into a long conversation about how I'm doing (fine), what I'm up to this weekend (nothing), or where I'm going on holiday this year (Lloyds Pharmacy, in a variety of different wigs, in an attempt to get around guidelines prohibiting the bulk-buying of Paracetamol)

[I'm not really doing that one.]

Text messages are somewhere in between email and telephone. They're great, but they carry the risk of requiring a follow-up phonecall.

I think I'd have been successful in the era of letter-writing. I could take my time with things, and make extravagant loops and crosses with my quill. There would always be the threat of an impending messenger-boy, or course.

But that's why they had muskets.

***

I always feel like I want these big entries to contain content in a variety of forms. So far I've done photo manipulation and whiny self-reflexivity. But I need something else. Maybe a haiku:

Ricardo made toast
He used Olivio spread
Before the rebrand

That was easy. I really have become much wiser.

***

I have a strong memory of drawing a cartoon at school which explained how the digestive process worked. I assume it must have been in a science lesson, though it was a surprisingly creative idea. I mainly remember science being interminable, which is a shame given how interesting the subject can be. If they had told us about time travel, we might have produced a generation of Emmett Browns.

The cartoon showed a meatball going through the various tubes and bellows (I'm no biologer) of the human body, and getting all broken down and absorbed. I don't know how accurate it was. The only bit of the cartoon I remember well was an early panel showing the meatball being microwaved and screaming in pain.

I don't think that had much to do with digestion. It was just a bit of extraneous colour - contributing to the richness of the fictional world. In many ways, that cartoon was the precursor of shows like The Wire.

I remember the screaming meatball was indicated with a speech-bubble saying: "Ahhhhhhh!"

After I had written it, I wished I'd spelled it differently. "Arggghhh!" I suppose, because the first spelling could have just been the sound of the meatball relaxing in a hot bath. "Ahhhh! That's better!"

And I didn't want people to think that was the case. It was being microwaved, after all. That's one of the least relaxing things that can happen to a person (meat or otherwise). I didn't want to be misleading. It was science, after all.

I think I liked the idea of drawing cartoons, but I wasn't very good at it. That's why my greatest works were based around meatballs; a pretty easy shape to draw.

Of course, my artistic stylings have improved in leaps and bounds, as testified by the chronicles of Frank55. It's in a different class. (Some people have drawn parallels between Frank's head and a meatball. Coincidence, dear reader. Coincidence.)

***

Let's change things up with a bit of multimedia!

I've recently been compiling top five lists of things (bands, TV programmes, members of the Jackson 6 etc). Whilst the lists have yet to be finalised, there are a couple of things I'm sure will be in there.

-- EDIT--

Oh dear. I just found out Michael Jackson died. I made the above reference oblivious to the fact. Can I chalk this up as another Richard Whiteley/Evil Nievel curse moment? For entertainment's sake: yes. Yes I can.

--EDIT--

A sure-fire Top 5 TV show is The Armando Iannucci Shows, which I've pimped here so many times I should get some kind of DVD commission. I can't praise it highly enough. That's why I bought some helium.

Ahahahahahahaha!

Here's another great sketch from 'the Nooch':



I've also decided on my top three bands/artists. Numbers 1 and 2 are always fighting it out for supremacy (Ben Folds Five and The Fall), but number 3 is cruelly overlooked by a lot of people.

I love the Pixies, but I think I might like Frank Black's solo stuff (with or without the Catholics) even more. He's a great songwriter with a great voice. Here's a tremendous song:



(Sorry there's no proper video)

***

Well, I'm sure this has been more than long enough. If you're still reading this: thank you!

In fact, I'd like to thank anyone that reads this. It makes me feel all warm inside my meatball-chambers that other people are willing to read the things I write. It's weird that the odd stuff that happens in my head might now be in your head.

The internet is an excellent thing. Here's to another 100 posts (I'm toasting with an empty mug)!

I really feel like I've matured. Whatever happened to the rambling idiot? The rubbish cartoonist? The self-obsessed weirdo?

Who can say?