In the interests of increasing my blog post count for this month (as part of an ongoing and futile battle with my past self's productivity), I'll stick a little something here.
Luckily, I have something to talk about. I did some stand-up last night.
It was useful. Which is as soulless an assessment as one can make. Luckily, my soul infuses every other sentence in this entry. Even that one. You can tell that I'm soulful from my use of the words 'one', 'stick' and 'assessment'.
The crowd was a bit smaller than usual, but even so, they were very generous. I did almost a whole new set, mostly made up of stuff from these ideas. It involved printing out and holding the headline pictures as props. I felt a bit awkward holding them, and I hadn't really polished the ideas enough. I could have used a few more jokes. But it went OK.
I also found out that I'm performing on Thursday at Oxford Brookes (short notice because of a misunderstanding). It will be cool and slightly scary to perform in a new venue with a new crowd. I'll be using tried and tested material for that one.
I wore a suit again last night, but didn't really do my suit persona. It's a shame. I had dreams of creating a whole new alter-ego. Suit Man, perhaps. Or Mr Suit.
Or I could go for something that doesn't explicitly reference the suit. It's a tricky balance.
But on the evidence of last night, I'll have to come up with something else to get me into character.
Tomorrow night, perhaps I'll play Dressing Gown Man, or Mr Topless (with scars).
Who can say? Life is a rollercoaster. Frankly this metal support bar is becoming an irritant. As are the screaming kids all around me.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Monday, 28 September 2009
Got the picture?
I've started reading Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates. I'm enjoying it so far, even though, in the back of my mind, I can't stop thinking of Yates as the inspiration for this character in Seinfeld. I can't imagine Lawrence Tierney writing this stuff.
(There's a nice, short version of that story here, if you're interested)
Anyway, in Revolutionary Road, there's an excellent description of one of the main character's theories on working for a living. It's pretty much exactly the same as my approach:
"No, but listen; there're all different kinds of ways of looking at a thing like this, Sam. Look at it this way. I need a job; okay. Is that any reason why the job I get has to louse me up? Look. All I want is to get enough dough coming in to keep us solvent for the next year or so, till I can figure things out; meanwhile I want to retain my own identity. Therefore the thing I'm most anxious to avoid is any kind of work that can be considered 'interesting' in its own right. I want something that can't possibly touch me.
I want some big, swollen old corporation that's been bumbling along making money in its sleep for a hundred years, where they have to hire eight guys for every one job because none of them can be expected to care about whatever boring thing it is they're supposed to be doing. I want to go into that kind of place and say, Look. You can have my body and my nice college-boy smile for so many hours in a day, in exhange for so many dollars, and beyond that we'll leave each other strictly alone. Got the picture?"
That's totally what I think. Particularly: "...the thing I'm most anxious to avoid is any kind of work that can be considered 'interesting' in its own right. I want something that can't possibly touch me."
That really kills me: it's great. I'm only about half way through, so I don't know what will happen to this character. But it certainly seems that he is deluded and fails in his objective, which is a bit of a downer.
I don't want to have similar perspectives to a dick. But I suppose there's a dick out there for all of us; thinking what we think, doing what we do, and making us feel like idiots because of it.
So, it's slightly discouraging. But uplifting too. I like reading about and hearing about things I've already thought, but expressed with more clarity and humour than I can muster.
That's what observational comedy does. We get a thrill from recognition. But I'm not so keen on hearing that a comic has seen things I've seen, or noticed the same foibles or quirks. I like the recognition of ideas.
It's really comforting to know that there are people out there who think about the same things you do - and sometimes even reach the same conclusions. I think it's Mr Kitson who I'm thinking of here (once again).
His observational comedy is less "did you ever notice..." (back to Seinfeld again), and more: "did you ever realise" or even "did you ever feel...". That kind of comedy (or writing or music or whatever) is what I really love.
So, when I was reading the above section of the book, I was enjoying the familiarity of the mindset, I was worried about what it said about my character, but - more than anything - I got a thrill from the fact it existed. I think that's what art is for, I suppose.
I don't want my job to be able to touch me, but art can grope away to its heart's content. Which is a creepy way of saying something quite nice.
Like tattooing a marriage proposal on a dwarf's face, and getting him to jump out of a risotto.
(There's a nice, short version of that story here, if you're interested)
Anyway, in Revolutionary Road, there's an excellent description of one of the main character's theories on working for a living. It's pretty much exactly the same as my approach:
"No, but listen; there're all different kinds of ways of looking at a thing like this, Sam. Look at it this way. I need a job; okay. Is that any reason why the job I get has to louse me up? Look. All I want is to get enough dough coming in to keep us solvent for the next year or so, till I can figure things out; meanwhile I want to retain my own identity. Therefore the thing I'm most anxious to avoid is any kind of work that can be considered 'interesting' in its own right. I want something that can't possibly touch me.
I want some big, swollen old corporation that's been bumbling along making money in its sleep for a hundred years, where they have to hire eight guys for every one job because none of them can be expected to care about whatever boring thing it is they're supposed to be doing. I want to go into that kind of place and say, Look. You can have my body and my nice college-boy smile for so many hours in a day, in exhange for so many dollars, and beyond that we'll leave each other strictly alone. Got the picture?"
That's totally what I think. Particularly: "...the thing I'm most anxious to avoid is any kind of work that can be considered 'interesting' in its own right. I want something that can't possibly touch me."
That really kills me: it's great. I'm only about half way through, so I don't know what will happen to this character. But it certainly seems that he is deluded and fails in his objective, which is a bit of a downer.
I don't want to have similar perspectives to a dick. But I suppose there's a dick out there for all of us; thinking what we think, doing what we do, and making us feel like idiots because of it.
So, it's slightly discouraging. But uplifting too. I like reading about and hearing about things I've already thought, but expressed with more clarity and humour than I can muster.
That's what observational comedy does. We get a thrill from recognition. But I'm not so keen on hearing that a comic has seen things I've seen, or noticed the same foibles or quirks. I like the recognition of ideas.
It's really comforting to know that there are people out there who think about the same things you do - and sometimes even reach the same conclusions. I think it's Mr Kitson who I'm thinking of here (once again).
His observational comedy is less "did you ever notice..." (back to Seinfeld again), and more: "did you ever realise" or even "did you ever feel...". That kind of comedy (or writing or music or whatever) is what I really love.
So, when I was reading the above section of the book, I was enjoying the familiarity of the mindset, I was worried about what it said about my character, but - more than anything - I got a thrill from the fact it existed. I think that's what art is for, I suppose.
I don't want my job to be able to touch me, but art can grope away to its heart's content. Which is a creepy way of saying something quite nice.
Like tattooing a marriage proposal on a dwarf's face, and getting him to jump out of a risotto.
Something Innocuous
I'm in one of those moods.
No, not one of those moods. One of those moods.
I'm experiencing a combination of depression, boredom, jitteriness, absent-mindedness, anxiety, tiredness, apathy and intense philosophical self-analysis.
It's not the most winning of combinations. In fact, it wouldn't win against the vast majority of combinations that exist. It would lose to a combination of bad breath, belligerence and casual racism.
So I'll try not to dwell. No one likes a dweller. Dwelling is associated with trolls. And I'm no troll.
I should try to tackle something innocuous. Like inoculation. Or couscous.
But it's difficult to focus on just one thing. My head is buzzing with words and thoughts that are incredibly shallow, but capable of holding a lot of liquid. Thoughts like that one just then, which conform to the minimum requirements of sentences, but don't actually mean anything.
One day, inspiration will strike, and all these pointless ideas will align, becoming beautiful and truthful and divine. I'm sure that will happen. But for now, I'm essentially writing this to keep my fingertips warm.
I should go back to the trolls and the couscous. They're still waiting for the salad bar to be replenished with goat carcasses. So are the trolls.
No, not one of those moods. One of those moods.
I'm experiencing a combination of depression, boredom, jitteriness, absent-mindedness, anxiety, tiredness, apathy and intense philosophical self-analysis.
It's not the most winning of combinations. In fact, it wouldn't win against the vast majority of combinations that exist. It would lose to a combination of bad breath, belligerence and casual racism.
So I'll try not to dwell. No one likes a dweller. Dwelling is associated with trolls. And I'm no troll.
I should try to tackle something innocuous. Like inoculation. Or couscous.
But it's difficult to focus on just one thing. My head is buzzing with words and thoughts that are incredibly shallow, but capable of holding a lot of liquid. Thoughts like that one just then, which conform to the minimum requirements of sentences, but don't actually mean anything.
One day, inspiration will strike, and all these pointless ideas will align, becoming beautiful and truthful and divine. I'm sure that will happen. But for now, I'm essentially writing this to keep my fingertips warm.
I should go back to the trolls and the couscous. They're still waiting for the salad bar to be replenished with goat carcasses. So are the trolls.
Friday, 25 September 2009
Precision
I have the focus of a laser beam.
Not a functional laser beam; a laser beam that has seen the horrors of war and decided to embrace pacifism.
Not all lasers are used in wars, of course. In fact, I don't think they are commonly used as offensive weapons. I should stop learning about war from the film Short Circuit (he didn't have the laser in Short Circuit 2).
Anyway, now I'm as focussed as a jaded, alcoholic Vietnam Vet-laser. I'm generally dissatisfied, angry at no-one in particular, and spectacularly ineffective.
---
The above is an extract from my CV. It's good to sound disturbed, pedantic and dismissive of the armed forces.
***
My mind is like a trap.
Not a functional trap; a trap that is battered and past its best.
In its heyday it captured cougars and barracudas and Lex Luger. But now the springs have gone, the casing has cracked. It couldn't hold an inanimate fog or the memory of a dandelion.
My mind should be put out of its misery. And, ironically, it's incapable of grasping the gravity of the the situation.
---
The above is an extract from the second volume of my memoirs.
People like to read stuff about traps. That's why Russell Brand's Booky Wook did so well. I think most of it was baffling trap content.
***
Ah, Autumn! The King of Seasons!
Golden leaves, shiny conkers, loudmouthed children gobbing their way to school, tricky wardrobe decisions, the Pope, shatter-proof rulers, frogs, Leuven in Belgium, antagonism, frosty mornings, paint, North African peasants weeping over lasagne, Bonfire Night, chess, Flight of the Navigator...
Sorry, I just started listing things there. What was I talking about?
Oh yes - Autumn! The King of Seasons!
Destined to mate with Summer (the Queen of Seasons) to produce Winter (the Prince of Seasons).
And to perhaps also mate with Wednesday, producing a curious day/season hybrid that will one day/season hold dominion over all temporal realms.
Spring was adopted.
I like Autumn. I get to bring out my big leather coat.
I haven't worn it for a couple of years, as it's been stored at my parents house (too big to bring on the train).
I bought it in New York (I'm thoroughly Neapolitan). I thought it would make me look like a trendy Matrix-y non-conformist. Instead, I look like a bulky, overly-pocketed Soviet Agent gone to seed.
It's well warm, though. It has a furry lining you can take out.
I'm looking forward to the cold weather. I can come into work wearing my big coat. People will think I've gone mad! But I'll show them!
I will wear clothes underneath.
I will.
I will.
I will.
I will.
I will.
I will.
I will.I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will.
I almost certainly will.
Not a functional laser beam; a laser beam that has seen the horrors of war and decided to embrace pacifism.
Not all lasers are used in wars, of course. In fact, I don't think they are commonly used as offensive weapons. I should stop learning about war from the film Short Circuit (he didn't have the laser in Short Circuit 2).
Anyway, now I'm as focussed as a jaded, alcoholic Vietnam Vet-laser. I'm generally dissatisfied, angry at no-one in particular, and spectacularly ineffective.
---
The above is an extract from my CV. It's good to sound disturbed, pedantic and dismissive of the armed forces.
***
My mind is like a trap.
Not a functional trap; a trap that is battered and past its best.
In its heyday it captured cougars and barracudas and Lex Luger. But now the springs have gone, the casing has cracked. It couldn't hold an inanimate fog or the memory of a dandelion.
My mind should be put out of its misery. And, ironically, it's incapable of grasping the gravity of the the situation.
---
The above is an extract from the second volume of my memoirs.
People like to read stuff about traps. That's why Russell Brand's Booky Wook did so well. I think most of it was baffling trap content.
***
Ah, Autumn! The King of Seasons!
Golden leaves, shiny conkers, loudmouthed children gobbing their way to school, tricky wardrobe decisions, the Pope, shatter-proof rulers, frogs, Leuven in Belgium, antagonism, frosty mornings, paint, North African peasants weeping over lasagne, Bonfire Night, chess, Flight of the Navigator...
Sorry, I just started listing things there. What was I talking about?
Oh yes - Autumn! The King of Seasons!
Destined to mate with Summer (the Queen of Seasons) to produce Winter (the Prince of Seasons).
And to perhaps also mate with Wednesday, producing a curious day/season hybrid that will one day/season hold dominion over all temporal realms.
Spring was adopted.
I like Autumn. I get to bring out my big leather coat.
I haven't worn it for a couple of years, as it's been stored at my parents house (too big to bring on the train).
I bought it in New York (I'm thoroughly Neapolitan). I thought it would make me look like a trendy Matrix-y non-conformist. Instead, I look like a bulky, overly-pocketed Soviet Agent gone to seed.
It's well warm, though. It has a furry lining you can take out.
I'm looking forward to the cold weather. I can come into work wearing my big coat. People will think I've gone mad! But I'll show them!
I will wear clothes underneath.
I will.
I will.
I will.
I will.
I will.
I will.
I will.I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will. I will.
I almost certainly will.
Jeffrey Lewis, Daniel Kitson and the Cosmic Cube
I like the idea of outsider art. I'm listening to Jeffrey Lewis right now. This particular song was played at the end of the Daniel Kitson gig I was at on Tuesday. Those two are quite closely linked in my head (along with Josie Long) with a movement of lo-fi, romantic, geeky, ambitious, tender art; a movement that I've discovered over the last few years - long after everyone else.
I'd like to be able to do what they do, but I'm not earnest or confident enough. Oh, and talented. That's the trouble with outsider art: if you're a real outsider, you wouldn't succeed as an artist.
I'm sure I've written about this before, but I struggle to completely identify with my favourite artists, because the very fact of their notoriety makes them different to me. They have a combination of determination and neuroses that I seem to lack. Perhaps it comes from a secure and happy upbringing.
Of course, I wasn't the happiest of teenagers. I should have channelled that dissatisfaction into something more productive.
Watching Kitson makes me question my entire stand-up style. Everything about him seems so genuine, that it makes my wacky observations seem really shallow. I'd like to form a genuine connection with the audience (even though I don't want to actually talk to any of them).
I feel that I could split all my material in two. One half would be observations about life, and the other would be odd surreal ideas. I could create a second personality. Paul Funge. Or something more interesting.
As you can tell from the preceeding paragraphs, one of the traits I do share with those people is self-indulgence. Glorious self-indulgence.
I've got no time for people who don't indulge themselves. The material world is so subjective, I choose to sail on the glittering raft of solipsism. All my stuff is here, and it's well comfy.
***
I shouldn't do these late-night posts. I already know I'll cringe when I read this tomorrow, and in a year, and in twenty years. Although I reckon you cringe less as you get older.
I wonder if you could squeeze fruit juice by cringing. If you hid oranges about your person and cringed, you could collect all the juice by standing in a big trough. I'd buy freshly-cringed orange juice.
It would be bitter, of course.
***
Just because you like something or someone doesn't mean you have to emulate it. I shouldn't try to be Daniel Kitson. He's impossibly good. And I'm very different to him. Not worse exactly.
Just... worse.
I don't try to emulate Mark E Smith, after all. I think I think too much about what I should try to do. Maybe I do have those neuroses after all.
***
I don't know what these three asterisks are all about. Perhaps they're a chance for you to catch your breath. After all, I'm writing at quite a blistering pace.
***
***
***
So - legs, eh? What are they all about?!
***
I'm not going to check this entry for typos. Daniel Kitson's emails are full of errors. You have to admire his commitment to being an outsider. He's not even willing to kowtow to the restrictions of GRAMMAR. That dude's hardcore.
***
Time for bed now. Come on, Paul (Fung or Funge).
Come on.
Can I finish with an awesome Jack Kirby Captain America cover?
Yes.
I'd like to be able to do what they do, but I'm not earnest or confident enough. Oh, and talented. That's the trouble with outsider art: if you're a real outsider, you wouldn't succeed as an artist.
I'm sure I've written about this before, but I struggle to completely identify with my favourite artists, because the very fact of their notoriety makes them different to me. They have a combination of determination and neuroses that I seem to lack. Perhaps it comes from a secure and happy upbringing.
Of course, I wasn't the happiest of teenagers. I should have channelled that dissatisfaction into something more productive.
Watching Kitson makes me question my entire stand-up style. Everything about him seems so genuine, that it makes my wacky observations seem really shallow. I'd like to form a genuine connection with the audience (even though I don't want to actually talk to any of them).
I feel that I could split all my material in two. One half would be observations about life, and the other would be odd surreal ideas. I could create a second personality. Paul Funge. Or something more interesting.
As you can tell from the preceeding paragraphs, one of the traits I do share with those people is self-indulgence. Glorious self-indulgence.
I've got no time for people who don't indulge themselves. The material world is so subjective, I choose to sail on the glittering raft of solipsism. All my stuff is here, and it's well comfy.
***
I shouldn't do these late-night posts. I already know I'll cringe when I read this tomorrow, and in a year, and in twenty years. Although I reckon you cringe less as you get older.
I wonder if you could squeeze fruit juice by cringing. If you hid oranges about your person and cringed, you could collect all the juice by standing in a big trough. I'd buy freshly-cringed orange juice.
It would be bitter, of course.
***
Just because you like something or someone doesn't mean you have to emulate it. I shouldn't try to be Daniel Kitson. He's impossibly good. And I'm very different to him. Not worse exactly.
Just... worse.
I don't try to emulate Mark E Smith, after all. I think I think too much about what I should try to do. Maybe I do have those neuroses after all.
***
I don't know what these three asterisks are all about. Perhaps they're a chance for you to catch your breath. After all, I'm writing at quite a blistering pace.
***
***
***
So - legs, eh? What are they all about?!
***
I'm not going to check this entry for typos. Daniel Kitson's emails are full of errors. You have to admire his commitment to being an outsider. He's not even willing to kowtow to the restrictions of GRAMMAR. That dude's hardcore.
***
Time for bed now. Come on, Paul (Fung or Funge).
Come on.
Can I finish with an awesome Jack Kirby Captain America cover?
Yes.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Bricks
There are bricks that don't get on with other bricks.
That's how I'm starting this one. Not sure why - it just came to me. I was staring at a blank text box, and needed some content. So I wrote something about bricks.
Some bricks prefer to work solo. Some bricks have difficulty with commitment. Some bricks are just pricks.
And a just prick is almost unbearable. Because they have the weight of righteousness behind them.
***
You can't get blood from a stone.
Except former Nottingham Forest winger Steve Stone. He's very generous when dishing out plasma. I think the stigma of that expression stayed with him all his life.
Sometimes he didn't even wait for the Blood Bank. He'd just spray blood out of his speeding car, dousing the hedgerows.
It made him happy, you see? Defying expectations.
Good on you, Steve!
***
I think the word "predictable" is always spelled the same way. The same can't be said for "unpridictibil".
I think words should practice what they preach (and practise what they preech).
***
The formatting of this post is doing my head in. Every time I add a photo it gets all confusing! Why? WHY?!
***
If I could applaud myself, I'd never leave the house.
That's how I'm starting this one. Not sure why - it just came to me. I was staring at a blank text box, and needed some content. So I wrote something about bricks.
Some bricks prefer to work solo. Some bricks have difficulty with commitment. Some bricks are just pricks.
And a just prick is almost unbearable. Because they have the weight of righteousness behind them.
***
You can't get blood from a stone.
Except former Nottingham Forest winger Steve Stone. He's very generous when dishing out plasma. I think the stigma of that expression stayed with him all his life.
Sometimes he didn't even wait for the Blood Bank. He'd just spray blood out of his speeding car, dousing the hedgerows.
It made him happy, you see? Defying expectations.
Good on you, Steve!
***
I think the word "predictable" is always spelled the same way. The same can't be said for "unpridictibil".
I think words should practice what they preach (and practise what they preech).
***
The formatting of this post is doing my head in. Every time I add a photo it gets all confusing! Why? WHY?!
***
If I could applaud myself, I'd never leave the house.
Friday, 18 September 2009
Tiring
Oh my. It has been a whole week since my last entry. I have no excuse. I suppose I just haven't been thinking about things.
That's not entirely true. Last night, Lucy and I had an interesting conversation about death. We reasoned that for animals to understand the concept of death, they have to be able to make a mental connection between other animals they have seen die, and themselves.
Is a chimpanzee capable of looking at a dead family member and extrapolating that, as a similar being, the same fate is awaiting themselves? Probably not.
That's why novels written by chimps are so lacking in existential considerations. They're mostly about tire-swings.
Of course, I loved the first Tire-Swing novel. We all did. It seemed to fresh and exciting. "A new literary voice!" we all proclaimed.
But the second instalment highlighted the shallowness of the genre. Monkey A swings on a tire-swing; Monkey B wants to swing on a tire-swing; Monkey B swings on a tire-swing.
It was a case of the Emperor's New Clothes, except that it was an ape emperor (King Kong?), and there were no clothes involved at any stage.
Then, of course, came the merchandising. Tire-Swing hats, Tire-Swing notepads, Tire-Swing barometers. There was the movie, the TV special, the Christmas single. It was everywhere and it was meaningless.
We all started to realise what fools we had been. Suddenly, the image of a tire-swing - which had been so vibrant and relevant - began to seem laughable and incredibly unfashionable.
Some people burned tire-swings. Others: monkeys. Those long debates about the distinction between monkeys and apes seemed as lame as those about Blur vs Oasis, or New Coke.
Every now and then you see a couple of Tire-Swing novels in a charity shop. Maybe a battered Tire-Swing annual (with the wordsearch completed: "tire", "swing", "tire-swing").
The lesson here is that understanding and discussion of death underlies all real art. It is the futility of existence and the inevitability of the grave that prompts us to reach for truth and beauty; and send beacons of creative fire into the void. Art is a search for immortality.
Not for tire-swings.
Unless the tire-swing is some kind of metaphor. Which, given the length of this post, you'd expect it to be. But it's not.
It's just a tire-swing.
Just a tire, on a rope, tied to a tree branch.
Monkeys are idiots.
As are apes.
***
Yes, I am hoping to get sent some free tire-swings as a result of this entry.
That's not entirely true. Last night, Lucy and I had an interesting conversation about death. We reasoned that for animals to understand the concept of death, they have to be able to make a mental connection between other animals they have seen die, and themselves.
Is a chimpanzee capable of looking at a dead family member and extrapolating that, as a similar being, the same fate is awaiting themselves? Probably not.
That's why novels written by chimps are so lacking in existential considerations. They're mostly about tire-swings.
Of course, I loved the first Tire-Swing novel. We all did. It seemed to fresh and exciting. "A new literary voice!" we all proclaimed.
But the second instalment highlighted the shallowness of the genre. Monkey A swings on a tire-swing; Monkey B wants to swing on a tire-swing; Monkey B swings on a tire-swing.
It was a case of the Emperor's New Clothes, except that it was an ape emperor (King Kong?), and there were no clothes involved at any stage.
Then, of course, came the merchandising. Tire-Swing hats, Tire-Swing notepads, Tire-Swing barometers. There was the movie, the TV special, the Christmas single. It was everywhere and it was meaningless.
We all started to realise what fools we had been. Suddenly, the image of a tire-swing - which had been so vibrant and relevant - began to seem laughable and incredibly unfashionable.
Some people burned tire-swings. Others: monkeys. Those long debates about the distinction between monkeys and apes seemed as lame as those about Blur vs Oasis, or New Coke.
Every now and then you see a couple of Tire-Swing novels in a charity shop. Maybe a battered Tire-Swing annual (with the wordsearch completed: "tire", "swing", "tire-swing").
The lesson here is that understanding and discussion of death underlies all real art. It is the futility of existence and the inevitability of the grave that prompts us to reach for truth and beauty; and send beacons of creative fire into the void. Art is a search for immortality.
Not for tire-swings.
Unless the tire-swing is some kind of metaphor. Which, given the length of this post, you'd expect it to be. But it's not.
It's just a tire-swing.
Just a tire, on a rope, tied to a tree branch.
Monkeys are idiots.
As are apes.
***
Yes, I am hoping to get sent some free tire-swings as a result of this entry.
Friday, 11 September 2009
Jailbreak Reported by Islington Gazette
You may remember from some time ago that I like to look at newspaper advertising boards.
Sometimes it's good to have a little boost of extra fear-mongering on the way into work. The beauty of a sunny morning stroll can often be too sweet - it leads to optimism and kindness. You need to temper it with some badly-written hatespeech.
Occasionally there is a headline that really captures my imagination. Last time it was:
This one is perhaps even better. It wasn't the Oxford Mail this time, but the Islington Gazette. I don't know anything about the paper, as I was just travelling through, but I imagine it is a publication of some esteem. They are at the forefront of modern journalism. And they seem to have something of a scoop.
Because nowhere else - not on the BBC, nor CNN, nor the Daily Sport - did I read about this story:
I was taken aback.
Usually, I'm repulsed by the manipulative and emotive language used in these headlines. Moral condemnation screams out from every word. I mean, what is a 'pervert'? Surely, perversion is a constantly shifting thing. It's entirely relative to the prevailing moral norms of the day.
But if anything could be objectively perverted, having intercourse with a prison is surely it.
It's difficult to imagine a society in which having sex with large correctional facilities is considered the norm. It's just so different from the current standard notion of a relationship.
But then again, they probably said that about homosexuality in the old days. Perhaps in fifty or sixty years' time, the teacher-prison relationship will be treated with dignity and respect. Even legalised civil partnerships are a possibility.
Of course, I'm assuming 'speared' is a sexual euphemism. I've made many assumptions already. I think an in-depth (perhaps tediously long) analysis of this four-word headline is in order.
PERVERT
I think I've covered this one. It's newspaper slang to add negative connotations to difference. It's in their interests to make us suspicious of the other, so we remain wary and cautious, and buy quality newspapers to let us know how the world really is.
Also, in the same way as the term 'boffin' was used in the previous headline, it adds a layer of dickish playground slang to the equation. Most people stopped using 'pervert' when they were about twelve. But the modern journalist can utilise a wide range of vocabulary to take us all back to that glorious time when you could get teased for having a name with an 'q' in it, or be beaten up for having a hearing aid. Good times...
PERVERT
TEACHER
I wonder what the perversion was in this case. Paedophilia is the implication, but why not come out and say it? PAEDO TEACHER SPEARED PRISON is a much snappier headline. So it must be something else. In which case, why is 'teacher' relevant? Was he licking the whiteboard? Was he teaching fractions in a salacious way? Was he putting a sleazy emphasis on long division (with his pants down)?
[One assumption I'll continue to make is that the teacher was a man. I think if it was a woman, they would have made it clear. Because a perverted woman is about 80% more perverted than a perverted man. Just as an ugly woman is 80% uglier than an ugly man. It's the combination of low pay, derisive treatement and high expectations that makes gender politics so fun (right, ladies?)]
Maybe I've made a syntactical error. Maybe it wasn't a teacher who was a pervert, but rather a teacher of perverts. It could be some kind of evening class. He could give tips on how to grow a patchy beard, wear a long mac, and continually lick your lips.
I know, I know. I'm stuck in the past. I'm falling back on the old pervert clichés. I'm sure there's a rich and nuanced world of perversion out there. Maybe this Perversion 101 class is something we should all try - it might add some spice to the jaded, listless perversions in our own lives.
PERVERT
TEACHER
SPEARED
I might be wrong about the use of 'speared'. Maybe he actually speared a prison. It could have been an attempt to free some of his captured pervert brothers (or sisters). A spear seems like a bit of an odd choice of escape method, though. The hole made by a spear wouldn't be big enough to allow anyone to climb out. Unless they were three-inches tall (as some perverts are).
Maybe it was the romance of the spear - the connotations of primal craftsmanship and anti-industrialism - that appealed to the perverted freedom-fighter.
It could even be that the spearing of the prison was unconnected to the perversion, which was in turn unconnected to the profession of the teacher. It might have just been a coincidence.
PERVERT
TEACHER
SPEARED
PRISON
It's an excellent headline, regardless. Simple, but multifaceted.
Unless it was simply some kind of typo! Imagine that! It would make this whole blog entry seem facetious and irritating! It would be as if I was engaging in a sub-Jay Leno, pedantic analysis of a simple mistake! Lucky that's not true.
Because if it was a typo, it would be evidence of exceptionally poor proof-reading skills.
It's FOUR WORDS.
I know proof-reading requires a great deal of concentration. I know that there are probably typos in this very entry. But four words?
Someone would have to have got bored between 'teacher' and 'speared'. 'Pervert' would have captured the imagination, but I suppose lots of people are put off by the word 'teacher'.
It reminds them of the dullness of school, where people tried to tell them about spelling and shit. And where the only consolation came from the fun of teasing people with 'q' in their names, or beating kids up for having a hearing aid. Good times...
I'm glad I never bought a copy of the paper. It might have killed some of the magic. But I'll be keen to look out for any future headlines. Anything is possible, especially if they keep the same proof-reader on staff.
Sometimes it's good to have a little boost of extra fear-mongering on the way into work. The beauty of a sunny morning stroll can often be too sweet - it leads to optimism and kindness. You need to temper it with some badly-written hatespeech.
Occasionally there is a headline that really captures my imagination. Last time it was:
This one is perhaps even better. It wasn't the Oxford Mail this time, but the Islington Gazette. I don't know anything about the paper, as I was just travelling through, but I imagine it is a publication of some esteem. They are at the forefront of modern journalism. And they seem to have something of a scoop.
Because nowhere else - not on the BBC, nor CNN, nor the Daily Sport - did I read about this story:
PERVERT
TEACHER
SPEARED
PRISON
I was taken aback.
Usually, I'm repulsed by the manipulative and emotive language used in these headlines. Moral condemnation screams out from every word. I mean, what is a 'pervert'? Surely, perversion is a constantly shifting thing. It's entirely relative to the prevailing moral norms of the day.
But if anything could be objectively perverted, having intercourse with a prison is surely it.
It's difficult to imagine a society in which having sex with large correctional facilities is considered the norm. It's just so different from the current standard notion of a relationship.
But then again, they probably said that about homosexuality in the old days. Perhaps in fifty or sixty years' time, the teacher-prison relationship will be treated with dignity and respect. Even legalised civil partnerships are a possibility.
Of course, I'm assuming 'speared' is a sexual euphemism. I've made many assumptions already. I think an in-depth (perhaps tediously long) analysis of this four-word headline is in order.
PERVERT
I think I've covered this one. It's newspaper slang to add negative connotations to difference. It's in their interests to make us suspicious of the other, so we remain wary and cautious, and buy quality newspapers to let us know how the world really is.
Also, in the same way as the term 'boffin' was used in the previous headline, it adds a layer of dickish playground slang to the equation. Most people stopped using 'pervert' when they were about twelve. But the modern journalist can utilise a wide range of vocabulary to take us all back to that glorious time when you could get teased for having a name with an 'q' in it, or be beaten up for having a hearing aid. Good times...
PERVERT
TEACHER
I wonder what the perversion was in this case. Paedophilia is the implication, but why not come out and say it? PAEDO TEACHER SPEARED PRISON is a much snappier headline. So it must be something else. In which case, why is 'teacher' relevant? Was he licking the whiteboard? Was he teaching fractions in a salacious way? Was he putting a sleazy emphasis on long division (with his pants down)?
[One assumption I'll continue to make is that the teacher was a man. I think if it was a woman, they would have made it clear. Because a perverted woman is about 80% more perverted than a perverted man. Just as an ugly woman is 80% uglier than an ugly man. It's the combination of low pay, derisive treatement and high expectations that makes gender politics so fun (right, ladies?)]
Maybe I've made a syntactical error. Maybe it wasn't a teacher who was a pervert, but rather a teacher of perverts. It could be some kind of evening class. He could give tips on how to grow a patchy beard, wear a long mac, and continually lick your lips.
I know, I know. I'm stuck in the past. I'm falling back on the old pervert clichés. I'm sure there's a rich and nuanced world of perversion out there. Maybe this Perversion 101 class is something we should all try - it might add some spice to the jaded, listless perversions in our own lives.
PERVERT
TEACHER
SPEARED
I might be wrong about the use of 'speared'. Maybe he actually speared a prison. It could have been an attempt to free some of his captured pervert brothers (or sisters). A spear seems like a bit of an odd choice of escape method, though. The hole made by a spear wouldn't be big enough to allow anyone to climb out. Unless they were three-inches tall (as some perverts are).
Maybe it was the romance of the spear - the connotations of primal craftsmanship and anti-industrialism - that appealed to the perverted freedom-fighter.
It could even be that the spearing of the prison was unconnected to the perversion, which was in turn unconnected to the profession of the teacher. It might have just been a coincidence.
PERVERT
TEACHER
SPEARED
PRISON
It's an excellent headline, regardless. Simple, but multifaceted.
Unless it was simply some kind of typo! Imagine that! It would make this whole blog entry seem facetious and irritating! It would be as if I was engaging in a sub-Jay Leno, pedantic analysis of a simple mistake! Lucky that's not true.
Because if it was a typo, it would be evidence of exceptionally poor proof-reading skills.
It's FOUR WORDS.
I know proof-reading requires a great deal of concentration. I know that there are probably typos in this very entry. But four words?
Someone would have to have got bored between 'teacher' and 'speared'. 'Pervert' would have captured the imagination, but I suppose lots of people are put off by the word 'teacher'.
It reminds them of the dullness of school, where people tried to tell them about spelling and shit. And where the only consolation came from the fun of teasing people with 'q' in their names, or beating kids up for having a hearing aid. Good times...
I'm glad I never bought a copy of the paper. It might have killed some of the magic. But I'll be keen to look out for any future headlines. Anything is possible, especially if they keep the same proof-reader on staff.
MULSIM
FANATIC
PEACHES
VIOLETS
VIOLETS
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
Makephraser
Make hay while the sun shines. Make love not war. Make your mind up. Make the best of it. Make the most of it. Make up. Make out. Makeover. Make good. Make merry. Make flesh. Make money.
Don't make a mountain out of a molehill. Don't make the same mistake twice. Don't make me come up there!
Of course, manufacturing is dead.
It's all done on computers now.
Don't make a mountain out of a molehill. Don't make the same mistake twice. Don't make me come up there!
Of course, manufacturing is dead.
It's all done on computers now.
Monday, 7 September 2009
What's salient? The eyeballs?
I can't seem to focus. My brain is going fast and nowhere. I feel like Biff Tannen: over-revving my car for so long that by the time I actually do anything, my goal will have grabbed a long string of flags and been carried off by a DeLorean, whilst I crash into the manure of failure.
Yes, that was a tortured metaphor. But when my mind is humming with futility, I need to grasp onto the familiar. Which in this case is Back to the Future II.
In every case it's Back to the Future II.
I'm trying to type with enough speed that my thoughts can escape my brain without my mental sphincter closing up to stop the flow.
Yes, that was an unpleasant metaphor. But when my mind is raging impotently, I need to grasp onto the familiar. Which in this case is disgusting imagery.
In every case it's disgusting imagery.
And Back to the Future II.
On my gravestone, there will be an etching of Old Marty eating eyeballs without any pants. (Those pants-less eyeballs are the most disgusting of all)
Yes, this entry is nonsensical. But when my thoughts are pulsing like a dying radioactive nun, I need to grasp onto the familiar. Which in this case is a dying radioactive nun.
Hmm.
I seem to have confused myself.
I think there are a few conclusions to be drawn from this:
1) Avoid references to Back to the Future II. Most people don't remember it well enough to make them worthwhile.
2) In the above conclusion, "them" refers to the people, not the references
3) Disgusting images will only attract psychopaths, and repel the pure and just. Find a way to reach the pure psychopaths, for they shall inherit the Earth (I've left them some earth in my will).
4) We must find out who killed the radioactive nun. Perhaps some kind of Ice Monster? Or a Lead Skellington?
5) Much. Less. COFFEE.
Yes, that was a tortured metaphor. But when my mind is humming with futility, I need to grasp onto the familiar. Which in this case is Back to the Future II.
In every case it's Back to the Future II.
I'm trying to type with enough speed that my thoughts can escape my brain without my mental sphincter closing up to stop the flow.
Yes, that was an unpleasant metaphor. But when my mind is raging impotently, I need to grasp onto the familiar. Which in this case is disgusting imagery.
In every case it's disgusting imagery.
And Back to the Future II.
On my gravestone, there will be an etching of Old Marty eating eyeballs without any pants. (Those pants-less eyeballs are the most disgusting of all)
Yes, this entry is nonsensical. But when my thoughts are pulsing like a dying radioactive nun, I need to grasp onto the familiar. Which in this case is a dying radioactive nun.
Hmm.
I seem to have confused myself.
I think there are a few conclusions to be drawn from this:
1) Avoid references to Back to the Future II. Most people don't remember it well enough to make them worthwhile.
2) In the above conclusion, "them" refers to the people, not the references
3) Disgusting images will only attract psychopaths, and repel the pure and just. Find a way to reach the pure psychopaths, for they shall inherit the Earth (I've left them some earth in my will).
4) We must find out who killed the radioactive nun. Perhaps some kind of Ice Monster? Or a Lead Skellington?
5) Much. Less. COFFEE.
Friday, 4 September 2009
Stand-Up - Baby Simple, Oxford 28/07/09
In my usual confusing (confusual) way, I have a new stand-up video online, but it's of the gig before the one I last spoke about.
This was at Baby Simple in July:
I thought it went pretty well. My delivery was a bit quiet/rushed at times, but that's just a lesson for next time.
***
I don't seem to be back in the blog groove yet. I'll try to be less sparse and more fierce in the future.
I've had a constant chain of obligations that has sapped my will to do anything but sleep. Hopefully it will be over soon.
I spent my day-off building rickety furniture. I was doing badly, refusing any help. But then I caved in, and Lucy made everything a lot easier. Now we have a new living room full of fun. I can't wait until there's time to enjoy it!
That's all for now. I'll try and have an interesting idea soon.
What about a flat board, where you put clothes, to make them easier to iron?
(Just like that)
This was at Baby Simple in July:
I thought it went pretty well. My delivery was a bit quiet/rushed at times, but that's just a lesson for next time.
***
I don't seem to be back in the blog groove yet. I'll try to be less sparse and more fierce in the future.
I've had a constant chain of obligations that has sapped my will to do anything but sleep. Hopefully it will be over soon.
I spent my day-off building rickety furniture. I was doing badly, refusing any help. But then I caved in, and Lucy made everything a lot easier. Now we have a new living room full of fun. I can't wait until there's time to enjoy it!
That's all for now. I'll try and have an interesting idea soon.
What about a flat board, where you put clothes, to make them easier to iron?
(Just like that)
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
The Didcot Goodbye
I'm back in Oxford after a short trip to Sidmouth. On the way home, I witnessed an interesting scene.
The train had stopped at Didcot Parkway.
Didcot is mainly known for the dystopian chimneys of its massive power station. And Didcot railway museum.
I think they've tried to compensate for the oppressive industrialism of the chimneys with a reminder of the good old days, when industrialism was noble and charming, and everything worked through steam and the elastic energy of a thousand stiff-upper-lips, just waiting to be released for Queen and Country.
It doesn't work, though. Those chimneys are still the only things people associate with Didcot. The ruddy Victorian smile of the steam-merchant has been replaced by Blinky, the three-eyed mutated fish from The Simpsons. Didcot is a place of pollution and perversion. At least that's what it says on the signs.
I'm sure there's other stuff in Didcot. Probably.
Anyway, the train was sitting at the station, and a couple were on the platform. They were middle-aged, and very affectionate. It was clear that they were saying goodbye. After a while, the woman boarded the train and came into my carriage, taking a seat by the window. The man was still on the platform, and they were saying their last goodbyes via mime, blown kisses, and waves, through the thick train glass.
I don't know where she was going, or for how long. (Actually I think Oxford was the last stop, so she probably got off there). But it was quite a big goodbye. She lifted her glasses and wiped tears from her eyes. I wonder if she was going away for a long time. Perhaps she was going to pursue a career in the Frozen North. Perhaps she was going on an archaeological dig to Yemen or Peru, and wouldn't be back for months.
Perhaps she had escaped from prison, and was spending a final weekend with him before turning herself in to the authorities. She might have whacked a judge.
Whatever the reason for the farewell, it was quite emotional. (I was listening to sad music at the time, which may have helped in that regard).
So, they waved goodbye, and the train whisked her out of his life, away from the warmth and familiarity of their love, into something cold and alien. A fitting farewell for the purest of loves...
Except that didn't really happen.
They said their tearful goodbyes through the glass. But the train didn't go anywhere. I don't know if it was delayed or just early, but it sat on the platform for about fifteen minutes.
At first, they laughed about it, they continued their kiss-blowing, and swapped understanding smiles. But the train still didn't move. And they didn't really know what to do.
They'd said goodbye, - they were ready to move on. But as time passed, it all became a bit awkward. Suddenly, the high emotion had been exposed, and they were left nakedly, purposelessly staring into each others eyes.
He could have walked away, I suppose. But it would have seemed callous. I'm sure they were waiting for that final, classic goodbye: her waving a handkerchief out of the window; him racing alongside the train, smoke billowing (from the train), until it accelerated out of view.
But the train wasn't going anywhere. So he had to stand around with his hands in his pockets, periodically rolling his eyes. She had to check her phone for texts. It was awkward.
I had to look away. I probably shouldn't have been engaging in such voyeuristic romanticism in the first place, but there wasn't much else to look at (except for two stereotypical Reading Festival refugees, reading a book called The Vegetarian Visitor).
Eventually, the train left the station. Her eyes were still teary, and the goodbye was still heart-felt, if a little muted. Their thunder had been stolen.
It was a classic example of real life failing to meet the perfection of an apropos Hollywood moment.
We have to process events by creating stories. We can only understand the world through the construct of various narratives. We create time and chains of precedent, when everything is really just a jumbled collection of moments.
But these moments are so complicated, and so numerous, that our narratives are inevitably quite sloppy and unsatisfying. It's impossible to create the neat resolutions that we see in fiction. So we're always clamouring to find something that makes sense. You want a moment that would form an emotional climax, or a joyful coincidence. You try to create them, but they end up being forced. And fate is always there to rob you of your moment with its randomness. You can prepare a goodbye for ages, but you'll be thwarted by a train driver who's forgotten his keys.
Occasionally those movie moments do happen. Maybe the rain will begin at an emotional time. Or an angry outburst will be punctuated by a clap of thunder. But it doesn't happen often. Waiting around for a pathetic fallacy usually ends up being just plain pathetic.
I can remember a particular example of a movie-style moment. It was the last game ever at The Dell, and Saints were drawing with Arsenal. Only for Matt Le Tissier - Southampton legend - to come on and score a typical masterpiece and win the match.
I had tears in my eyes after that. Not just because of the emotion of it, but also because of the sheer Roy of the Rovers-style fictionality of the whole thing. It was a real life fairytale. For once, life had imitated life, and done it properly.
But it was all the better for being real. There's a constant battle between life and art - a contest to see which is the most beautiful. Art is always taking life and twisting it, smoothing it, honing it, and life is always pulling something huge and breathtaking out of the bag, to send the artist back to the drawing board. Or... you know... sculptor's... hut.
So, the couple on the station platform had come close to moulding their life into art. Probably because emotional events need some kind of filter. Without the Hollywood sheen, a goodbye is all too real and too permanent, I suppose.
The train had stopped at Didcot Parkway.
Didcot is mainly known for the dystopian chimneys of its massive power station. And Didcot railway museum.
I think they've tried to compensate for the oppressive industrialism of the chimneys with a reminder of the good old days, when industrialism was noble and charming, and everything worked through steam and the elastic energy of a thousand stiff-upper-lips, just waiting to be released for Queen and Country.
It doesn't work, though. Those chimneys are still the only things people associate with Didcot. The ruddy Victorian smile of the steam-merchant has been replaced by Blinky, the three-eyed mutated fish from The Simpsons. Didcot is a place of pollution and perversion. At least that's what it says on the signs.
I'm sure there's other stuff in Didcot. Probably.
Anyway, the train was sitting at the station, and a couple were on the platform. They were middle-aged, and very affectionate. It was clear that they were saying goodbye. After a while, the woman boarded the train and came into my carriage, taking a seat by the window. The man was still on the platform, and they were saying their last goodbyes via mime, blown kisses, and waves, through the thick train glass.
I don't know where she was going, or for how long. (Actually I think Oxford was the last stop, so she probably got off there). But it was quite a big goodbye. She lifted her glasses and wiped tears from her eyes. I wonder if she was going away for a long time. Perhaps she was going to pursue a career in the Frozen North. Perhaps she was going on an archaeological dig to Yemen or Peru, and wouldn't be back for months.
Perhaps she had escaped from prison, and was spending a final weekend with him before turning herself in to the authorities. She might have whacked a judge.
Whatever the reason for the farewell, it was quite emotional. (I was listening to sad music at the time, which may have helped in that regard).
So, they waved goodbye, and the train whisked her out of his life, away from the warmth and familiarity of their love, into something cold and alien. A fitting farewell for the purest of loves...
Except that didn't really happen.
They said their tearful goodbyes through the glass. But the train didn't go anywhere. I don't know if it was delayed or just early, but it sat on the platform for about fifteen minutes.
At first, they laughed about it, they continued their kiss-blowing, and swapped understanding smiles. But the train still didn't move. And they didn't really know what to do.
They'd said goodbye, - they were ready to move on. But as time passed, it all became a bit awkward. Suddenly, the high emotion had been exposed, and they were left nakedly, purposelessly staring into each others eyes.
He could have walked away, I suppose. But it would have seemed callous. I'm sure they were waiting for that final, classic goodbye: her waving a handkerchief out of the window; him racing alongside the train, smoke billowing (from the train), until it accelerated out of view.
But the train wasn't going anywhere. So he had to stand around with his hands in his pockets, periodically rolling his eyes. She had to check her phone for texts. It was awkward.
I had to look away. I probably shouldn't have been engaging in such voyeuristic romanticism in the first place, but there wasn't much else to look at (except for two stereotypical Reading Festival refugees, reading a book called The Vegetarian Visitor).
Eventually, the train left the station. Her eyes were still teary, and the goodbye was still heart-felt, if a little muted. Their thunder had been stolen.
It was a classic example of real life failing to meet the perfection of an apropos Hollywood moment.
We have to process events by creating stories. We can only understand the world through the construct of various narratives. We create time and chains of precedent, when everything is really just a jumbled collection of moments.
But these moments are so complicated, and so numerous, that our narratives are inevitably quite sloppy and unsatisfying. It's impossible to create the neat resolutions that we see in fiction. So we're always clamouring to find something that makes sense. You want a moment that would form an emotional climax, or a joyful coincidence. You try to create them, but they end up being forced. And fate is always there to rob you of your moment with its randomness. You can prepare a goodbye for ages, but you'll be thwarted by a train driver who's forgotten his keys.
Occasionally those movie moments do happen. Maybe the rain will begin at an emotional time. Or an angry outburst will be punctuated by a clap of thunder. But it doesn't happen often. Waiting around for a pathetic fallacy usually ends up being just plain pathetic.
I can remember a particular example of a movie-style moment. It was the last game ever at The Dell, and Saints were drawing with Arsenal. Only for Matt Le Tissier - Southampton legend - to come on and score a typical masterpiece and win the match.
I had tears in my eyes after that. Not just because of the emotion of it, but also because of the sheer Roy of the Rovers-style fictionality of the whole thing. It was a real life fairytale. For once, life had imitated life, and done it properly.
But it was all the better for being real. There's a constant battle between life and art - a contest to see which is the most beautiful. Art is always taking life and twisting it, smoothing it, honing it, and life is always pulling something huge and breathtaking out of the bag, to send the artist back to the drawing board. Or... you know... sculptor's... hut.
So, the couple on the station platform had come close to moulding their life into art. Probably because emotional events need some kind of filter. Without the Hollywood sheen, a goodbye is all too real and too permanent, I suppose.
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