Red Mists

I'm doing stand-up on Friday. I don't want to give too much away here, so let's just say: I'm doing stand-up on Friday.

As usual, I'll be armed with untried and untested material. Every gig is a leap into the unknown. Or (if the venue doesn't have an unknown) the cigarette machine.

When the gig is over, there will be an after-party at Colin Dexter's house. He seems well up for it (his "Get out! I'm calling the police!" seemed sarcastic). I have it on good authority that he has a murder mystery hot tub, so make sure you bring some waterproof motives and an open mind. You can't spell "incrimination" without "rim nation".

This section of the blog seems to have come to a natural halt. So either we give it an unnatural jump-start (like Dr Frankenstein would), or we leave it to congeal on a slab as we move on to more mobile pastures.

When you think about it, I'm the Frankenstein of metaphors. I dig up remnants of symbolism that no-one else thought were of any use (correctly), and I stitch them together into something vaguely resembling a sentence.

In silhouette, it looks like a clever allegory, but when you hold your candle up to it, you can see that it's all black-bruised and stitched together with shaking hands. It's an abomination. Someone should kill it. Someone should burn it at the stake. But I've granted it safe haven in my Château du Blog, and won't let the hordes through the gates.

It may be a monster, but it's my monster.

Then I stick in a further simile, like Han Solo's waistcoat, and the creature wails and collapses in on itself.

Back to the drawing board.

***

Don't feel bad. I'd hate me too, if I was in your position. It's only natural.

I'll keep it simple from here on in.

I am Paul. I live in Oxford.

My hair is brown.

My eyes are brown.

My head is large.

I bite my fingernails.

I am tired.

I am always tired.

I am twenty-nine.

I like The Wire.

I like sandwiches.

I like coffee.

I hate coffee.

I like coffee.

I am tired.

I write a blog.

I bite my thumbnails.

Dogs.

There we go. Confusing imagery is a crutch I can discard at any time. I can also summon it back to me. Like Mjolnir.

***

I've realised that I've written two blog posts with almost identical titles. They weren't even that far apart. I wrote Red Mist on 24 July 2012, and The Red Mist on 21 September 2012.

Am I really that low on blog title ideas? At least they're on similar themes. Maybe I should re-title one or both of them. I can play up the first Red Mist as a prequel. Or the second Red Mist as a sequel. Or both of those things.

Maybe it can just be like Alien and Aliens. Or Final Destination and The Final Destination. Or Grease and The Grease.

People are good at differentiating between similar, but subtly different, products. That's why no-one ever buys carp insurance by mistake.

I've probably doubled-up on other post titles too. I could hilariously give this one a title I've already used before. That would be meta.

Everyone loves things that are meta nowadays. Life is a comment on itself. All human experience is an in-joke that we're all smug about understanding.

There are probably some people who don't "get" life. We pity them.

No, that's not right. We don't pity them.

We "pity" them.

Get it? ;-)

***

I wish I could stop making points. It's a real burden. Why can't my writing be meaningless?! WHY?!

I don't know. But it can't be.