Maple Syrup

How about a Youtube compilation of people saying the phrase "I'd like to take this opportunity to..." in speeches or whatever?

That would be it. The rest of the sentence wouldn't be included in the compilation. It would be a montage only of people saying "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

Just picture it.

A man at a podium: "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

CUT TO:

A woman at a lectern: "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

CUT TO:

Press conference dude: "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

CUT TO:

The first man at the podium, as part of the same speech as the original clip, but at a different stage. He repeats: "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

CUT TO:

Academy Award recipient for Best Film Editing: "I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

Just picture it. It would go on for about eighteen minutes.

Funny, right?

It's one of those things that you never notice but, once you've seen it repeated in an eighteen-minute montage, you realise it's the kind of thing people say.

"I'd like to take this opportunity to..."

Classic.

I don't have the time or the software to do it myself. But, if you'd like to run with the idea, be my guest.

Just remember to take the opportunity to thank me! !!!

THUMBSUP!

***

Look, it's Friday, OK?

It's February tomorrow. I'll make sense then. We'll all get down to pancakes and Andie MacDowell and forget about this silliness.

It's transfer deadline day.

I'm hoping to complete the signing of Nelson Mandela's funeral.

Is that a joke? Is it satire? Does it make sense?

I don't know, man.

I'm suffering. That reminds me of that song.



It's from one of my top ten favourite albums. I should have included sample songs to accompany the list in my last post. And some analysis of why I like them.

But I didn't do that, and now it's too late.

Yeah, Frank! I'll be suffering up around the bend too. It's awful up there.

What do I do now?

Stop?

I'd like to take this opportunity to.

White Noise

You can put the numbers in alphabetical order, but you can't put the alphabet in chronological order.

Someone can. Someone who knows about the origins of characters can.

But you can't.

I spent a lot of time travelling this weekend. I travelled to a football match, I travelled to my childhood home, I travelled to Devon, I travelled back to Oxford.

There was a tree on the line; that's why I had to do so much travelling.

A tree on the line.

What century are we living in? Do saws and cranes not exist?

The trees are laughing at us. They can bring us down like *that* (picture a branch snapping its twigfingers).

I was listening to music during a lot of the travelling. To make it more exciting, I tried to come up with my top ten favourite albums.

It was difficult. Those lists always are. How can you make a definitive order of preference, when your preferences change depending on the time of day, the weather, or the pH level of your Sony Discman.

But I had a go anyway. Albums are easier than songs, at least. Especially if you restrict yourself to one album per artist. And no compilations.

I think I got about eight.

In chronological order, they are:

1. Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band - Safe as Milk [1967]
   
2. Phil Ochs - Pleasures of the Harbor [1967]
   
3. Scott Walker - Scott 3 [1969]
4. The Beatles - Abbey Road [1969]
5. The Fall - Grotesque (After the Gramme) [1980]
6. Frank Black and the Catholics - Frank Black and the Catholics [1998]
7. Ben Folds Five - The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner [1999]
   
8. The Wrens - The Meadowlands [2003]

Yes, that is eight.

I'm not 100% sure about any of these, but I wrote them down, so I must have some confidence in them.

The depressing thing about this list is how universally male and white they all are.

I like to think I have eclectic musical tastes, covering various genres and countries. My regular playlists are diverse and challenging. But when it comes down to it, I'm as parochial and staid as the average dullard indie fan in his thirties.

Oh, that reminds me! OK Computer should probably be on there.

1. Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band - Safe as Milk [1967]
   
2. Phil Ochs - Pleasures of the Harbor [1967]
   
3. Scott Walker - Scott 3 [1969]
4. The Beatles - Abbey Road [1969]
5. The Fall - Grotesque (After the Gramme) [1980]
6. Radiohead - OK Computer [1997]
7. Frank Black and the Catholics - Frank Black and the Catholics [1998]
8. Ben Folds Five - The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner [1999]
   
9. The Wrens - The Meadowlands [2003]

Where are the women? I like women. And women artists. I'm a big fan of Nina Simone and Dusty Springfield, but I only really have best-ofs. Maybe I only like women from an era before the album became a thing. It was all singles back then.

What about modern women? I have lots of them on my playlists. But they seem to mostly be for individual tracks.

Where are the people of different races? You'd at least expect me to have some hip-hop on there. And I could certainly decide to add Run Come Save Me by Roots Manuva or the first Jurassic 5 album. But would they be there on merit? I should have The Low End Theory on there, but I don't even own a copy. What about a D'Angelo record? I like him, right? Am I just listing these choices because I like them, or because it makes my tastes sound more broad?

The trouble is that I got to a point in the list where I was thinking too much about my choices. I don't think I have ten clear choices. I listened to What's Going On to shake myself from my thinking, but - as always - I started to get annoyed by the overt religiousness of the later tracks.

What kind of eclectic man am I? A terrible kind. Where's the impenetrable electronica? Where's the Japanese buzzsaw punk? Where's The Lighthouse Family?

This whole thing has made me lose confidence in myself.

But then, maybe questioning my choices is the real mistake. All nine of those albums are genuinely great! I shouldn't be ashamed of them, just because of the artists' backgrounds! I should celebrate the music that I enjoy. I shouldn't overthink things.

I am who I am. I love the music that I love. And there's nothing wrong with that.

1. Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band - Safe as Milk [1967]
   
2. Phil Ochs - Pleasures of the Harbor [1967]
   
3. Scott Walker - Scott 3 [1969]
4. The Beatles - Abbey Road [1969]
5. The Fall - Grotesque (After the Gramme) [1980]
6. Radiohead - OK Computer [1997]
7. Frank Black and the Catholics - Frank Black and the Catholics [1998]
8. Ben Folds Five - The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner [1999]
   
9. The Wrens - The Meadowlands [2003]
10. Nick Griffin - Birds and Darkies Are Worse (Than Us) [2013]

 Ka-boom. That was the sound of an ironic satire-bomb at number ten there.

I hope none of this gets taken out of context.

The phrase "bomb at number ten" might get me in trouble.

But of course, my blog posts are taken neither in, nor out of, context. They are not taken at all. They are left, like a yoghurt on a windowsill: part creamy rebuke, and part reminder of humanity's potential. 

I'm Thirty-One Years Old

I bought a PlayStation 4 on Tuesday.

"But, Paul," I hear you say, "how can you afford to buy a PlayStation 4?"

The answer is simple: I can't.

I had some money left over from Christmas, but even so, it was a ridiculous thing to do. It might be the most expensive item I've ever bought (except for a flat, but that doesn't count). I can't afford this kind of lifestyle. I have one pair of jeans, one pair of shoes and I never leave the house.

I'm an idiot.

It's not even that I desperately wanted to play some of the launch titles. I just wanted a console, and thought that I'd be better off getting the newest one. That way, I won't have to buy another one until, like, the YBox comes out.

I got a bundle with LEGO Marvel Superheroes, which is lots of fun; FIFA 14, which is always entertaining; and some first-person shooter that I haven't even tried playing yet. It has some generic name like Shoot Soldier or Battlegun: The Reckoning or Stealth Bullet or Gloom Eagle: The Bang Protocols or Fight Squadron Epsilon or Killdrop Minechopper or Band of Pricks or Rifle Corps Trauma Desperado Mission Evolution Black Ops Engine Apocalypse Nightmare VII: A Bomb.

I'll try that at the weekend.

The bundle also came with some accessories, one of which is a headset. I understand you can use it to argue with 13-year-old American homophobes online, which will be lovely.

I have a feeling it's going to eat into a lot of my time, though. So I'm going to stop showering.

***

Oh man, I'm going to eat an apple now!

I've finished the apple. It was nothing special.

I've taken Monday off work. The reason is that I'm tired, and could use a longer break.

The real reason is that I'm planning to stay up until 4am watching a rubbish live stream of the 2014 WWE Royal Rumble.

That's a big wrestling match. I like the Royal Rumble. It has thirty wrestlers in it, entering at intervals, trying to throw each other over the top ring rope. The match has its own particular quirks and rhythms, like a jazz improvisation.

I have most of them on DVD or Blu-ray, so I'm something of an expert.

The best Royal Rumbles have a number of interwoven mini-stories that can instigate, continue or conclude any number of feuds. Sometimes, there will be a snake involved. Sometimes, someone will be thrown out and come back in. Sometimes one of the wrestlers will appear three times in three different identities. Sometimes one of the wrestlers will be Drew Carey. Sometimes someone will get hit in the face with a stick.

It's really rather magical.

I don't watch much wrestling these days, so the Royal Rumble is a unique chance for me to stay up late, drink instant coffee and be disappointed by everything that happens.

Then, on Monday, I can sleep.

Except I can't sleep, because I need to progress to the next stage of Killdrop Minechopper, put on my headset and swear at a foreign boy.

AND I'm going to a football match tomorrow.

My life is all go, go, apple, go.

Spoon-fed

I joined Google+ in August of 2011. It would be fair to say that it hasn't really taken off. Not as far as I'm concerned. I almost never go on there, and I'm... "friends"(? - I don't even know the terminology) with about three people and Robert Llewellyn.

But I do pay the occasional visit. I don't read anything, but I make sporadic posts. The content of these posts derives from my very first "status message"(?), and I've been keeping it up as a running joke.

Except that nobody can see it.

I'm friends with a few people, but I don't think any of them use Google+ regularly. They have almost certainly never seen the things I've written. Nobody has seen it. It's a running joke for my benefit only.

There's no point in having a running joke for my benefit only. Running jokes require an audience. Otherwise, it's just me remembering things.

So, in an attempt to validate by endeavours, here's a complete record of my Google+ activity.

 

 

 

Two and a half years I've been doing this. I'll never forget.

Highlights include writing about slotted spoons in some foreign language and the sentence "children these days are too complacent these days", which might be the best thing I've ever written.

If you think this is impressive, you should see what I've been doing on Bebo. That shit be crazy.

"Progress"

The biggest drawback of modern life is that you hardly ever meet shady black market street spivs, selling merchandise mounted on the inside of their jackets.

It's all Amazon now.

I want to be able to select a watch from the lining of a jacket. I want to live. But there's no place for that kind of thing anymore.

And if it's not Amazon, it's "shops" or "tables" or "pockets". What has happened to this country?

Capital Letters

Dear Santa 

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

In the run-up to December, your mailbag must be quite the sight! In your busy period, you hear from children from all over the world. I'm sure it is both heartening and overwhelming!

It is now mid-January. Christmas is over. You have done your duty. Millions of children are enjoying their presents. And it is your time to relax.

But I wonder if you might get a little lonely. After all, the pressure and the activity are now over. In my experience, there can be a period of low mood after a significant event. There's so much build-up that the aftermath can be a desolate time.

That's why I'm writing. In January, the letters suddenly stop. Even the most premature of Christmas letters will surely not arrive for a few months. It must just be bills and junk mail.

So I write this to provide some human contact in what may be a lonely time. Are your elves on holiday? I imagine they are.

Don't worry: I'm not asking for anything! That must be a rarity in one of your letters!

I just want you to know that you are appreciated all year round. 

Enjoy your time off. Relax. You deserve it.

Yours
Philip Anderson

***

What do you think?

Philip Anderson is my new character.

According to Wikipedia, there's a cyclist, an editor and a Nobel laureate with the same name. But I still think it's usable.

Philip Anderson is his own man.

His main characteristics seem to be that he writes thoughtful letters to fictional beings.

I might write a film about him.

***

Dear Zorro

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

I just wanted to thank you for all of your good work. Though official channels of justice (the police, the courts, etc) are important elements in a civilised society, sometimes we need an agent of good who operates outside of traditional institutions.

Being an outlaw must be a stressful (though highly enjoyable!) occupation, and I thought you might appreciate a note of appreciation from the people you serve.

Keep up the good work!

Yours
Philip Anderson

***

The film would be a heart-warming Gump-esque tale about a naive, good-hearted outsider, whose eccentric behaviour overcomes cynicism, making the world a better place.

He writes these letters all the time. They're seen, read and mocked by post office staff. But a woman who works there (our female lead) appreciates the sentiment of Philip Anderson's writing, and falls in love with him.

She agrees to help him get his letters to the desired recipients. I haven't worked out the whole plot, but I think Anderson will get to meet the President.

***

Dear Pinhead (from out of Hellraiser)

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

I would hate to be presumptuous (and please forgive me if I seem patronising), but you seem like someone who might enjoy a bit of human contact.

Harvesting souls must be exhausting! I don't even harvest wheat (a human crop), so can't imagine what your workload must be like. Admittedly, I don't know too much about you, having merely skimmed your Wikipedia page, but I would like to offer my moral support in all your endeavours.

I too was something of an outsider growing up, and can appreciate how difficult it is when your looks and interests are perceived as "abnormal" by the majority. I just want you to know that it's OK to be yourself. You shouldn't feel any pressure to conform, or to not have pins in your head, just because other people think that's the right way to be.

We are all individual, and we all decide how we should live.

Again, I don't mean to infer some inner struggle where there isn't one. I'm probably just projecting, because I remember my own mindset when I bought my leather jacket!

I've probably rambled too much! I'll just sign off by saying that you are an important part of the universe, and you are loved more deeply than you'll ever know.

Yours
Philip Anderson

 
***

The examples I've included here (Santa, Zorro, Pinhead) aren't necessarily those that I'll include in the final script. There are probably copyright issues with some, if not all, of these. But you get the idea.

As far as casting goes, I feel that we need a strong leading man. Hanks is perhaps too obvious a choice. And I'm showing my age when I suggest Meg Ryan for the postal worker!

Perhaps something along these lines:

Philip Anderson: Adrien Brody
Post Office Woman Love Interest (possibly called Jane or Hannah): Reese Witherspoon
The President: Method Man

And there will be a whole range of interesting supporting players that they'll meet along the way. Daniel Radcliffe would look good as a train driver, I think.

***

Dear Philip Anderson

I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might appreciate some correspondence at this time.

If you're who I think you are, you'll be freaking out right now.

I am you. And I really need some help.

Am I real?

Please respond.

Yours
Philip Anderson

***

Charlie Kaufman usually writes his own stuff, but I would think he'd be willing to collaborate.

If any producers are interested in... optioning(?) this, please call my agent.

If any agents are interested in representing me, please drop me an email.

If any (free) email providers are interested in offering me their services, I'd really like to reserve philip.anderson@[yourdomain].com

I look forward to hearing from you all, in reverse order.

Stakes

It's a struggle.

I want to do things, but not enough, my friends. Not enough.

I want to write a long essay defending artistic cowardice.

I want to document my difficult year in excruciating detail.

I want to learn how to ride a bike.

But not enough.

You know how summertime is when the living is easy?

Well it's January. The living isn't.

Peter Pan was an idiot. To live may be an awfully big adventure, but some adventures aren't worth the effort. We've all been to Chessington.

And now, to top it off, it looks like the Southampton FC chairman might be resigning, and possibly taking the manager with him.

Don't they know that I'm basing my entire mental well-being on the fortunes of Southampton Football Club?! How could they be so selfish?

It's grey and drizzly outside. I miss the days when it was night, and the nights when daylight was broad. I miss the blinding, golden, three pee ems.

It's a struggle, it really is.

On the other hand, maybe something.

***

I need to get writing again.

INT. BREAD SHOP - DAY

BREAD SHOP?

THAT'S NOT RIGHT, IS IT?

WHAT IS IT?

BUTCHERS IS MEAT.

IT'S NOT...? NO.

MAYBE BREAD SHOP *IS* RIGHT...

NO.

NO, IT DOESN'T SOUND RIGHT.

"I'M JUST OFF DOWN THE BREAD SHOP!"

IT DOESN'T SOUND RIGHT.

I MEAN, MOST PEOPLE BUY THEIR BREAD FROM SUPERMARKETS NOW. BUT THERE ARE STILL BREAD SHOPS. I'VE SEEN THEM.

IS BUTCHERS FOR BOTH? MEAT BUTCHER AND BREAD BUTCHER?

"BREAD BUTCHER"... NAH.

WHAT ABOUT THAT RHYME?

"THE BUTCHER, THE BREAD SHOP WORKER, THE CANDLESTICK MAKER."

AH, SO IT IS BREAD SHOP AFTER ALL!

YOU CAN OVER THINK THESE THINGS.

A customer comes through the door, and the door bell rings. Not the doorbell. The door bell. It's not, like, one of those push-a-button ding-dong bells that people have in houses. It's a bell that's on a door - a shop door - a bread shop door - to let the shop workers know that someone has come in to the shop.

The customer is HILLARY, a middle-aged woman.

She goes up to the counter. Behind the counter is NICK, the bread shop worker.

NICK

Yes, madam. 

How can I help?

HILLARY

I'm looking for 

a very specific 

loaf of bread.

NICK

Ah, well! We'll 

see what we can do!

HILLARY

It's brown, and it's 

not one of those ones 

that are all... segmented.

NICK

Segmented?

HILLARY

Yes, you know. With 

lots of flat segments. 

I don't want that.

NICK

So... unsliced?

HILLARY

That's it. Yes. And brown.

NICK

What about this one?

NICK takes a brown loaf from a shelf behind the counter. But as he moves it to the counter, something falls out of a hole in the side of the loaf. It is a gun.

The gun lands on the counter with a metallic thud.

For a moment, NICK and HILLARY stare at each other, and then at the gun, and sometimes a mixture of the two.

NICK

(cautious) Was this the specific 

loaf you were 

interested in, madam?

HILLARY

(cautious) Yes. I think 

that will do nicely.

NICK wraps up the loaf in paper, and also the gun in paper, and puts both of them into a plain white carrier bag.

No money is exchanged.

NICK

So. Tonight's the night?

HILLARY

It is.

NICK

Anything I should be 

aware of?

HILLARY

Let's just say: I wouldn't 

be taking any trains today, 

if I were you.

NICK nods. HILLARY leaves.

Then another woman comes in, and exactly the same thing happens. But this time, with an iced bun.

***

It's a struggle.

But that's the beauty of life, isn't it? If there was no struggle, there would be no stakes. Everything would be sterile, and there would be no screenplay extracts about a bread shop and some kind of clandestine plot that affects trains.

It's a bit brighter now. The sun's not out, but the rain has stopped. It's still grey, but it's a brighter grey.

It's funny how things can be improved with a little hard work.

Thomas Pinchin'

I went to a football match on Saturday. Southampton beat Burnley 4-3. It's the first time I've seen Saints win live for years. I didn't know how to react.

I went on my own. I mean, there were 15,000 other people there. But none of them were in my party. I was the only member of my party. There was too much cake.

I didn't mind being on my own. I didn't feel the urge to make small talk. I did make one remark to the person next to me. He misheard me, but realised what I'd said and began answering after I'd already begun repeating myself.  You know how that goes.

I'd intended to use my solitude in a writerly way. I was planning to eavesdrop on various strangers, so I could pick up on some charming conversational idiosyncrasies. But I didn't really hear too much.

The only good thing that happened was a middle-class mother and young daughter reacting with the same wide-eyed awe at Jay Rodriguez with his shirt off. I might have been wearing the same excited expression too, but I couldn't see what I looked like, and I didn't want to ask the guy next to me. Not after the first fiasco.

I bought a scarf before the game. I wanted to display the team colours. I don't own any red and/or white clothing, so I was dressed all in drab blues and greys. The scarf really brightened me up. Also, it was cold. Scarves don't just demonstrate your footballing affiliation; they also keep your neck warm. That's why they're better than tattoos.

Also before the game, I wandered around Southampton to kill time. I grew up there, so it was like walking around a memory. I felt like I was in a dream. I don't have any specific fond memories of the city centre, so I was mostly looking at shops that I used to visit. One of the shopping centres I remember from my youth was boarded up. Another was literally being demolished as I looked at it. I don't know if it was a professional demolition crew. Their main tactic seemed to be spraying rubble with a hose.

As I looked at it, I couldn't help but think that - in a way - I was looking at myself. I was boarded up. I was crumbling to pieces. I wasn't the way I remembered. I was being hit by the hose.

Actually, I was being hit by the hose. I should have stood further back, really...

To tell you the truth, I didn't think that at the time. I only just thought it, because it seemed like the kind of thing someone might write about.

What I actually thought was: "AHUHUHUHU! HOAS IS WET! AHAHUUU!"

I also had some time on the train to look at the tendons in my hand. Are they tendons? The bits that move the fingers? They were pretty good.

I don't think I'll ever make it as a travelogue presenter. If you're telling people about a journey, you need to make your tale a journey itself. A narrative should give a sense of distance, progress and continuity. My account so far has flitted backwards and forwards with no rhyme or reason. That's no way to travel.

Though, to be fair, I did get the train, walk into town, walk to the stadium, buy my scarf, walk back into town, see a hose, walk back to the stadium, watch the game, walk back into town and then walk back to the station.

So perhaps my fractured account is accurate.

Fracturate.

I'll take notes next time.

***

Our path to work is flooded, so we have to get the bus. On the surface, I'm annoyed at the inconvenience, but the lower, lazier part of my brain is enjoying the comfort and convenience. I can shake my warm, dry head and claim that the weather has ruined my usual morning walk.

I get to seem active, without actually being active. That's the dream. I want people to think I do things without ever having to do them.

I mean, I could lie, I suppose. I could lie all the time. But I'm a man of principle (or so I'd like you to believe).

That's why the flooding is ideal. It's not my fault. I have no alternative but to get the bus. And I don't have to lie.

I'm getting fatter and poorer by the day, but I'm winning.

***

Lucy and I came up with the saucy phrase "joie de beavre" recently.

We were very pleased with it, but thought we'd better google check it.

We could invent it! We could!

Thomas Pynchon's not the original thinker you think he is, Slate.com!

I mean, he did come up with it first, so technically that makes him original. But we came up with it also. Linear time shouldn't have any bearing on plagiarism.

I'm never going to click on that review. It might weaken my legal claim. Good strip club names don't grow on trees. This is my livelihood we're talking about.

What about... uh...?

Melon Degenerates?

That sounds like Ellen DeGeneres, who's a famous comedian. It's a pun.

(I don't think I'll google that one.)

Who rules the smut-roost in Queens now, Pynchon?!

Eighty-Five

I only wrote 85 blog posts in 2013. Shocking. At this rate, I'll soon be writing fewer blog posts each year than I have legs.

Of course, quantity isn't important. It's that other one; the other 'q'. I can't remember what it is. Quastity? Yeah. I think that's it.

I start every year like this.

Hey, I've written the word 'quastity' before! I really am just repeating myself.

I should just post URLs for every new entry, referring people to past occasions when I've felt similar. I bet I can do more than 85 in a year.

***

I've tried to think of some original content, but have failed. So, instead, here's a list of 85 things that I intend to do at least 85 times this year:

1) Shave
2) Sneeze
3) Make cereal
4) Use Google maps
5) Laugh
6) Sing
7) Yawn
8) Smile
9) Eat pasta
10) Do a decent impression of a celebrity
11) Ignore a text
12) Wait for the green man at a pelican crossing
13) Stub my toe on a coffee table
14) Put on left sock
15) Put on right sock
16) Take off left sock
17) Wash up a colander
18) Answer the phone
19) Think about getting my hair cut
20) Give a tiny amount to charity
21) Type my name
22) Listen to Jeff Stelling inhale before asking a question
23) Dance
24) Shiver
25) Dream
26) Swear
27) Scroll down my Tumblr feed
28) Swallow
29) Whine
30) Drink tea
31) Lose a game of FreeCell
32) Ask where my keys are
33) Wince
34) Take off right sock
35) Fume
36) Sigh
37) Lounge
38) Limp
39) Play a bad version of Blackbird on the guitar
40) Correct someone's grammar
41) Drink milk
42) Shampoo
43) Wave
44) Stir
45) Clench my fist
46) Put on my coat
47) Make a self-deprecating remark
48) Turn off my alarm
49) Politely agree with something
50) Think about death
51) Doodle an eye
52) Attend a meeting
53) Cough
54) Abandon a blog post half-way through
55) Tweet about myself
56) Read an AV Club article that I'm not all that interested in
57) Look for a heron
58) Walk over a cattle grid
59) Panic
60) Check my pockets
61) Buy porridge
62) Lean
63) Crouch
64) Make unrealistic plans
65) Send an email to a woman
66) Go back to sleep
67) Forget someone's name
68) Insult someone on the TV
69) Check Facebook
70) Smile at a dog
71) Stumble over my words
72) Read a comic with She-Hulk in it
73) Go to the Co-Op
74) Make a suggestion
75) Do a Scottish accent
76) Grin
77) Make a terrible pun
78) Nod
79) Tidy up
80) Give an ironic thumbs up
81) Give someone the gist of something
82) Bluff
83) Open curtains
84) Salute
85) Smell popcorn

Boy. 85 is a lot more things that you'd think.

The list would have been much, much easier if I didn't insist on listing things that I might actually do 85 times.

I could have come up with 85 hilarious, surreal, comedic items that would have been fun to write and even more fun to read!

But I stuck to my 85 tedious guns.

I'm not going to proofread them. There may be duplicates on the list. We'll never know.

Still, at least I know what to do for the next entry:

85 things that I intend to do at least 85 times this year (but not really)

And from there, I can take it in any number of directions. Literally any number.