Xylophone

Here's the beginning of a blog post that didn't make it past draft stage.

***

Behind every fence was a dog.

We never knew their names, but we knew the pitches and volumes of the respective barks. And the timbre or whatever. We knew the speed of their response. We speculated that, if we could teleport, we could warp up and down the street, and play the dogs like a xylophone.

But none of us ever learned how to teleport. Not as far as I know, anyway. I don't keep in touch with most of them. I never see anything about teleportation on Facebook.

***

And that is why.

But I can't stand to throw anything away. I'm a hoarder of terrible ideas. I keep them all in a crepe paper safe of my own design.

***

Sometimes, I think: "I know a lot about soap".

But then, I'm like: "No, Paul. You've just seen Fight Club."

I like to put myself in my place.

***

I've been reading Anna Karenina lately, which makes up for my complete lack of intelligent thought.

I haven't written anything interesting for ages. Nor have I engaged with any serious topics of conversation. I haven't been paying attention to politics. My academic glands have shrivelled and dropped off. I can no longer count, write, solve problems, or make arguments. I've done nothing with my brain. My most strenuous mental exercise is retaining knowledge of World Cup scores for the entire gap between the final whistle and walking over to my wall chart.

Except for reading Anna Karenina. I've been doing that, so I'm still an intellectual.

I went to Oxford University. I'm supposed to be clever.

And a stranger might look at my life, strewn with comics and wrestling message boards and FIFA mini-games and think that I've regressed.

But I've been reading Anna Karenina. That's something a grown-up would do. No-one has been forcing me to read it, and I've been reading it.

I know almost all of the characters' names.

I don't need to worry about improving myself or taking an evening course. I don't need to find out what's happening in Iraq (I started reading an idiot's guide article to the conflict, but lost interest). I don't need to have informed conversations with knowledgeable peers.

Because I'm reading a Russian novel. Admittedly, it's fairly well-known. And it's a bit too much fun to be pure scholarship. But it makes me feel better.

It's a bit like when I waste an entire weekend, but then play my guitar for half an hour. It feels worthy. (Playing a stringed instrument is a higher pleasure than playing an electronic pinball machine simulator. I don't know why, but it is.)

Or like eating a huge pile of disgusting unhealthy food, and then having an apple. It makes it all OK.

Anna Karenina is just like that. It's halting my decline: like the jagged rocks on which my self-esteem parachute is caught. Sure, it won't hold indefinitely. But I'm still alive for now.

APPLES. PARACHUTES. GLANDS.

MIXED METAPHORS ARE FOR THE STRONG.

Good grief. It wasn't like this when I was in my twenties.

*reads old blog posts from when he was in his twenties*

*sees that it was exactly like this then*

*realises that the only major change has been the use of asterisks to indicate actions*

***

I'm surprised that so many people hang themselves. Not that the initial impulse is a strange one - we're all human - but because, once you've gone to the trouble of hanging a noose, you might as well turn it into a tyre-swing.

And then you have a tyre-swing, which is the only thing better than suicide.

Or a lantern.

Most methods of suicide remind you of something that makes life worth living.

Jumping off a cliff? Live for geology.

Shooting yourself? Live for marksmanship.

Head in oven? Cinnamon buns.

Overdose of pills? Pick 'n' mix.

Slit wrists? Godfather II.

That's why the human race has flourished. We are conditioned to see the positive in the face of despair.

We're all so sad and then happy that we'll live forever.

Death From Above

I'm taking a break from my fascinating story. The break may or may not not be permanent.

What a disgusting world this is. The sooner we're all killed by an asteroid, the better. Or by many asteroids. Perhaps we could each be killed by our own asteroid. That would be pretty neat. Seven billion little asteroids finding seven billion targets, flush.

Of course, some people are in bunkers right now (nuclear fallout, golf). The asteroids assigned to the bunker folk would have to be very precise. They'd have to get through thick reinforced walls, mine shafts and electronically locked doors. They might need security keycards. But in this scenario, they can do all that. Asteroids with credentials.

This all happened before with the dinosaurs. It's high time it happened again.

I'm not a misanthrope. I also hate plants.

I got my hair cut recently. Immediately after I sat in the chair, the barber woman (barbress?) started giving me lots of information about her personal life. I know this is de rigueur in scissor circles, but she launched into it so quickly that I barely had time to tell her about my fatal gel allergy.

I like chatty people, as long as they don't need much input from me. If they want to shoulder the burden of the conversation, I'm more than happy to let them.

At some point, the conversation turned to her boyfriend/husband, and got really interesting. I'd bought a suit that day, and she began talking about how he finds it difficult to find well-fitting clothes because he has the body shape of a monkey.

"He has a really big upper-body, but really skinny legs. And long arms. He's technically overweight, but that's just because of the top of his body. Doctors say that his legs are actually malnourished. If he buys skinny jeans, they're baggy on him."

That's the trouble with traditional weight categories. They're an average of the whole body. You could have morbidly obese calves and no head, and still be considered healthy.

I was curious. I thought about asking to see a photo of him, and I'm sure she would have obliged, but I decided against it in the end.

I wonder if she was mistaken. Maybe she's only ever seen him from above, and so the disparity is merely an illusion of perspective.

She didn't seem that interested in the cutting of my hair, and neither was I. Still, it seems to be gone now.

I didn't have any change for a tip, so she probably felt offended that her interesting banter had gone unrewarded. I am full of remorse.

I bought a suit. I mentioned that in the middle of the last section. I've never bought a suit before. I feel like a proper grown-up. I bought it with the same speed and lack of thought as I do all my clothes. It fit, so I got it. Now I'm thinking about getting a job that requires you to wear a suit, like a gangster or a playing card.

But seriously, we're all more than ready for the asteroids. What more are we going to achieve? Let's quit whilst we're ahead. We're probably not going to top the metronome. That was the peak of human invention. Everything we do now (the tram, the computer, 2Pac's California Love) are just variations on a theme.

We may already be disgusting, but we could get even more disgusting. We don't want to get ourselves into a latter-day Simpsons situation. Cut our losses. Get the astronomers to beckon the asteroids with their powerful telemagnets; we've had a good run.

Backdrop - Part 3

Backdrop 

3

TEN YEARS LATER

David and Maura are both dead. Luckily, their children - and yes, they did have children - are now fully grown and are much more interesting characters.

Their eldest daughter Jood is eight feet tall, and can predict the future. Their middle daughter Faye has an unusual accent and leads a subterranean revolutionary army. Their son Alto is a clone of Steve Martin. Their youngest daughter Caroline has a very dry wit, and knows lots of well-connected people.

On a bright spring morning, they all meet at their parents' graves to discuss the annual family get together. which Alto has dubbed 'the sibling ribaldry', despite the incestual overtones. Jood had predicted that they would all go to Universal Studios in the summer, but Faye doesn't want to spend too much time away from her sewer command centre.

All of this information could have been imparted by dialogue, but wasn't.

Caroline's fashionable handbag spilled open, and dozens of cigarette holders tumbled out onto the grass. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Woo har yein goad illa demfa?" said Faye.

"I'm attempting to civilise the worms," said Caroline, lighting the big long wizard pipe that she'd been holding all along.

"Wurms fitin holdos. Cad smoak demshelps."

"Would that we all could," muttered Caroline.

The two gravestones had been chiselled in different fonts, which irritated all of the siblings.

"I think the 3D Transformers ride alone would justify the trip," said Jood. "And when you throw in The Wizarding World of Harry Potter..."

"We're not going to Universal Studios!" shouted Alto. "It's too expensive."

"Ang I'ch tordyoo: am bizzry."

"I know you're busy," said Jood. "We're all busy. But this is tradition."

"So is dying alone," said Caroline. "Anyway, I agree with Al and Faye. Can't we all just hire a barge and get smashed like last year?"

"Lash yur?! I lass faur regimens! Faur massakurs!"

"Come on, they were all part of the same massacre," said Jood.

"Graveyards make me bored!" shouted Alto. "And they're too expensive!"

Alto was cheap. But, to be fair, this one was more pricey than most.

He wandered towards the cafeteria, with Caroline and Jood bickering behind him. Only Faye remained. She looked at the gravestones of her parents, and beyond them to the dozens of other markers, tight together in rows, waiting expectantly like chairs in an empty theatre.

Faye had lost so many friends. But the uprising was gathering momentum, and she knew that their sacrifices had not been in vain. She also knew that her decisions had led to many deaths on the other side, many fallen foes filling graveyards similar to this one, many families grieving as she had done.

On the floor, the cigarette holders still lay scattered between the reeds, on top of the untended earth. Faye picked them up, and bunched them together like flowers, before sticking them in the space between where her mother and father lay.

A worm, disturbed by the new bouquet, writhed in the disturbed soil and then disappeared.

"Mee tooh," said Faye. "Amm goan ta go bak unnergroun."

Backdrop - Part 2

Backdrop 

2

David climbed the steps slowly. His clothes were heavy with water and the sponges in his pocket. The umbrella didn't keep him dry. The rain fell right through.

As he approached the officials, their voices grew quieter, and their faces became blurred, low-res, indistinct. One of the officials turned to David, just as he reached their step.

"David," she said. "We didn't expect to see you here. Not today."

She gestured at the sky. David noticed that she was completely untouched by the rain. Her umbrella handle was dark as black pudding.

"I wouldn't have come if I didn't have to," he said.

The other officials - three women and one man - that had been in the same group had slid away when David had approached. They stood on the same step, but far away. The same, but smaller.

The woman, whose name was Maura, gave a patronising smile. "You know I would have passed on the salient details," she said, oozing friendliness.

"Well that's just it," said David. "I think we have different ideas of what's salient and what isn't."

"I don't think they'll even be expecting you. You're not on the list."

"Then I'll come in with you."

She winced and looked over at her colleagues in the distance. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

The rain was starting to stop. An old man fell up the steps and spilled the contents of his briefcase all over the place. He struggled to retrieve the damp paper from where it had stuck to the stone.

David looked down at him, then back at Maura. "I wouldn't have come all this way in the rain," he said, "if I wasn't sure that I could get in."

Maura's concern fell away. "Well, you did. Because you can't."

David reached into his pocket - the non-sponge one - and pulled out a pistol. He pointed it at Maura.

"I am sure. I wouldn't have come if I wasn't."

David's pistol was also transparent. The barrel was transparent. The trigger was transparent. The handle was transparent.

And David knew that Maura's guns were not transparent. They were as opaque as her umbrella, their handles just as full of blood.

Maura looked down at the gun. Though it was transparent, she could see the bullets in the clip.

So she made a little nod of acceptance and they both went up the steps together.

Backdrop - Part 1

Backdrop 

1

David took off his jacket for the third time. Then put it on for the fourth. After drumming his thigh with fingers for a few minutes, he opened the dining room window and reached out, his hand open to the sky. He couldn't feel anything.

The overhang of the building's roof was vast. His arms could have been twice as long. In the distance, the raindrops hung in the air like ripe fruit. He pulled in his dry hand and closed the window.

His right arm spasmed against the jacket, so he grabbed the sleeve with his left hand. He'd decided. He went to the front door and picked his umbrella off the hook. The umbrella was transparent, by order of the government. He opened it inside. It didn't matter.

Then he went outside and within ten seconds was visibly soaked.

The tall, grey spire of Parliament Central dominated the skyline like a raised objection. On the polished steps, several officials smiled and whispered. David noticed that their metaphors were opaque.

Sorry, not metaphors. Umbrellas.

Anyway...

Blighter's Block

I ate a massive lamb burger for lunch, and now I'm struggling to stay alive.

They had a choice of beef or lamb. The beef ones were quite small. The lamb ones were huge. So I chose the latter. Size was the only factor in my decision. It wouldn't have mattered if the lamb ones were rotten and holograms.

Who would chose the beef? Some sheep enthusiast?

Bigger is always better. A big tomato is better than a small tomato. A big car is better than a small car. A big fire is better than a small fire.

Now people are milling about eating cake, and I can't deal with it. How can they eat cake at a time like this, with their bellies so full of meat, bun and gherkin? They're acting like they're not as full as I am, like they didn't eat a massive lamb burger, like they don't have the same thoughts, history and beard as me.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only sane person in a sea of crazy water.

I watched the film 12 Angry Men yesterday. Apparently, it was originally called A Baker's Dozen Angry Men, but one of the jurors was cut for time.

It reminded me of when I was doing jury service. My experience wasn't very similar to Henry Fonda's, though I did have knife in my pocket.

That's a specific reference to the film th

***

And I stopped writing the post at that point. It was yesterday. Now is today. I'm no longer full, and I don't know what I was going to write about.

I've been struggling with my blogging lately. I keep second, third, fourth and sixth-guessing myself. I immediately reject my ideas.

I hope this isn't the beginning of my decline. Or the end of it. I don't really want it to be the beginning of my incline, either. I'm not prepared for that. I'd want to pack a lunch and put on some suitable shoes.

I need to break through my blog writer's block (or blighter's block). I just need to believe in myself.

No. No, actually that's not helping. My existence does not help my confidence. True creativity emerges from the gaps between doubt and certainty. I need to believe that I might exist.

We all might exist, except for Impossible Karen (and even she is applying for a visa).

Here's an idea:

Serialised Content

That's right. I capitalised both words. That's how important it is.

I'll do a continuing story for a while. That way, I won't have to think about what to write.

It's such an obvious solution, it's a wonder that I haven't done it before.

I'll go for prose. Prose is easier than some of the other literary forms, like giant inflatable verbs. I'm a master of prose. Look how long this paragraph is already. It's a proper paragraph; longer than the single lines I've written above it. And a semi-colon! This will be like taking candy from a baby and writing a compelling narrative about said candy, and reading it to the baby in an attempt to stop it crying. Prose it is.

It's important that I choose a premise that has a lot of mileage in it. I don't want to run out of steam. It needs to have compelling characters, a strong central narrative, and perhaps a tank (be it 'think', 'septic' or one of those army ones).

I can't start it here and now, though. It should have its own entry. Potential publishers aren't going to want to wade through this shit.

Will it be compelling? Well, let's just say that they call me the hotel sketcher.

Why?

Because I, my friend, am going to DRAW. YOU. (AN) IN(N).

#writing

Deadgood

Is this my longest gap between (proper) blog posts ever? I'm not going to check, but I can only assume that the answer is "no-one cares".

No more moping around. Let's deliver some content. You'll need to sign for it. Or I can leave it with the creepy neighbour that you deliberately avoid every day. So now, not only do you not have your content, you're forced to sheepishly knock on a stranger's door and thank them for a favour you didn't even know about.

That was probably some kind of metaphor.

***

Deadwood

Why did no-one tell me how good Deadwood is? Perhaps you did, and I wasn't listening. I do tend to switch off when people express their approval of something.

I'm late to the cowboy party. Deadwood is an HBO drama that ran from 2004 to 2006, starring Lovejoy, Franklyn "Nice Mash" Ajaye and the baddie from Die Hard 4. I eventually got around to watching it, after hearing about it for years, and it's fantastic.

I'm not someone who watches a lot of drama series, so I have to pick and choose which ones I go for. I usually go for the ones that will allow me to read contentious reviews on The AV Club, or understand hilarious gifsets. I'm usually slightly disappointed.

But Deadwood is the real deal. If I was to rank my dramas - and we all know that the best way to appreciate art is by ranking it against other, totally different, works in the same medium - it would be almost at the top. It doesn't quite make it, because... The Wire. But a good effort nonetheless. I'd stick it just below The Wire and just above the other big hitters (The Sopranos, Breaking Bad, Mad Men), that are vast and brilliant and ambitious and impressive and a little bit flawed/boring sometimes. Deadwood only ran for three seasons, which helps its cause.

Let's do a rankin'!

The Wire

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Deadwood

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Enlightened

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The Sopranos / Breaking Bad / Mad Men

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Game of Thrones / True Detective

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Lost / Heroes / The Walking Dead / the suffering of a loved one

I don't know what makes a programme eligible for this list. The Larry Sanders Show was on HBO and is a half-hour comedy drama like Enlightened, but it doesn't make the list. I suppose I'm thinking of prestige dramas, but that could mean anything. One man's prestige is another man's terrible Christopher Nolan film.

Why am I including Lost and Heroes? They aren't on HBO or AMC. Is it just so I can insult The Walking Dead? Yes, it is.

I don't want to widen the parameters too much, I suppose. That would render this exercise unscientific and self-indulgent. We can't have that.

So, why is Deadwood so good?

I'll explain why in little sections, so I don't lose interest.

Dialogue

This is usually the first thing people mention when talking about Deadwood. the dialogue is incredibly profane, and very, very beautiful. It takes advantage of its period setting, by not being constrained by naturalistic speech. If you were to use such highfalutin (and lowfalutin) language in a contemporary drama, it would come across as stagey or inauthentic. But because most of us weren't alive in the Old West, there isn't such a barrier.

It gives the writers (particularly creator David Milch) a chance to show off. And show off he does. I could just listen to the characters talk for hours, with no need for plot. Some of it is almost Shakespearean. 

It makes you think that other dramas not set in a recognisable modern world (*coughGameofThronescough*) are really missing a trick by not working harder on interesting dialogue. Even on many of the shows I love, the dialogue tends to be functional rather than beautiful.

Heart

Ugh. That's a horrible thing to use as a bullet point, unless you're writing dissection instructions.

Before I started watching it, I assumed it would be one of those programmes with hard men making hard decisions in an amoral world. And it sort of is that. There are some horrible things and horrible people. But what really came across was the warmth. There are lots of strong friendships and people joining together to achieve common goals. The relationships aren't soapy, but seem real. You really feel like the people care about each other, when they're not being fed to the pigs.

Setting

Using a small, emerging town as a setting really helps the storytelling. All of the characters live near each other, and see each other every day. They aren't all bound by family or the workplace, so you get a wide variety of people interacting in a plausible way. You don't need any convenient coincidences or convergences because they're all buffeting up against each other.

It also gives the writers a chance to explore politics, economics, immigration and the media on a micro scale. We get to see the town being built, and it gives us real insight into how society in general is being built, and there are lots of fun historical details.

Women

Deadwood passes the Bechdel test with flying colours. You probably wouldn't think it in a show set in the uncivilised past (unlike today, where women have total equality and are never the victims of any prejudice or injustice). Especially when a lot of the characters are prostitutes, and most of the agency belongs to the men.

But there are several really strong, interesting female characters. They're not just wives of the main male characters! They have their own strengths and goals and fears! They talk to each other, and have platonic friendships! 

Even The Wire struggles a bit with its female characters. Or - more accurately - just doesn't have enough of them. But Deadwood seems to deal with it well. This is possibly helped by what seems to be a high proportion of female writers.

Don't get me wrong - the men are still in the majority, and still have the most agency. But it still seems better than average. Or maybe I just want you all to think that I'm an enlightened 21st century man who CARES ABOUT THESE THINGS.

(Having said that, I will note that 'Women' comes fourth in a list of five things. Which means gender representation is less important to me than a period printing press.)

Performances

Ian McShane as Al Swearengen is the star man, but there are great performances all over the place. Even characters that seem like minor supporting roles, often emerge as rich and compelling.

Sometimes things can seem quite stagey, I suppose. There are a number of dramatic monologues. But they're so well written and performed that you can't help but enjoy them.

Yeah. That's it for starters.

As I said, it only ran for three seasons, but is well worth watching. You can get it well cheap. I realise that proselytising about Deadwood in 2014 is a bit like recommending bees to a... um... person who would, most likely, already be familiar with... bees.

That was the best analogy I could come up with.

I'll stop now.

Oh, I've also been watching Freaks and Geeks for the first time, and I don't like it that much.

END OF THE RAMBLE.

***

Friday Night Lights next?

Oh boy. I'm going to have to go back through this whole thing italicising the names of television programmes.

And I'm going to use the title 'Deadgood', even though I know that's rubbish.

I suppose I am passionate about my craft. That's the lesson we'll take from this.