Extrapolation

I ate a sandwich today. The bread was stale.

It was unpleasant. I wonder if the baker had accidentally omitted yeast, and included grief as a catalyst instead. A mournful loaf, if ever I tasted one.

Stale bread is always a sad thing. Fresh bread is a delight - one of the finest foods known to man (or woman). But stale bread is a cheap imitation. It performs the same function, but it's completely devoid of joy.

Every time you eat stale bread, you try to fool yourself into thinking it's ok. "It's the same!" you'll claim, choking on the lie (and crusts).

But it's not the same. A pale imitation. Like having sex with an android. But with more crumbs.

Stale bread is an abomination. It reminds us of our own mortality. Every one of us will get old. We'll lose the soft, sponginess of youth. Our skin will flake, we'll lose all moisture, and eventually we'll get all mouldy. We'll sit in the cupboard for a while, rotting away, and no-one will realise for a while. Until the smell becomes unbearable. And then we'll be thrown away.

The disgust! The sheer disgust on their face at even having to handle the mulch you've become. That same face was alive with joy when you first arrived. "We'll make sandwiches with this! We'll make toast! What a glorious loaf!"

But the potential was not fulfilled. They chose breakfast cereal and salad and (God help me) bagels. And now it's too late. You're in the bin, shunned even by the other refuse. Such a bright future - snuffed out by the blackness of a bin-liner.

***

A comparison between human beings and bread, there.

Food for thought. I had no idea it would be such a negative post when I started it.

Maybe I should balance it out with another tenuous comparison between humanity and an everyday object - but this time make it more positive.

***

I ate an apple this morning.

Oh apple! Majestic Queen of all that lives! A shimmering, glistening orb of truth and goodness!

Indeed, can we not see the apple's beauty in the soul of every person? The strong, sleek exoskeleton of human pride and dignity, dappled with subtle colour! And beneath, the rich and complex flavours of our inner-beings. Sweet, sharp, moist, substantial. The complexity and variety of it all!

All different, and yet all bonded by that very difference. Individuality and communion in that very individuality. Simplicity and infinite depth. Healthy and pure, but never boring. The seeds within contain a billion possibilities and the promise of eternal life.

Did not that original forbidden fruit open our eyes to the enlightenment of imperfection, and the perfection of the unknown.

Truly we are all apples, each one of us opening new worlds for ourselves and others. This living, breathing bushel, this celestial strudel, this orchard paradise, open to everyone. The first bite: the taste of immortality!

***

Yeah. That'll do.

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

So, it's here again.

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

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

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

One line from the latter:

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

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

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

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

Isn't that right, Post #400 Paul?

(It will take him a while to answer)


***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I still love the emails.

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

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

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

[I'm not really doing that one.]

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

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

But that's why they had muskets.

***

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

Ricardo made toast
He used Olivio spread
Before the rebrand

That was easy. I really have become much wiser.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

-- EDIT--

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

--EDIT--

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

Ahahahahahahaha!

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



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

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



(Sorry there's no proper video)

***

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

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

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

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

Who can say?

Riders on the Scorn

Well, the poll is now closed. And the world's favourite liquid is:

Powdered Soup (with a third of the total votes)

Thanks to all that voted. (I think I can extrapolate world tastes from nine people)

The winner was no big surprise. I considered omitting it from the list, as it was a clear favourite. Still, it was fun. The turnout was at least higher than for the local elections, and we can all take comfort in that.

Votes for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad were not counted.

***

It's an odd day today. I feel slightly dislocated. I'm sure I must be located. And I can make an educated guess as to where. But I feel weird.

I'm definitely here - I can be sure of that. I'm not over there. I'm looking over there now, and I can't see myself. I could be hiding, I suppose, but I'm not a naturally deceptive person.

I'm pretty sure I'm here.

Maybe I'm misplaced, rather than dislocated. I'd rather misplace my shoulder than dislocate it. But it's difficult to misplace your shoulder ("Oh, there it is. At the top of my arm.")

I feel like I'm in the eye of a storm. Or the calm before the storm. Or the calm before the eye (except after 'C').

Or my favourite mixed metaphor (from one of my dad's patients, I think):

The storm before the teacup.

The teacup is looming on the horizon like a china elephant.

Of course, there is no storm. I'm not in a twinkle or the apple of any eye whatsoever. Fiction has taught us to believe in peaks and troughs, and trials and setbacks, and obstacles to be overcome.

But life's not really like that. It's just a big plain flat plain flowing steadily and predictably, like a machine-gunned cow bleeding slowly to death.

Ha-ha! That was a very miserable image! I was quite pleased with it though. Sometimes depressing ideas are so much fun to develop that they relieve all depression and become quite uplifting!

That's why I don't like the conventional idea of heaven. It would be horrible if everything was good and peaceful and pleasant ALL THE TIME. Misery and corruption and squalour add spice and flavour to the world. I wouldn't want to be without toe-stubbings and stabbings and stobbings (aka sobbing in stockings).

Filth and depravity is a necessary component of an enjoyable life. Of course, that means that this life - real life - is actually heaven.

Isn't it great?

I think that's what optimism truly is: appreciation of the negative. Anyone can be optimistic about new-born foals and ice-cream and love. It takes true, disinterested, optimism to get a daily boost from the existence of whooping cough.

And it makes me smile from ear to ear.

One Year Later

Sometimes I look back at my old blogs. It's not self-indulgence (at least not to a greater extent than the ultimate indulgence of even writing a blog in the first place), but a desperate search for interesting things to say. I like to see what I was doing this time last year, and see if I can discern any amusing coincidences.

I suppose I hope that one day, I'll look at the entry from a year before, and I will have written:

"Hey Paul.

I buried some gold in the park. I can only dig it up after one year. You don't remember this, because you (I) had an operation to erase this from your brain for some reason.

Anyway, enjoy the gold.

Yours (You)
One Year Ago Paul

PS. I hope you're enjoying life under President Hilary Clinton. I'm sure she's doing a good job."

It's never usually that fruitful.

I had a look to see what I was doing a year ago today, and it was my long post about a trip to see Pro Wrestling NOAH in Coventry.

It's a bit sad, as one of the wrestlers we saw that night (and featured in the video at the end), Mistuharu Misawa died recently. It was during a match, which is quite unusual. The disproportionately huge amount of wrestler deaths are usually heart problems connected to drug use.

On a selfish level, I'm very glad to have seen him wrestle live. Anyway, it was a sad little coincidence.

It's difficult to know how to react to the death of a celebrity, especially to someone you feel a personal connection to. When Terry Wogan dies, it will be sad, but I'll be sharing the loss with millions of other people. Whereas, when someone like Misawa dies, it feels a little bit more personal. That's not to say that I wish Wogan was dead. I'd much rather he was alive.

(It would be painful in so many ways to see a Princess Diana-style mass funeral for Wogan)

Another coincidence from that entry of a year ago is that (as I'm sure you all know) the city of Coventry no longer exists in that form. It broke off into the sea, and is floating around the Northern Atlantic. It's rare for that to happen to a landlocked city, but that won't be any consolation to the people who live there.

They're attempting to rebrand themselves as New Atlantis, and the mayor has taken to carrying a trident. They've become totally self-sufficient, relying on renewable energy produced by burning Ikea furniture.

I wish them well.

I wonder what I'll be doing in a year's time...

Probably writing another one of these, ruing my prescience as Wogan's casket is paraded through the streets.

Or I'll be digging for gold again.

The Hunt

I got out on the wrong side of bed today. Luckily, I keep that side lined with cushions in case of just such an eventuality. Unfortunately, the cushions had been taken away for cleaning. Luckily, the cushion-cleaning place does a great job.

Unfortunately, the absence of the cushions revealed there were poisoned spikes and snakes on the wrong side of the bed. Luckily, the snakes were soft, and shielded me from the spikes.

Unfortunately, they started hissing snide comments that undermined my confidence.

"Call that a hip?" said one, referring to my left hip. "I've seen better hips than that on a Lego horse."

The irony of a snake (a notoriously hipless animal) criticising my hips was not lost on me.

Luckily, I made it into work on time. Unfortunately, I made it into work on time.

The clock is moving slowly. Luckily, this will enable me to capture it. I've put together a search party. We have dogs and everything. We've given them the scent of time.

One of our group is an expert tracker. He can see the imprint of every tick and every tock. Judging by the ticks, he says, the clock has a limp. It must have been injured.

I was hoping we'd find it by lunchtime; that it would have given up the ghost (its only hostage). But time waits for no man. Or woman, apparently.

To raise our spirits, we've built a campfire. It breaches several office safety regulations, but the acrid smoke seems to have obscured the security cameras.

The nights are cold out here, especially during the day. Especially during the day.

***

About half an hour ago, we found a severed second-hand. Ricardo (the tracker) thinks the clock gnawed off the injured limb to increase its mobility. The poor bastard.

Ricardo has given it only two or three hours to live. I haven't the heart to tell him it was a digital clock.

We're being played for chumps. Especially Ricardo. He keeps sharpening his knife - a real tough guy.

***

Since writing the above, we managed to capture the clock. We lured it into a snare with a packet of Quavers (and a Bass Clef). It is caught in a large pit.

Ricardo (who has proved his worth at last) has asked us to ensure our celebrations are muted, so that the levity of our demeanours won't imbue the clock with the power of flight.

I don't know what I feel now: a mixture of hunger, fear, satisfaction and guilt. The clock paces. It carries an expression of utmost dignity on its face.

Sometimes the distinction between predator and prey is the thickness of a razorblade.

***

The clock is now vomiting up numbers. Mostly fours. But I'm sure I saw a couple of sixes. We're waiting for the army to arrive. They have special facilities.

I threw a semi-quaver into the pit. The clock sniffed it suspiciously and nibbled the edges, watching me out of the corner of its eye (a small dial).

When I was a boy, I kept clocks in a coop on the roof of our building. I named them all after French monarchs.

Sometimes, half in a dream, I still expect Louis IX (a small carriage clock), to flutter to my window for a small treat. But of course, he never does. It was years ago.

***

The army have taken the clock away in an armoured truck. They say it's going to a special prison. But I'm fully aware that it's already dead.

I didn't tell any of the others, but I named the clock Louis XIV. Le Roi Soleil.

For a short spell he brightened my world, and briefly illuminated the innocence of childhood.

Twittles

I've been Twittering up a storm lately.

You can follow my recent updates on the right of this page, but it doesn't show everything. If you'd like to read the whole kit and kaboodle, it can be found here: http://twitter.com/diamondbadger (you don't have to be registered to read it)

Twitter is made for people like me with short attention spans. I can come up with a stupid idea and just throw it out there. The 140 character limit seems to legitimise terrible puns or non-sensible non-sequiturs.

It's also a haven for the bored (or the bored-at-heart). You can follow minor celebrities, and become disillusioned about their genius. It's great.

I've also been using it to update my Facebook status (I managed to nab http://www.facebook.com/diamondbadger in the recent username rush, by the way). The trouble is, I'm never sure which tweets will make good Facebook statuses. I don't want people I know to think I'm crazy (or confirm their suspicions), and I don't want to fill up their pages with reams of nonsense.

I find that the spheres of my online existence are reasonably distinct. I'm sure most of the readers of this blog are people I know, but my Twitter followers are unknown entities. I think a lot of them are spam accounts (unless gunchick357 is a long-lost school friend).

I don't know how many of my tweets are worthwhile. I think some of them could be expanded into something more. Most of them are silly. As regular readers will know, I don't have enough going on in my life to use it as a kind of shared diary.

Jonathan Ross will tell everyone about the interesting places he's been, and the people he's met. When I try to provide a window into my everyday life, it goes a bit wrong:

Eg: Hot today. My sombrero earned me funny looks on the way in. Later found a dead monkey on the brim.

But it's a fun way to vent my idiocy in small quantities, so that my head doesn't explode.

***

This week, Paul has decided to do a proper column-style summary of his activities at the end of his post. And has been reading a lot of old Captain America comics.

And has made his own shield out of a bin lid.

And has started talking in the third person. Haven't you, Paul?

(Not literally)

I've added a poll to the right of this column. I thought it would give me a flavour of the kind of person that reads this. I can then tailor my content to fit the correct demographic. Please vote.

What is your favourite liquid?

(I was going to add an 'Other' option, but I think I've got most of the major ones covered)

***

I'm experiencing the kind of odd energy that can only come from a bad night's sleep. I'm tired all day, but when it comes to bedtime, I'm wide awake.

I'm thinking of modifying my sleeping patterns. I'll sleep from 5pm to 9pm, have free time until 4am. Then sleep again until 8am. I think it will work.

I've always thought I could have been nocturnal. An owl, perhaps. But I'm not perceptive enough. That's the only drawback.

And the mice eating. I couldn't manage that.

I'll stick with the urine.