XXX Candles

I'm much thirtier than I was yesterday.

Yesterday, I listened to aggressive experimental dubcorepunkhop music. Today, I listen to a mid-tempo guitar ballad from an MFI ad.

Yesterday, I snorted a line of ketamine off a skateboard. Today, I collapsed halfway through a ploughman's.

Yesterday, I listened to Radio 1Xtra. Today, I write to complain about the station's lack of 'e'.

Yesterday, I wore skinny jeans and an ironic T-shirt. Today, I wear chinos and the same T-shirt in earnest.

Yesterday, Michael Gove. Today, Michael Give. 

Yesterday, I tattooed a Frank Ocean gif Tumblr URL onto a holographic coin. Today, I scratch my neck and agree with a racist.

Yesterday, I resented the police. Today, I carve my mashed potato into the shape of a truncheon.

Things are different now.

This is what it's like.

This is what it's like.

This is what it's like.

(It's my birthday. I'm not sure if that was clear.)

***

Seriously though, things are super!

I love this time of year. I love this time of day. I love this time of blog.

("The sarcastic time?")

That's the one!

Seriously though, things are serious.

***

Is this really the end of the blog post? I couldn't think of anything else to write?

Maybe I should end on a joke.

What do you call a reindeer with an STD?

Blitzen.

It's seasonal - that's what I like about it. If it doesn't seem to make any sense, then... well... You obviously don't know Blitzen.

Happy Hanukkah, everybody.

There Are Others

It's my birthday. I usually write several whiny paragraphs about how, why and if I exist. I recapped them all last year, so I don't have to do it now. Thanks, 2010 Paul.

29. Nothing to see here.

I begged for more followers on Twitter, but it didn't really work. On the other hand, I did get loads of retweets of this:

The penultimate letter of this tweet has been stolen. Oh well - it's not the end of the word.

Hohoho. How clever it is. How clever I am. Not clever enough to succeed in life, but not stupid enough to be oblivious to the fact.

The retweets make up for the follower lack. Just to think that there are people all over the world, reading that tweet, smiling weakly, and thinking "oh, I get it", is all the reward I need.

I'm a bit tired of writing about myself, so I might try and direct my attention outwards for a change.

That thing over there is mainly white, but with a green stripe. Not a pleasant green (like a tree or "helper snake"), but an unpleasant pea-slime green.

The whole object isn't very tall. Four inches, perhaps? I don't know inches. Damn. I spoke about myself. Stop it, Paul. Stop it.

It has some lettering printed on the stripe. The lettering reads 'TARGET ZERO' and there's a tick in the 'O'.

The object has a handle.

It is a mug.

You see? True beauty is all around you.

There are people all over the place, and they all have their own internal lives. It's odd to think that there a billions of equally petty, equally cowardly, equally complex consciousnesses out there.

Well, maybe not billions. I doubt there are that many that could fill hundreds of blog posts with their ridiculous brain mulch.

But there are probably a few million.

It's enough to make you believe in a god with too much time on her hands.

There's so much activity happening beneath people's (and peoples') eyes that you forget it exists. But there's loads of stuff back there. Twisted imaginings, logic loops, groundless speculation, paranoia, little songs, role-play scenarios, acceptance speeches for hypothetical awards.

Life is like an iceberg. 90% of it lies beneath the surface.

Unless everyone is much simpler than I imagine. Maybe they think of, like, three things all day.

Maybe I have the most powerful and productive brain in the universe. If so...

what a waste.

This blog has sponged up so many thoughts that could have been better used in the fields of physics, medicine, forestry or floor history.

I think it's more likely that everyone is sitting on a similar reservoir of teeming thought stew. It's just that some people like to dam it up, block it up, contain it. And I like to bottle it and ship it out to the world, even though hardly anyone will sign for it, and it tastes a bit brackish.

Mood

Birthday

Listening to

Keystrokes

Reading

"Keystrokes"

Watching

Diff'rent Strokes

Playing

Strip stroker

Eating

Stroked salmon

Drinking

Stroka Cola

***

When I blow out my candles, I'm going to wish that, forever more, people can tell others what their wish is, and it will still come true.

This whole wish secrecy thing is a load of rubbish. You should spread your wishes around. The more people who know about them, the better the chance that they'll come true.

And don't get me STARTED on genies.

Of course, until I make the wish, the wish secrecy rule is still in effect. And, as I've just told you about it, it won't come true.

Damn you!

You win again, Captain Birthday!

Ben Grimm and friends

Some things have happened to me. Not interesting things (you Facebook voyeurs can move away from this preview now and continue building a new Gulag as part of a hilarious application).

But things nonetheless.

Thing #1

On Monday, it was my birthday. I'm now 28 years old. And 40 years young. Which makes me -12. Which coincidentally is also my shoe size. I have trouble finding socks that fit correctly.

I'm not a big fan of birthdays. They don't depress me, but they don't impress me. I like to avoid attention, I'm not too fussed about presents and I have a pathological fear of accurate badges.

I should check what I've written about in past years to make sure I'm not repeating myself. And then I can copy them out to make sure I'm repeating myself verbatim.

In 2007, I wrote:

I suppose I should write about my birthday.

I'm not doing anything special. In fact, I'm at my desk, at work, and it feels just like any other day (except I've been decorating Christmas trees).

But still, I am 25. 25 years. It seems like a pretty long time. 25 is really the first of the landmark birthdays to be a negative one. 18 is fine, it means you can legally drink. 21 is a coming of age thing. 25, though. You're grown-up then. At 25, I could be on Friends (the first series).

I think your prime decade is probably 25-35. After that it's essentially downhill. And I haven't really got as much going on in my life/career/experience as I'd like.

By now, I should have toured with a punk band or invented a cylindrical waffle or made my first million. At this rate of income, I'm not going to make my first million until I'm around 100. And that's if I don't spend any of it, which seems unlikely. The chance of me resisting ordering a Domino's pizza for the next 75 years isn't high.

I'm not crazy about birthdays. I think the mother should receive gifts on the anniversary of their child's birth instead. They did all the hard work. Except my mum had a Caesarean Section - lazy.

My disinterest in my birthday is made worse by the memory of how excited I used to be at this time of year.

I couldn't sleep. Birthday then Christmas! Brilliant! But now I feel cynical and old.

25.

To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievment is. I think the coming year will be a big one.

I'll be sending off writing everywhere and trying to find some calling. In a year's time, if I'm still writing this blog, I'll be able to see how far I've come. And I'll realise that I'm still an office temp with delusions of grandeur, and I'll pierce my temple with a stapler.

Oh well, at least Lucy's made me a spectacular cake!

(That's made a cake for me, rather than making me into one. Although, rest assured, if I were a cake, I would be fucking spectacular.)

Well, I'm not a temp anymore at least. And Lucy made me another spectacular cake! I took photos of it, but can't seem to extract them from my phone.

In 2008, I wrote:

Me, December 13 2007: To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievment is.
[2008 Paul - Man, my grammar was used to been rubbish!]

I think the coming year will be a big one. I'll be sending off writing everywhere and trying to find some calling. In a year's time, if I'm still writing this blog, I'll be able to see how far I've come. And I'll realise that I'm still an office temp with delusions of grandeur, and I'll pierce my temple with a stapler.

Well, I'm not an office temp anymore! I have a permanent office job! So. That shows you, you idiot of the past! What do you know? (By the way, place a bet on Sarah Palin being nominated as the Republican Vice-Presidential candidate - you'll make a million pounds).

I still have delusions of grandeur, but I think that's a pretty good quality to have. If you're going to have delusions, they might as well be grand. And if you actually have grandeur (without the delusions), you're probably a bit pompous and annoying.

What kind of fool has grandeur? I'll tell you who: Terry Wogan. A year on and not much has changed.

But at least I've been doing something creative. I've written poetry and made a video. That's something.

I'm also doing a job that I don't hate, with people I don't want to stab. That's also something. Ricky Gervais was 40 by the time he made it big. I've got ages. In fact, I'm probably trying too hard, if anything. I might have all these blog entries pulped (e-pulped) and start smoking, just to give my inevitable success a little bit of suspense... [boring reviews edited out]


All in all, I'm quite happy at the moment. I don't think there's any need to pierce my temple with a stapler. It would be difficult to do.

Of course, the question is, what will I be doing in a year's time? Probably writing a defensive rebuttal to the 2008 Me explaining that although 2009 was the year I lost all my friends and became homeless, I'm still living a full life vicariously through the marionettes I've made from cigarette butts and rat-hair.

Well, 2009 Paul, I just want to say: you have my full, misplaced confidence. After all, this is a team game. I, 2007 Paul and 2006 Paul are all behind you.

(2005 Paul didn't want to join in. Twat.)

I didn't realise I was that self-indulgent so early. I didn't even notice my 2007 grammatical mistakes this time around. I must be getting old.

(This may get confusing. Just so you know, everything in black text is 2010 Paul)

I don't remember writing any of this. I'm as excited as you to know what happens next!

In 2009, I wrote:

It's just about my birthday and I'll cry if I want to. I'm my own man. Ain't no onion gonna tell me what to do!

[then a long, serious assessment of my teenage years and the film Grosse Pointe Blank]

So, I've started this birthday with feelings of nostalgia for an old film, which is itself about nostalgia. A little bit self-indulgent, but it is my birthday after all.

Anyway, I like over-analysing things. If you take things apart and scrutinise them, it makes the whole seem that much more wondrous.

I'm 27, but I'm still romantic and optimistic and excited by the world. Which sounds like arrogance.

It is arrogance. But it's also a big compliment, and a big thank you, to my parents, which makes it a bit more palatable.


That's it. I must have forgotten about the whole talking to future Paul thing. I do it in my anniversary posts anyway, so I shouldn't overuse the clever device. (I also recognise my self-indulgence. That's like double self-indulgence. Which is fine.)

Would 2007 Paul be happy with the things I've done since, and where I find myself?

To be honest, he probably wouldn't really care.

Hard to imagine, I know.

In conclusion: I'm doing fine at 28.

Thing #2

I got my hair cut.

That's two separate words. A noun and a verb (I think).

I also had a haircut.

That's just one word. A noun (I think).

Well, I had my hair cut, had a haircut and had several of my hairs cut.

And had a harecut.

And a boycott.

And had my boys cott.

(Hang on, I think this is heading into interesting territory...)

And...

my...

uh, Herr? Cut?

(I was wrong)

Here I am:

For most people, this would be the scariest picture they had of themselves. For me: ... top 5. Probably.

I've messed around with the colours and stuff. Lucy says I look like I'm wearing eye-shadow. Which I don't need to do. I have lovely eyes.

Look at me up there. Staring at you.

Yes: YOU.

I know what you're doing right now.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

And me.

I have short hair and a big, fluffy beard. I think I look like an interesting action movie villain. My friend Katy says I have an upside-down head. Another friend, Holly, says it makes my head look big.

But I like to stand out from the crowd.

I'm fearful and middle class, so my only means of expressing my status as a heroic indie pariah is by wearing a long leather coat, and having a terrifying head-enlarging, head-rotating beard.

I like to scare people as a political statement.

And I like to be mocked by my friends.

Which is also a statement of a sort.

I'm not one of those sheep that has a small, right-way-up head. I'm bringing down the government with the glare of my purple eyes.

Thing #3

I'm on holiday. Not sunning myself in Acapulco. I hear going there can lead to serious mental health problems

But I've finished work for two and a half weeks. The longest I've had off since starting my job.

I'll try to use the freedom to write more of these blogs.

Currently I'm a bit downbeat due to being buried in snow and poverty. But I'm sure my mood will improve with every delightful shopping trip and novelty bear.

What a world!

What? A world?!

Waterworld.

(Hang on, I think this is going somewhere...)

...

Wart.

uh...

whirled...?

...


....

*cough*

I should... probably... you know... head off now...

...stay ahead of the weather and stuff.

Reunion

It's just about my birthday and I'll cry if I want to. I'm my own man. Ain't no onion gonna tell me what to do!

It a fitting bout of nostalgia, we watched Grosse Point Blank. On VHS. In 4:3 aspect ratio. It provided a sense of vivid pseudo-time travel, akin to visiting a medieval fort, or drinking Tab Clear.

It's a great film, with lots of good dialogue and a not-that-annoying Minnie Driver. Two thumbs up. And some toes.

Although it is lots of fun, it makes me feel a bit sad, as it reminds me of my teenage years.

I by no means had a bad childhood. My family were extremely loving and supportive, and I never had anything traumatic happen to me. I really appreciate all the advantages I had (SNES, robot butler, sense of worth etc).

But my teenage years were quite lonely.

I think I suffered from going to a school where there didn't seem to be many people on my wavelength. Or any wavelength that is usually associated with humans. The culture and hobbies and attitudes of my peers tended to be things I was uninterested in, or incapable of understanding.

I think my sister escaped from it all by forming her own identity, and seeking out like-minded people.

I didn't do that. Partly because I was generally quite shy and awkward, and also because I assumed that if I found any fellow outsiders, they'd be like my sisters friends (which didn't appeal at the time!).

Of course, I probably couldn't have found similar people to me, as they would have similarly been staying in their bedrooms playing Resident Evil.

But I suppose that's the nerd's burden (or 'nurden'). You retreat into your interests in a search for companionship. And that's why they mean so much to you. They still mean a lot to me.

I found solace in video games and pro wrestling and comic books and sitcoms.

I was thinking that the things I felt a close connection to all seemed to be from the US. In my teenage years (around 15-17, anyway), I didn't seem to find any British culture that appealed to me. I don't know why that was.

Apart from Lee and Herring, I don't think there was any British comedy that seemed aimed at me. I watched Harry Enfield and Men Behaving Badly, but I was a bit outside their target demographic. It wasn't until Spaced and subsequent comedies from the same generation that I found what I was looking for in the UK.

Similarly with music, Ben Folds Five really felt like it was mine, moreso than the Britpop that all my cooler, stupider and less whiny friends were into.

The trouble with me being a geek was that I was (and still am) a bit too much of an optimist and a romantic to get through it all unscathed. A true geek is bitter and cynical, and carries him or herself through the loneliness of adolescence on a wave of self-righteous snobbery. And though I had a bit of that, I still wanted to fit in, and I still wanted to fall in love.

So I lived vicariously through those same films and TV shows. I wanted to be the hero in Grosse Point Blank, I started watching Dawson's Creek, I wanted to experience what I saw as the heartbreak and passion of an idyllic American high school life. Because I didn't have any of that drama in my life. I wanted to be a romantic hero, but never got written into the narrative of my own teenage struggles.

I started to fall in love with fictional girls. For some reason, I went through a period of falling for sarcastic, acid-tongued indie-chick characters. I loved Janeane Garofalo in The Larry Sanders Show, Minnie Drive's character Grosse Point Blank, the deadpan receptionist in Dr Katz. The latter was a cartoon character. That's an extra layer of inaccessibility that I didn't really need.

So, that's why watching the film made me sad. I don't really rue those days. I'm sure they made me into who I am now. But sometimes I feel sorry for my teenage self, because I know how much he yearned for an impossible romantic life, and wasn't destined to get it.

After all that build-up, when I finally got around to living life, I had to cram all my teenage experiences into the first few weeks of University. Which is probably why it was so chaotic and emotional, and why I was such a dick. Sorry.

I don't have any regrets, though. I like the geek mindset. I like having all those cultural artefacts that helped define me. And I've had a very happy adult life so far.

If I'd have been a popular and social teenager, I probably wouldn't be interested in The Fall, or Daniel Kitson. And I probably wouldn't be writing this blog.

Which would be a sad loss for all of us.

So, I've started this birthday with feelings of nostalgia for an old film, which is itself about nostalgia. A little bit self-indulgent, but it is my birthday after all.

Anyway, I like over-analysing things. If you take things apart and scrutinise them, it makes the whole seem that much more wondrous.

I'm 27, but I'm still romantic and optimistic and excited by the world. Which sounds like arrogance.

It is arrogance. But it's also a big compliment, and a big thank you, to my parents, which makes it a bit more palatable.

***

I'll do some more stupid jokes next time, eg:

What do you call a three-legged leopard?

Justine, the spotty tripod.

Mr Birthday

[EDIT - Pics of Lucy's Birthday Brownies, and a handsome bearded fellow]

Me, December 13 2007:

To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievement is.
[2008 Paul - Man, my grammar was used to been rubbish!]

I think the coming year will be a big one. I'll be sending off writing everywhere and trying to find some calling. In a year's time, if I'm still writing this blog, I'll be able to see how far I've come.

And I'll realise that I'm still an office temp with delusions of grandeur, and I'll pierce my temple with a stapler.

Well, I'm not an office temp any more! I have a permanent office job! So.

That shows you, you idiot of the past! What do you know? (By the way, place a bet on Sarah Palin being nominated as the Republican Vice-Presidential candidate - you'll make a million pounds).

I still have delusions of grandeur, but I think that's a pretty good quality to have. If you're going to have delusions, they might as well be grand. And if you actually have grandeur (without the delusions), you're probably a bit pompous and annoying. What kind of fool has grandeur? I'll tell you who: Terry Wogan.

A year on and not much has changed. But at least I've been doing something creative. I've written poetry and made a video. That's something. I'm also doing a job that I don't hate, with people I don't want to stab. That's also something.

Ricky Gervais was 40 by the time he made it big. I've got ages. In fact, I'm probably trying too hard, if anything. I might have all these blog entries pulped (e-pulped) and start smoking, just to give my inevitable success a little bit of suspense.

***

I had a very pleasant birthday. I ate lots of unhealthy food and watched a lot of DVDs. Here are my special birthday reviews:

The Incredible Hulk

This is the Ed Norton one. It was ok. The tone was poorly judged, the dialogue was awful, but there were good bits. I felt that the final act was a bit disappointing (and the Abomination looked stupid). Generally acceptable, but nothing spectacular.

My Rating: 3 out of 5 Gamma Thumbs Up.

Scott Walker: 30 Century Man

A very interesting documentary about the man. He's one cool mofo. Check out the bass on this track!



I have a feeling most people would be bored by the film, but if you're in the mood to hear various musicians gushing praise about an unhinged weirdo, this is for you.

My Rating: 8 meat-punches out of 10

Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer

FUCKING. AWESOME.

Seriously, this was great. The first film was pretty awful (although the Fantastic Four themselves seemed to be well cast). But this was something else. I mentioned the Hulk's uneven tone. This film was judged perfectly. Light as a feather, funny, loyal to the source, cheesy, ridiculous. It was like a sitcom cast playing superheroes.

Also the casting of Dr Doom as that dude from Nip/Tuck (who I hated in the original film), was revealed to be a stroke of genius. It's a supervillain played with the same acting prowess and style as an American soap-opera sleazeball! Superb!

(The Human Torch putting sponsorship on the uniforms was a great touch too)

It just goes to show that you don't have to take the Dark Knight route of ponderous, brooding social commentary if you're making a superhero flick. You can just be utterly stupid.

A surprising gem.

My Rating: 18 Skrulls out of 20

***

All in all, I'm quite happy at the moment. I don't think there's any need to pierce my temple with a stapler. It would be difficult to do.

Of course, the question is, what will I be doing in a year's time?

Probably writing a defensive rebuttal to the 2008 Me explaining that although 2009 was the year I lost all my friends and became homeless, I'm still living a full life vicariously through the marionettes I've made from cigarette butts and rat-hair.

Well, 2009 Paul, I just want to say: you have my full, misplaced confidence. After all, this is a team game. I, 2007 Paul and 2006 Paul are all behind you.

(2005 Paul didn't want to join in. Twat.)

Holiday Journal - Day 7

Holiday Journal - Day 7 - 29/08/08

Lucy made a cake today. I wasn't of much help, but did enjoy spreading the icing and getting it all over the table-top. It was a birthday cake for my mum, who's 50 on Saturday.

It seems like a momentous birthday, but it's not really. The importance of 50 isn't real, just make-believe. Even in a purely mathematical sense it probably isn't that important. If we judged birthday milestones on mathematical importance, we should have special celebrations whenever we reached a prime number. Or a perfect number.

I don't really know much about those, so any further speculation is ruled-out.

In the morning, we went out for a cooked breakfast, which I heartily enjoyed (although I'm sure my heart didn't). The only problem was three large flies hovering around the cafe. Nothing conveys filth and depravity more than three large flies. Also, there were sautéed potatoes, which I don't consider part of the Full English.

I remember having a conversation about how the Full English was the Top Trump of foods. We then had to explain to a German friend not only the nature of the Full English, but also explain Top Trumps. It was confusing. We also once made her watch Back to the Future II when she hadn't seen the first one. Understanding the second film out of context is almost impossible. Still, confusion is an important part of personal development.

After cooked-breakfasting and cake-baking and Lucy-hair-cutting, we didn't do much. We watched Mock the Week with my parents, and felt embarrassed at the more offensive jokes. I'm very sensitive.

Back to work soon. I'm looking forward to being in Oxford again, but I don't know about the whole 'work' thing. I'm already looking forward to next weekend and my next day off.

Many Happy Returns

I suppose I should write about my birthday.

I'm not doing anything special. In fact, I'm at my desk, at work, and it feels just like any other day (except I've been decorating Christmas trees). But still, I am 25.

25 years.

It seems like a pretty long time. 25 is really the first of the landmark birthdays to be a negative one. 18 is fine, it means you can legally drink. 21 is a coming of age thing. 25, though. You're grown-up then. At 25, I could be on Friends (the first series).

I think your prime decade is probably 25-35. After that it's essentially downhill. And I haven't really got as much going on in my life/career/experience as I'd like. By now, I should have toured with a punk band or invented a cylindrical waffle or made my first million. At this rate of income, I'm not going to make my first million until I'm around 100. And that's if I don't spend any of it, which seems unlikely. The chance of me resisting ordering a Domino's pizza for the next 75 years isn't high.

I'm not crazy about birthdays. I think the mother should receive gifts on the anniversary of their child's birth instead. They did all the hard work. Except my mum had a Caesarean Section - lazy.

My disinterest in my birthday is made worse by the memory of how excited I used to be at this time of year. I couldn't sleep. Birthday then Christmas! Brilliant! But now I feel cynical and old.

25.

To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievment is. I think the coming year will be a big one. I'll be sending off writing everywhere and trying to find some calling. In a year's time, if I'm still writing this blog, I'll be able to see how far I've come.

And I'll realise that I'm still an office temp with delusions of grandeur, and I'll pierce my temple with a stapler.

Oh well, at least Lucy's made me a spectacular cake!

(That's made a cake for me, rather than making me into one. Although, rest assured, if I were a cake, I would be fucking spectacular.)