And Troughs

I watched all of Twin Peaks on Blu-ray recently. The TV show was quite variable in quality, but I generally enjoyed it. I really liked Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, the prequel-type film. I'm surprised that it was so poorly received. I suppose it was down to context and expectation and the fact that most people just aren't as sensitive and discerning as I.

It has David Bowie in it. He's doing an accent of some sort. In the long edit of deleted scenes - The Missing Pieces - he screams a lot. If this screaming had been included in the theatrical cut, I'm sure the film would have received greater acclaim.

There's a huge pile of extra features on the set. One in particular caught my eye, ear and brain. This is composer Angelo Badalamenti talking about how he composed the Twin Peaks love theme. It's pretty great, because he's talking about the process as he plays. Whenever I see Badalamenti interviewed, he always seems really enthusiastic about his work.

The video is moving and impressive, but also quite funny. It's almost told as an erotic encounter between Badalamenti and David Lynch. But isn't all creative collaboration an act of intellectual and spiritual intercourse? Even between the Wayans brothers?

Yes. It is.

Angelo Badalamenti explains how he created the music for Twin Peaks from md rutherford on Vimeo.

Scored

No. Stay awake. Keep talking.

Don't close your eyes. Hey!

You'll be OK, do you understand me?

Talk to me.

Who's your favourite Beatle Boy?

Yeah, I like him too.

The hair, I think.

***

I had the song Silver Bells in my head the other day. It came up on shuffle. I don't mind the song, but it wasn't very appropriate, because of the weather and inaccurate metallurgy. My bells are tin.

Did people get songs stuck in their heads in the old days? It seems like a new phenomenon, but that might just be because I'm around more these days than I was back then.

From our consumption of television, radio and film, we're used to having our experiences accompanied by continual noise. The modern mind cannot abide dead air.

That's why we get songs stuck in our heads. If our brain has no soundtrack, we think that something is wrong.

Or is song-in-head a problem that has plagued us forever? Perhaps since the dawn of our species?

We might have had that propensity even before songs were invented. We might have known we were missing something, but not known exactly what.

And then one day a cavewoman would have gone "do-dee-do-ruh" (in a tuneful way), and everyone else in the cave would have nodded, and pointed at her, and nodded again, and said "Yeah. She's got something."

And then when they were out gathering mammoths or whatever, they would have heard "do-dee-do-ruh" in their heads. Like a memory, but louder.

It's probably a universal thing. There are remote tribes in the wilderness, cut off from civilisation, who still find themselves singing a theme tune or orchid jingle.

I think song-in-head is what makes us human. It's certainly not our capacity for legs. Loads of animals have as many legs as us. Some have even more.

"Doo-dee-do-ruh" is my ringtone. Silver Bells is my alarm tone. I like to wake up early on Christmas morning.

***

I've been watching Mr Show with Bob and David lately. It's a sketch show from the nineties. I hadn't seen it before because I'm British.

It's a bit hit and miss. You know, like all sketch shows.

Here's a very funny hit:



***

I've also been doing some other things. Loads of them.

I've been designing my own T-shirts:

I've been doing a bit of DIM (that's DIY from your perspective).

I've dreamt about pushing Michael Stipe down the stairs.

I've got fingers in a lot of pies.

***

The Blogger spellcheck wants me to change "cavewoman" to "caveman".

Of course you do. Misogynists.

Women can't even be words in this disgusting cavepatriarchy.

!!~~POST #800 - GARGANTUAN WATERSHED FIESTA~~!!

The year is 1909. The place is a small European village. Bread is being baked. The baker is a man called Loïc.

Though he bakes bread, he does not think about bread. It's automatic now. Yeast never crosses his mind. He cannot spell the word "crust", either in English or his own language. He doesn't care for flour. He forgets about his oven.

He bakes, but he is not aware of it.

His mind is not on bread. It is on a dream.

This dream has visited him every night for seven weeks. It is always the same. It is as clear as day. It is so vivid that Loïc can still feel it on his skin when he awakens. The dream is more real than his waking life. The dream's smells waft through the room, eclipsing breadsmell and bunsmell alike.

Loïc lives for the dream.

He lives alone. He has never married. His parents are dead. His only brother is abroad somewhere dark and unreachable.

Loïc bakes and sells enough bread to keep himself alive. He doesn't need any more than that. All he desires is enough food to feed himself, enough water to quench himself, a roof over his head, and a comfortable bed.

He needs no luxuries.

He simply requires adequate conditions for sleep.

With the sleep comes the dream. And with the dream comes reality.

After the bread has been baked, Loïc removes it from the oven. He doesn't realise that he is doing this. It is auxiliary. Everything is auxiliary.

Time passes at a steady pace. Loïc knows not to be over-eager. He must not sleep before 8pm, or the dream will not come.

Loïc is not impatient. He is serene. He is content. He is, in his own way, enlightened. He has found a route to happiness, and a route to fulfilment. The route is under the eiderdown. The portal is a single hard pillow.

He turns out his oil lamp, and waits to be illuminated.

And it comes again. It will always come. He is not afraid. It will always come.

Even when death comes, the dream will still be there. When the mortal world is gone, the dream will be everything.

Outside his window, the people of the village laugh and drink and fret and argue and love. They are living what they assume are lives. They think about bread. They think about it every morning. And they think about the baker.

But the baker does not think about the bread. The baker does not think about the people of the village. The baker does not even think about the baker.

The baker thinks about the dream.

And the dream is this:

a small glowing window

beneath the window, a row of buttons, like those of a typewriter - one for every letter

through the window, a strange series of images

images of words, appearing as if by magic

there is colour in the window, and symbols, and sometimes pictures

sometimes the pictures are like photographs, but vivid and strange

photographs of a bearded man, adorned with colour

somehow the man and the writing are connected

the writing does not make sense

it seems like it will, and sometimes it edges close to meaning, but it falls short

the words make reference to places and people and coffee and being bored and not knowing what to write about

sometimes, there are items that have the form of jokes or humorous remarks, but they lack humour, they are not jokes

or maybe the humour is too obscure to fathom

one word recurs and seems to be important

the word is 'blog'

the dream is 'blog'

and so is the world

the world is blog

The baker wakes up from his dream at the same point every morning. He smiles. He revels in the afterglow.

A hum of contentment follows his morning routine, as he bathes and dresses.

There is bread to be made. And it will be made.

But the baker will not think of it.

He has seen through another world's window.

The dough will rise. But it will never rise as high as the baker.

***

Blog anniversary time!

This is Post #800. That's a lot of writing. It's a shame no-one reads it, but at least it means that no-one will feel short-changed when the book comes out.

On my hundredth post, I set a stupid precedent that I continue to follow. The opening picture is part of it. As is the linking to my previous milestone entries:

Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600
Post #700

As is a conversation with myself in the past.

In Post #700, I wrote:

So... Post #800 Paul... is the brown shirt still in your wardrobe circulation? Also, is Jeremy Hunt still Secretary for Imagining His Own Deeds?

I would say that the brown shirt is on gardening leave. It's still in the wardrobe, and still makes the occasional jaunt out (if there's a laundry emergency for example; or if I have to go to a costume party, the theme of which is "formal turds"). But it's not part of the regular rotation any more. I think it's on its last legs.

Jeremy Hunt, you'll be delighted to know, has moved away from the vital area of culture, and is now the much more trivial Health Secretary.

All we have to worry about now is the fact that he's dismantling the NHS, probably this country's greatest achievement. Hunt is killing poor people, though in a less direct way than he'd probably like.

This isn't like the halcyon days of Post #700. Things are really miserable.

But, on the bright side: ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

But enough about me. Post #900 Paul! How's it going, man? Did you manage to plant some flowers in your window boxes?

Also, have you done any good tweets lately, or is that whole deal over with now?

***

In my last anniversary post, I wrote and recorded a WHOLE NEW SONG specifically for the occasion, and made a VIDEO MONTAGE. Imagine!

I haven't put as much work into this one. In fact, I haven't put any work into it. Possibly because I resented the fact that my song and video attracted no comment whatsoever. What's the point?

Ironically, the song itself was about my lack of comments, so it was probably a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It seems a shame to be so monomedia in this entry though. Maybe I could just do something quick.

That'll do.

I know your attention span is too short to listen to something long, like - I dunno - an AMAZING SONG.

But seriously, you're all great.

And very attractive.

I wonder who the most attractive reader of this blog is... (Excluding me, for several reasons)

If you think you're the most attractive reader of this blog, send a short description of yourself, on a stamped, addressed envelope to the following address:

Headscissors

8212 Scrupulous Drive

Waxahachie, TX

Please note: DO NOT SEND A PHOTOGRAPH. Only a verbal description will be accepted. And, even then, only if it's pretty vague.

***

There's a wrestler that I like called Daniel Bryan.

He's also a wrestler that everyone else likes. He's become really popular, even though he's quite small for a wrestler, and has a big beard, and is a vegan.

He has a strange intensity that makes him fun to watch.

We saw him live, years ago in Coventry (when he was called Bryan Danielson), and he got booed because he stopped his entrance music before everyone could sing along. His music was 'The Final Countdown'. "Only Americans get to hear The Final Countdown!" he said.

That's what you call being a heel.

Wrestling - or more accurately, WWE wrestling - is often full of bad writing and bad decisions. But sometimes, someone like Bryan will come along and take everyone by surprise. I hope he does well.

I don't know why I'm talking about this. Perhaps I just wanted to include some photos in this entry.

If you don't care about wrestling, come back! I'll talk about something everyone likes!

***

Isn't it fun when you put stuff between your toes? Yeah, it is! Like the toes of the other foot. Especially between the third and fourth toes.

It's really satisfying.

Different toes don't have different names like the fingers do. There's the big toe. And the...

Hang on.

Have I talked about this before?

Because I started this as a deliberately lame bit of universal writing. But if I've written it before, in earnest, I'll have egg all over my toes.

I'll search for toe content.

...

It's now several hours later.

I don't think I've ever covered this specific topic, but I certainly have written a lot about toes.

I need to change the subject. I should probably put some socks on.

***

This is enough. I will have lost people at every stage of this entry, and I can't imagine who might be left.

You must be really bored, Sarah. You really must.

Between you and me (and maybe the other Sarah if she's reading), I think you need to have a good hard look at yourself. If you're living a life where you have the time, the patience, or the temperament to read the whole of a post like this, there's something wrong.

You too, Dave.

It's embarrassing.

Don't come down to my level. It's horrible down here.

This has been a lot of fun.

I'd like to finish on a motto that has helped me in some of my darkest moments:

"I'd like to finish on a motto that has helped me in some of my darkest moments"

MAkes yOU think, mm?!

Dig

My ongoing blog post re-reading and labelling enterprise (or OBPRALE) continues. I'm up to June 2011.

This retrospective has proven to be quite eye-opening. By experiencing my entire back catalogue in a short space of time, I've gained a new appreciation of exactly what the HELL I think I'm doing here.

Sometimes you need to step outside (the car wash, for example) to gain a proper overview (customer morale, roof graffiti).

I can see patterns in my writing. What had originally seemed a random assortment of thoughts and proverbs has shown itself to be a massive work of incredible complexity, fidelity and almost crystalline beauty.

But this knowledge - this god's eye view, if you will - comes at a price. Knowing what I know, how can I write further blog posts? I'm too aware of the whole. The part will suffer. The crystal will collapse. It will all tumble like a house of card barrels going over Niagara Falls.

I can't think about it. I must put it to the back of my mind. Surely the blog can withstand some self-awareness. It is shaped by my words, as the land is shaped by the glacier. Slow, relentless, irresistible. A blip cannot change its course. The glacier, I mean. Or the... blog. I've lost track of this metaphor. But that's probably for the best. Maybe future generations will find its fossilised remains in a mountain or canyon, and will learn that SYMBOLISM ONCE WALKED THE EARTH.

***

I thought about gardening this morning. I had to think about something.

After I wake up, I must make a concerted effort not to dwell on my own fatigue. That way madness lies. I can spend many minutes bemoaning my situation and yearning for sleep.

So I have to take my mind off things. Each day is a new topic. This morning, I thought about gardening.

I didn't come up with much. We don't have a garden. I've never had much interest in it. I suspect that I might enjoy it one day. Middle-aged men like to garden. It must feel very rustic and manly. You get to use a massive fork. And a rake. And a spade. Real men use spades. And real women. And fictional men in books about shovelling.

When I'm older, I'll probably garden. It must be satisfying to help things grow. I prefer animals to plants, but I can see why people chose plants. They stay still. And you don't get investigated if you kill them all.

You can massacre an entire family of plants, and no-one will bat an eyelid. That's the best thing about gardening: it legitimises murder.

I can see why so many people do it. Also, flowers smell nice.

Another good thing about gardening is those gloves.

Not the dainty, pretty, lacy gloves of the cold-handed débutante. Nor the protective, sterile rubber gloves of the professional (or dedicated amateur) surgeon.

No, these are heavy and worn and brown. They protect the hands from thorns and thistles and nettles. You can wrench an entire tree out of the ground with those gloves. I'd like to wear some of them.

Yes, gardening does hold a certain amount of appeal. But so, equally, does not doing it.

That train of thought was just enough to take me up to my early-morning departure time, thus staving off suicide for another day.

What a lovely topic.

***

Anyway, Louie is still great. I just thought you should know. The below clip is part of a great three-part episode where Louie has the opportunity to host the Late Show. Features DAVID LYNCH:



There. Does that make any sense out of context? Does it make any sense out of context?

Never mind. At least there's some craft there. My blog posts occasionally lack craft. It has lots of other things, but it can be craftless on occasion.

Craft is underrated. I'm going to work on craft.

The Nobility of Sloth

It's been nearly two weeks since my last proper blog post. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. Rest assured, I haven't just been sitting on my laurels. I have a smorgasbord of two exciting things to talk about. This will be like when your co-worker has been on holiday for two weeks, and they have so many things to tell you about that you have to move desks. "I hate the Maldives," you can shout from your new vantage point.

The first exciting thing is a small observation. Sometimes the smallest observations are the most exciting. The big ones are dull. Say you observed the horizon, for example? No-one would care.

My small observation is about the Paralympics. I've hardly watched any of the Paralympics, not because of a deep-held prejudice against the disabled (no matter what my parole officer says), but just because the football season has started. Football takes precedence against all other sport. It's my bread and butter. Anything else is... something I have less often than bread and butter.

Actually, I don't really have bread and butter that often. So maybe all other sport is my bread and butter, and football is my... something I do eat often. Sweetcorn, for example.

Football is my delicious regular sweetcorn.

The Paralympics (and Olympics and rugby and darts) is the nice, but unnecessary, bread and butter.

And I'll be damned if I'm going to eat bread and butter when there's sweetcorn on the plate. Unless I have a sweetcorn sandwich, but that's taking the analogy in an unproductive direction.

However, I did see a bit of the wheelchair basketball, which is always hugely impressive.

(Is it OK to say that? Is that patronising? I worry for the Paralympics broadcasters who have to walk a tightrope of being politically correct, admiring and yet not condescending. It's a necessary tightrope of course - all those considerations are important - but if I was in the commentary booth, I'd be terrified that I'd accidentally let slip a hate crime.)

I noticed one thing about the wheelchair basketball that amused me. In able-bodied basketball, whenever a player is fouled and has a free throw, there's weird little bit of etiquette that's always observed. After the first free throw is taken, whether the player scores or misses, his colleagues standing to the side of the key ALWAYS step towards him or her, and give a little supportive fist bump or hand slap. It's a way of saying "well done" or "never mind". Or, more accurately, it's saying "it doesn't matter how well you do - we're all behind you".

You can see an example of what I'm talking about here (you won't need to watch the whole thing):



I wonder where this ritual came from. Probably, it was an organic show of support that just happened one day. But now, everyone has to do it every time. What was originally a nice show of support has become routine. There can't be any thought behind it. It's just an obligation.

It's like saying "bless you" after someone sneezes. Originally thoughtful, but now a chore. The only reason to say "bless you" or give your team-mate a fist bump is because it would be rude not to do it.

What I noticed when watching the wheelchair basketball was that they do exactly the same thing. Of course they do - it's a convention of the sport. It's just that when you're in a wheelchair, it seems more like hard work to go over and touch hands. This pointless ritual requires valuable arm-strength. But they do it anyway, because that's just what happens.

Of course, me thinking this probably is patronising. Them rolling a few feet is as easy and natural as an able-bodied player walking. It's just part of the game.

I don't really think the convention is pointless. I mean, sport in itself is a pointless ritual. It would be weird to be annoyed at a pointless subset of it. It just shows (instinctive, meaningless) thoughtfulness and camaraderie. I think we can all admire that.

***

The second exciting thing I've thought about is how Matt Le Tissier has ruined my life.

I might sue him.

I'm a Southampton F.C. fan, and so Le Tiss was my hero growing up. He had an effortless talent that made everything he did look easy and beautiful. Here's a short illustration of his genius:



Le Tissier was notable for being:
a) fantastic, and
b) lazy

He didn't train hard, he wasn't in a amazing shape, he didn't run all over the pitch, he wasn't a bone-crunching tackler. He just wandered around like a pensioner kicking seashells until it was time to get the ball, skip past eight opponents and then rifle a shot into the corner of the net.

I think it was because of him that I valued the nobility of lazy genius.

It wasn't just him, in fact. I always preferred the louche, skillful enigma to the hard-grafting model pro. I'll always choose Cantona and Bergkamp over Keane and Viera.

The trouble was that this isn't a great lesson for a child to learn. The idea that, not only is laziness OK, but that it's preferable, to hard work isn't a good basis for future success.

That philosophy says: working hard is cheating; succeeding with minimal effort is ART.

If you work hard and achieve nothing, you've failed. If you don't work hard and achieve nothing... big deal - wake me for lunch.

I think this harmful idea must have grabbed me at some point. All of my school reports said the same thing: "Paul is bright, but needs to try harder", or... [I was going to write another example, but couldn't be bothered]

I don't really work hard at anything. I just hope that my natural talent will lead me down the path of glory. The trouble is, my natural talent is far from evident.

If you're a footballer, the nature of your talent is clear. You can be lazy if you do what's required of a footballer. If you don't work hard, but score goals and win matches, there's no problem.

But if your life is lived on those terms, it's not the same. You can't just be lazy in life, with no specific talent in any area. That's not lazy genius. That's just lazy.

I've been so caught up in with venerating the nobility of slothful brilliance that I've forgotten all about the brilliance.

In my head, sloth is worthy on its own terms. Genius would be nice, sure. But the sloth is key. One day, a talent may emerge to make this whole position justified.

"You see!" I'll say. "I was right to not try hard."

If it doesn't emerge, I can still say "Well, at least I had more sleep than you did. One-nil me!" and then die with a smile on my face (only because it's apparently less hard work than a frown).

It's Le Tissier's fault! I wanted to be like him! If I'd have grown up idolising Phil Neville, I'd probably have a lot more money, a lot more dress shoes and one hell of a well-tended garden.

This seems to suggest that I'm unhappy with my life. I'm not. I was just playing Neville's advocate. I totally believe the Le Tissier philosophy is worthy. With my potential locked away, there could be oceans of the stuff. If I release it, I might realise that I only have a pipette's worth of inspiration.

Trying hard is for chumps. Dedicated, respectable chumps.

It's better to burn out than fade away.

And even better than burning out is the idea that people will say: "I bet he's the kind of guy who could, hypothetically, burn out spectacularly".

***

Here's a bonus, related, exciting thing.

Ironically, the only thing that I actually have worked really hard at is football.

I have no natural talent at football whatsoever. As a child I struggled with this. Playing football is such a big part of developing into a well-adjusted WKD-drinking, deafening-car-stereo-hard-house playing, deadbeat 19-year-old dad. If you have no skill in that area, you're cut off from a whole social circle.

So I worked hard. I played it a lot. I practised on my own. I enjoyed it! I put in the hours and eventually, I turned myself from a footballer with no talent into a footballer with the bare minimum of talent. Whatever the smallest unit of football talent is called (I believe it might be "the Downing"), I had one of them.

I was still terrible. But I had just enough ability to play in a kick-about, complete a sloppy Cruyff turn, and not have to run away if an errant ball came my way in a park. All through hard work and dedication.

In the end, Phil Neville had the right idea.

"If you have an evident talent dearth // graft is a must, to show your worth."

He is a very wise man.

New Personal Best (Or: I Hate That You Love)

I just scrapped an opening poem, which began:

O 'lympics!

And ended:

You currently top the meddle table

And had nothing of worth in between.

So, the Olympics!

Everybody's talking about them! Every newspaper has a pull-out, every pole has a flag, every tweet has an agenda.

So let's break it down:

I hate people who love the Olympics.

I hate people who hate the Olympics.

I love people who hate that I hate those people, because they're right to hate me. I hate me for it too.

In conclusion: hating someone for being excited and happy about something (unless there's some moral issue involved) probably makes you a bit of a dick.

It's human nature, but nevertheless: dick.

***

I wrote that on Saturday. It's an Olympics blog post in note form.

I intended to flesh it out with a coherent argument. It probably would have been very comprehensive, and would have involved a high-minded, long-winded exploration of the function of sport. I would have compared sport to art, I would have talked about evolution, I would have complained about people who complain. I would have brought up my own hypocrisy and then got sucked into a vortex of self-analysis.

It probably would have included three jokes. One of them would have been about badminton, and we all would have had a big laugh.

But the time has passed. I've moved on to bigger and better things.

Just to sum up: stop whining. Being miserable doesn't always give you the moral high ground (except sometimes it does). And something about a shuttlecock.

Let's move on. I'm positively engorged with ideas. I can barely fit under the desk. My bulging idea sack has raised it several feet off the ground, and I'm worried it might explode, covering people in imagination.

Idea #1

A Smaller Pencil

I've peaked too early.

***

It's later now.

I'm worried that my blog-writing style is devolving. Or at least stagnating. I've been at this for... how long...

Oh dear. I've missed my five year anniversary! It was five years in July.

I should have done some kind of cavalcade. People like cavalcades.

Over five years, and I'm still doing this. Surely I should have matured by now.

Five years, man!! FIVE! FIVE years.

(Please read the above in the style of Jeremy Piven:



Oh great. Now where does the closing bracket go? Oh just take it and get out of my sight - )

Am I standing still? I don't feel like I'm moving forwards. Or maybe that's just an illusion created by moving forwards less quickly than I used to.

Let's track my progress. What have I historically had to say at this time of year?

On August 7 2007, I wrote an eloquent book review:

It's actually a book about astrology. The title page alone is fantastic entertainment: The Principles of Astrological Geomancy; The Art of Divining by Punctuation, according to Cornelius Agrippa and others. I obviously took this to mean reading the future through the examination of apostrophes and the semi-colon. I am already proficient at this. I can predict just by seeing that someone has used the symbols ;-) that this person is a cunt.

I swore more back then, but at least I had a TOPIC.  I was engaging with culture and meaning. And I was only 24. (It just took me much too long to work that out.)

On August 4 2008, I had nothing to say. Almost exactly like today.

WRITING IN CAPITALS MAKES ME FEEL LIKE A BIG MAN! LIKE MURDER WOULD! 

I also may have accidentally used an apostrophe for a plural, but that's a matter of interpretation. Have I moved on from here? No. I am now as I was then. But older and more into chocolate croissants.

On August 7 2009, I had even LESS to say. The downhill slope continued. Or, if not downhill, the level slope.

The biggest surprise for people is that I'm not actually a human. Even though I walk on two legs and own a Travis album. I'm actually a tiny planet. I have several moons.

I was lying! I've never had moons.

On August 8 2010, I was in Edinburgh. Imagine! I was far afield, pursuing my dream (and getting close enough to realise my quarry might not be worth the chase).

"The.. Morning Magician?"

"The what?!"

Fantastic stuff. Clearly, I'd improved. The 2008-2009 lull was over, new horizons were on the cusp, and all kinds of cusps were there for the taking. And take cusps I did. Dozens of delicious cusps, all the way from Scotland.

On 13 August 2011, I did a tweet compilation (which doesn't count). But on 16 August 2011, I wrote a masterpiece. It really is quite special. Especially if you like William Sadler.

__-----___
}~~~~~{
    ''''    ''''
  @   @
     ^
     =

ISN'T SHE BEAUTIFUL?

And on this day (whenever I get around to posting it) 2012, I've done this.

Worthless.

Maybe I should change my training camp. I could work at altitude, do some punishing pun-work, hit the heavy bag and get some coaching from a Guardian journalist.

On the other hand, maybe everything's fine and I don't need to do anything.

What this historical study has shown is that August is often a bit of a lull. Except when I was in Edinburgh, or had something interesting to say.

It's probably the weather and the school holidays.

I'm fine.

Five years is a long time, but I'm still swinging (punches and baseball bats, not sexually or on swings).

Let's end this section with a hip hip hooray and a jolt.

***

It's earlier now. I literally wrote this before the above piece, and put it down here. I'm messing with time. I don't even know what I've just written. I could look quite the fool. Future Paul may want to punish me for playing Time God. My fate is in his (or her) hands.

***

It's later now. Later than the first later, and later than earlier.

As it turns out, I did unintentionally sabotage my earlier words by rambling for so long that everyone would have forgotten the whole "it's later now" section opening, diluting the impact of the "it's earlier now" follow-up (or preceding-up, as the case may, and did, be).

It just goes to show.

It's been an interesting start to the month's blog posts. We'll play the cards that August deals us, and will be ready to start the new school year with a bang, a thump, and a muffled yelp.

To end, please stand for your own national anthem and then file out.

Finger On The Pulse

July, right?

Man... oh man.

I haven't posted much this month, but it's been a madhouse down here. Totally mad. And a house? You bet. Totally, totally.

Shall I spill the beans now? Or shall I keep some of the beans? Shall I apportion the beans gradually? I don't want to shoot my wad in the foot, after all.

But no. I'll give everything to you now. You've been waiting so long. So, so long. So long for beans. You've dreamt about beans, and now your beandreams will come true. And then some! Am I right?

You've been living in the dark, occasionally eating the flesh of a smuggled coconut until the guards found out and put a crab in there instead.

That's a specific reference to the film Papillon, which I saw yesterday. It doesn't belong in the public sphere, but I thought I'd throw it out there. Private beans have become public. All cards on the table. I'm an open book. I'm a book about beans.

First off, there was that morning where I watched cooking tips on Youtube. This was the first one I saw:



And that is a slotted spoon.

I found it because I'm interested in slotted spoons (as anyone who follows me on Google+ knows [follows? is that the vernacular? is this square bracket/lowercase sentence format an appropriate one for this kind of discourse?]).

It's useful for people who don't know what a slotted spoon is, and aren't able to work it out.

This woman has similar guides for every aspect of kitchen life. Here she is on the subject of tongs:



And those are tongs.

She describes tongs as an "all-purpose utensil", so I've thrown away all of my steak knives.

Perhaps my favourite of these how-to videos is this one:



And that is how you soften butter.

That one is basically just "allow time to pass". Which is good advice, whether you're a novice chef or an experienced gastrophysicist.

There are more. I won't spoil the surprises, though (hint: ladle).

I'm glad that these videos are out there. I'm sure they've been useful to loads of people. And not just sarcastic bloggers.

I could have written several paragraphs of sarcasm on each of these, but I haven't. Because I respect people who want to help others. Sarcasm helps no-one. Tongs can pluck a struggling cookery student from the chip pan of failure.

So have some respect.

...

And that is sarcasm.

***

How d'ya like them beans? Delicious. Well, there's more where that came from. Beans are plentiful. Spill as many as you want. They will simply fall on the soil and grow more of themselves. I'm not an expert in "garden principles", but I'm reasonably sure that's close to the truth about beans.

Here are some more. Remove them from water with your slotted spoon and push them into yielding butter.

I went to the dentist on Friday.

I was registering for the first time (and only time, provided my records aren't wiped). On the registration form, one of the questions was "When did you last visit the dentist?". I answered truthfully: "2001".

I know that's a long time. I know I should have sorted things out before now. But I've been busy! You know how busy I've been, what with watching butter videos and so on.

My teeth just haven't seemed to be a priority. I've been too busy with manicures and manticores and panty gauze and all those other urgent rhyming things.

Before I wrote "2001", I thought about writing "9/11".

It's not true. My visit was after that terrible day, but I thought it might perplex the receptionist entering my details. They'd probably think I meant last year. But they'd wonder in the back of their mind if it truly was the fall of the towers that marked the end of my dental adventure.

Maybe my faith in humanity's ability to do the right thing was shaken. If such a horrific act had been committed on such a large scale, surely my tiny teeth were in jeopardy. I know that a fundamentalist terrorist destroying my teeth wouldn't have sent the same powerful message to the western world, but my teeth are as much a symbol of capitalism as the World Trade Center. They are, after all, made of enamel, of which all modern coins and credit cards are composed.

But you can't lie on a registration form. That's part of my code of honour.

Though thinking about it, I did describe myself as an eight-year-old wax woman. But that's vaguely true.

So, honest as the day is long, I went along to see the dentist, his assistant, the receptionist, and any objects that happened to be in my eye-line.

Luckily, my teeth were OK. I don't have to have anything done to them except a strange weekly ritual that involves a naked dentist apparently. God bless the NHS.

***

You must be positively bursting with beans! Have I got any more to spill to you?

Hmm..

Thinking...

No. I don't think so.

Oh, I trimmed my beard, and now my head is a different shape.

That must be a half-bean or so.

I hope you've enjoyed this hearty meal.

I'll try not to leave you eating millipedes with Steve McQueen for too long.

Routine beans keep the teeth and conscience clean.

I'm off to cover some tongs in Colgate and make my ancestors proud.

And that is dentistry.

Ho

I can't believe it's Christmas again already! We bought our tree today. I thought we might have left it too late, but luckily the garden centre must have overstocked or something.

...

You can continue that hilarious comedy conceit on your own time. I'm busy.

!!~~POST #700 - ELEPHANTINE JUBILEE SOIRÉE~~!!

My, my, my.

Seven of these. Seven.

Seven posts that include a picture of myself made odder in Paint, a sprinkling of asterisks, an ambitious failure or two, and a conversation with my past and future selves.

It's anniversary time.

Bring out your bunting, I'm stealing the monarch's thunder. But my colours aren't red, white and blue. They're brown, black and chrome. God Save The Blog.

If you'd like to chart my development as a writer and as an adult, you can view my previous celebrations here:
Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600

I've read all of them. I certainly seem to hate the Catholic Church in the first two. Of course, I still hate the Catholic Church. But I'm less outspoken about it. I seem to have mellowed. Seven hundred posts' worth of mellowing. I'm barely conscious.

Seven hundred. That's quite a lot. You couldn't fit them all in an envelope. Unless they were on a USB stick. And even then, you'd need one with a large GENIUS capacity.

I'm patting myself on the back. And I'm backing myself to pat myself on the back. And Pat is backing... oh, you know.

You know.

You can open your champagne now.

***

In Post #600, I wrote:

Post #700 Paul - what are you wearing? (I don't mean that in a sleazy way) Also, who is the most famous person that has died since I wrote this? (I hope it's not Obama. Or me. Although, it will be nice to be famous.)

Well, Post #600 Paul, it's funny you should ask. And sleazy. I'm currently wearing an outfit that you may well also have been wearing. Grey boxer shorts (old), two grey socks (superficially the same grey, but they actually belong to two different sock families), my jeans (my only pair of jeans; my only pair of trousers), my brown shirt, and some trainers.

And eleven ruffs. I'm struggling to breathe, but every now and then make up for it by rolling on my desk and claiming to be a car wash.

Who's the most famous person to have died? I don't know. You were writing your question in September 2011. Donna Summer and Robin Gibb have died recently. Are they famous? Have I missed out anyone obvious?

I've looked it up on Wikipedia. Whitney Houston and Davy Jones are both pretty famous. Oh hang on. I've gone further back and there are loads of famous people: Gaddafi, Jobs, Smokin' Joe, Christopher Hitchens.

Let's say Gaddafi. He deserves it. Congratulations.

So... Post #800 Paul... is the brown shirt still in your wardrobe circulation? Also, is Jeremy Hunt still Secretary for Imagining His Own Deeds?

***

I've been meaning to do this for a while, so have taken advantage of the occasion to put together a little tribute video. To myself. You may think that's crass, but I've never claimed to be Not Crass. Have I? No.

The images in this video all come from previous blog posts. I keep them all in one folder and forget what I used them for. See if you can remember any of them! It'll be fun! Quite a lot of them are of me. I really do seem to be interested in my own face.

The song is also a new one, written specially for use here. Listening to it has finally made me realise that I'm not as good a singer as I seem in my head. In my head, I'm a good singer. Outside my head, I'm the opposite of that. You all knew that before of course, but I've finally caught up.

Enough preamble! Let's reminisce!



*sniff* I think there's... something in my eye...

Any gloominess or complaining in that video was ironic, I assure you. I'm very happy to be alive.

On the not-receiving-many-comments front, I assume it's just because all of my (many?) readers are too busy. But I'd like to give a shout-out to e.f. bartlam, whose comments are always much appreciated. You should visit his blog, which is always interesting.

It's strange to give a shout-out. I wasn't sure if it was a shout out, a shout-out or a shoutout. You shouldn't give too many away, though. Not in this recession. Hoard your shout-outs. You can use them as firewood after the apocalypse.

***

Yesterday, I did the washing up. That's not interesting in and of itself. It's not even interesting... uh... out and... unrelated to... yourself... But I'm still going to tell you about it, because my psychotherapist asks me to discuss my traumas. She has no existence outside of the previous sentence, but still - you can't argue with a diploma.

The reason the washing up was traumatic was that it took AGES. Far longer than any washing up has ever taken before. I don't know why. There didn't seem to be that much stuff to do. There wasn't anything baked-on. There was no need for prolonged scrubbing.

It just seemed to last forever. There was always another plate, another mug, another spoon. We only have about two spoons, I don't know where they were coming from. It was like some kind of Escher chore: every time I put a mug on the draining board, it would fall through its own handle and back into the mug factory. Filthy.

I had to stop at one point to recharge my batteries. I lit a fire (with bundled shout-outs as kindling), and had to forage for food. Luckily, I was in the kitchen. Food was abundant. That didn't stop me from eating a sponge, of course. I wasn't passing up THAT opportunity.

The clock ticked ever onwards, and there were still more things to wash. I kept generating suds. I kept rinsing. Evening turned to night, night to morning, morning to lunchtime, ashes to ashes, person to person, Heavens to Betsy.

My arms ached, my soul ached, my water consumption caused a perennial hosepipe ban. Everything was piled, teetering on the draining board, heaped as high as the precarious tower of metaphors and exaggerations I've built in this blog post.

And then it was over.

I wept.

I slept.

I was inept.

Upon waking, I looked at my hard work.

One colander and a few egg cups.

Had I imagined my struggle? Was it all a delusion caused by drinking Fairy liquid? I'll never know.

But I'll never forget it.

Or I might, I don't know. It's probably not important.

***

There's too much text up there. These celebrations are supposed to showcase my diversity. Sure, the video did that. Even if I keep listening to it and dislike it more each time.

But I can do more. I will do more.

In Post #600 I did a script extract that was bad, even by my standards. So let's remedy that with something AMAZING.

I haven't written it yet, but can only assume it will be.

WILLIAM: Susan? Susan!

SUSAN: What?

WILLIAM: Come over here.

SUSAN: I can't. 

WILLIAM: What? Why?

SUSAN: This is a phone call. You are eighteen thousand miles away. And I'm a paraplegic.

WILLIAM: But there's a spider.

SUSAN: Be that as it may...

WILLIAM: Oh... Hang on. It's not a spider. It's just a shadow.

SUSAN: Good. Listen, I'd better go. I'm giving a lecture on emotivism, and I...

WILLIAM: Susan!

SUSAN: What?

WILLIAM: I was wrong. Well, I was right. It is a shadow.

SUSAN: Mmm-hmm?

WILLIAM: But it's the shadow of a spider. So there is a spider.

SUSAN: Why don't you just ignore it?

WILLIAM: Ignore it?

SUSAN: Yes. It won't bother you if you don't bother it.

WILLIAM: You said that about my samurai sword.

SUSAN: Yes. It's the same thing.

WILLIAM: But it cut my arm off.

SUSAN: Only after you provoked it. What did you call it? "A glorified butter knife"?

WILLIAM: *pause* Yeah...

SUSAN: So just don't insult the spider.

WILLIAM: Ah.

SUSAN: Ah what?

WILLIAM: I already called it a glorified daddy longlegs.

SUSAN: Run into the garage and lock the door. I'll phone the sheriff.

You see? I can really deliver when I put my mind to it.

***

Short jokes!

Horse? Face.

Chicken? Side.

Spade? Doug.

Brown? Stick.

Leon? "Prince of Lemons"

Octopus? Noctopus.

Wire wool.

Misunderstanding.

***

And to round things off, here's a creepy Jeff Hardy:

***

We've all been through a lot. Let's take a moment to reflect. Polish yourselves.

***

I suppose that'll do it. I bet the Queen hasn't got a picture of herself looking this stupid. If she did, it would have to be made into a stamp. And if it was, I'd start sending a heck of a lot more letters.

I'll see you again shortly.

800 will be a nice round number.

Hog

What a difference a week makes! It makes calendars slightly larger. Or the print slightly smaller. Either way - a difference. To calendarsmiths at least.

I had an impromptu stand-up gig on Monday night. Or was it impromptu? I had about three days' notice. That probably qualifies as promptu.

It was a very nice gig at a nice venue, but I was the only comic; the other acts being poets, musicians, and, in one (fictional) case, a Venus Fly-trap who had learned to speak (it was mainly hack "fly-digestion" material).

I wasn't very good. It was my first bad gig for a long time, and it brought me back down to earth with a bump. That chandelier wasn't as strong as it looked.

AHAHAHA! Get it? I just used a metaphor and then pretended I was speaking literally. That's the kind of wit that got me so many half-smiles and a lack of eye contact.

The audience were actually pretty good, given that they weren't necessarily there for comedy, but I performed badly. I didn't have time to (re-)learn my newer, more interesting material, so I went back to my old stuff, which I know, but am a bit bored by. I should have warmed them up a bit before starting. I did some ad-libs that didn't really go anywhere, and kept coming back to them. These interjections served as regular, timely reminders of my own ineptitude.

It wasn't that bad, just a bit flat.

The worst part was just being in my own head for the whole evening. Whenever I'm out in public, I'm the most awkward person in the room. I radiate awkwardness powerful enough to blow hats off. I feel like my clothes are ridiculous, my small talk is painful and my body language screams "I'm screaming".

I know I'm awkward. People know I'm awkward. I know they know, and they know I know they know. But that just makes things worse. We're trapped in a feedback loop of mutual unease.

I spent a lot of time on my own trying to look normal. I could have tried to talk to some strangers, but I was terrified as always.

To take up some time, I genuinely wrote the following on my phone:

I'm writing this whilst perched, like a sweaty gargoyle, on the bicep of a leather sofa, because it makes me look slightly better than if i was playing tetris. It's not even proper tetris, but some loser pop game. I can't believe i'm going to have to transcribe this all later.

It has been a struggle. Well recognised, PastPaul. Though you should have capitalised your 'I's and 'Tetris'. You've made us seem like (a) chump(s).

I should just embrace the life of a hermit. I've tried to fight my nature, but I can't do it. I have to remain true to myself by myself.

There's nothing wrong with being incapable of dealing with other humans. I was born this way (shying away from the midwife), and I shouldn't have to hide it. Say it loud! I'm timid and I'm... well, not proud exactly... but... uh.... and not loud either. I don't want to... you know... draw any attention to myself...

(Apart from this whole blog about myself that I urge people to read. But at least you can't see my stupid jacket on here.)

On the way home from the gig, I saw a hedgehog. That made me feel a lot better. I like hedgehogs. I think they must be worth at least 8 points.

On the way to work, Lucy and I are sometimes cheered up by seeing animals and birds. Ordinary birds (sparrows, tits, blackbirds) are worth 1 or 2 points. A robin is worth 4. A duck is highly prized. Ducks will always cheer you up. That's why they exist. 7 points.

A squirrel is also a joyful sight. As is a puppy, or dog that's 'puppy-at-heart'. The latter requires surgery to verify, which is less cheerful.

I think a bear would be 15 points, but we haven't seen one yet. Not on Banbury Road.

***

I wrote (part of) a song at the weekend. I write songs fairly frequently, but do nothing with them. I've tried to record them properly before, but it never sounds as good as it does in my head. I blame it on my technology rather than any talent-dearth I might be suffering from.

So I thought "screw it", and just recorded this on my webcam, terrible audio and all (terrible jacket not pictured). I also split myself into four for some reason. Does that make me a band?

I think this is something about teenage sexuality, but I haven't really worked out what any of the lyrics mean.

Still... it's some mixed media. That's always good for making me feel accomplished. And look at my shirt!

(I seem to nod my head a lot when I sing. Like David Gray. Remember him? I don't. I don't even know if he's 'Gray' or 'Grey', and refuse to check on principle.)

***

I should leave it there. You can ponder what you've seen today. It doesn't just have to be this blog. Ponder everything. Did you see a shoplifter? Did you see a fishing rod? Did you see a bear?

If so: bravo.

Bra.

Vo.

The full 15 are yours.

Hung

Busy, anxious, distracted, belligerent. These are the names I have given to my quadruplets, and are also the moods I am feeling right now.

I haven't blogged for a while. Sorry. I've had less important things to do.

I've been inhaling for quite some time. It's preparation for a huge sigh that I intend to release at just the right moment. I don't know when the right moment will be. It will probably be something to do with the NHS or Inception.

But when it happens, this sigh will really make people think about their actions.

Here. This'll cheer you up.

This'll.

This'll.

Partick This'll.

I could do that if I had the right T-shirt.

Fun fact: the actor Talia Shire refers to her T-shirts as "T-shires".

***

Sometimes I worry that my target audience has been hit by too many arrows.

Spent

The year is drawing to a close, which is impressive given that the year can't hold a pencil.

Ahahadrawingha.

2011.

"2011" is certainly the way we've designated THAT particular period of time, that's for sure.

I will be doing a customary end-of-year round-up sometime, so I'll leave that fruitful blog topic to ripen on the vine.

But for now, let's not feel compelled to cover too much ground. After all, as the old proverb goes, "he who possesses the widest stride, leaves his testicles vulnerable for the longest time".

So let's shuffle (snug, clenched, protected) through the garden of marginal interest.

--

Hey look! A bush in the shape of a different bush.

Also, a pond containing water.

--

That was fun.

***

I need to get angry about something. People love reading that. I can use a lot of hyperbole and CAPS in an amusing way. All of the best comedy characters are angry about something: Groucho Marx was angry that people kept mispronouncing his name (it rhymes with "Smoocho"); Bugs Bunny hated Egypt; and Bob Mills is still furious about the cancellation of In Bed With Medinner.

The trouble is, I'm too mellow for that. (Except for the noisy neighbours thing from last week.) I'm at peace with the world. There are some things I don't like, but that just adds to the deliciously diverse technicolour cocktail that we call Planet 3.

I don't want to have to manufacture outrage.

But for your sake, I will.

ARRRGHHHH! METHADONE CLINICS! I HATE METHADONE CLINICS!

That'll draw in the readers.

To be honest with you, I don't think I'm ready for another blog post. Not yet. Not today. This is just a way to fill time until my review of the year. (The year of 2011 is the year the year in review will be reviewing)

But this isn't a waste of time. Look - how about this?

Time.

Well.

Spent.

Endorsement

Do you ever wonder why you read this blog?

Do you ever read this blog at all?

Do you visit every now and then, read the first couple of lines, and then feel dispirited/disgusted/violated?

Well, perhaps this testimony will let you know just how lucky you are to be here:

That pretty much says it all, I think.

I don't even know who this guy is, or how he found out about me. Perhaps the Hilton Hotel in Stockton, California gives complementary print-outs of my blog to all its residents.

I suppose there's a tiny, negligible, one-in-a-million chance that he's not talking about me, but about someone with the same name.

But I don't buy it. It's clearly me.

Let's run it down.

"Paul is an exceptional entrepreneur."

Check. Tick. Affirmative. I am.

You just need to look at this blog to realise that. I've broken new ground in writing about things that don't mean anything. I also have my own hat. I've come up with many incredible business ideas, such as the convex bath and the Naan of the Above restaurant chain. Technically, they don't "exist" as such, but the genius is still there.

"a good friend of mine"

Well, as I said, I've never actually met him. But I'm sure I am a good friend of his. As one of my readers, you probably feel like we're friends. There's an intimacy that comes with reading someone else's personal bullshit.

Also, I imagine most of my readers are people I'm actually friends with, who feel compelled to read this out of personal obligation.

But the blogger/blog-reader relationship is as deep and profound a friendship as any - more so, in fact, than army buddies, husband and wife, or people who have been held hostage in the same fridge.

"someone that produces results"

Ding.

You can see the results I've produced smeared all over your screen.

618 blog posts.
9376 tweets.
Over a dozen Facebook friends.
The complete 60s Spider-Man cartoons on DVD.

RESULTS.

"I have learned so much from Paul..."

As have you all. I've always considered myself a teacher first, and a blogger second. I'm not saying I'm a saint for doing it. Whenever someone has that level of wisdom, it's their DUTY to share it. If I can encourage even one underprivileged kid to go to university of cook their own flan, I'll be happy.

"...through his information, through his expertise, and his internet know-how"

I think that bears repeating. 

"...through his information, through his expertise, and his internet know-how"

He MUST be talking about me. He MUST.

"If you are currently struggling in your business, and you are seeking to take yourself to the next level, so that your business will follow, Paul Fung Is. Your. Guy."

At this stage, I'd like to say that if anyone has any questions about business, or would like me to advise them on how improve yourselves, please do get in touch. I'll be happy to help with any queries.

I haven't got any proven business acumen per se, but I'm sure I can offer some handy tips. For example, my blog post didn't use to have a poll asking people to choose their favourite liquids. But I had the idea, and it has sent my visitor traffic THROUGH THE ROOF (of the rabbit hutch).

I am your guy. And for a small fee, I could turn you from a second-stringer to a... whatever the next stage up from that is. A minute-stringer.

"Paul Fung produces results..."

We've been through this already, but it's important to hammer that point home.

"...he's awesome..."

I'm flattered, I really am. It's great to have a stranger understand me so completely. No wait... not a stranger. A FRIEND. A close, close friend.

"...and Paul, I appreciate you so much..."

Aw, thanks man. I appreciate you too. Are you still coming to mine for Christmas?

"Paul - you rock. Thank you."

*sniff* Sorry. I think I have something in my eye...

So there you have it. I've never known anyone sum me up so well.

I genuinely think that's a lovely endorsement, even if it isn't for me. (It must be for me though, right?)

I'm not in any way making fun of that guy. He's a great pitch man. I'm going to periodically watch that, just to make me feel better about myself.

The description under the video reads as following:

"Absolutely. Not only is Paul Fung a phenomenal family man, he finds the time to assist other marketers and developing entrepreneurs to expand their internet expertise. His character speaks volumes... more importantly Paul Fung simply rocks!"

Most of that has been covered already. He points out that I'm a phenomenal family man. I don't know if he means that I am phenomenal in the field of family men, or that I have a phenomenal family. Either one of those is true.

My character speaks volumes. You know this to be the case. There's a video of me below that shows me singing in at least three different volumes and four different characters.

The main thing I like about the description is that it starts with him saying "Absolutely!". People don't usually start paragraphs like that. The word is usually said in response to something. But this guy is so confident, he wants "absolutely" to be the first thing we see, just so there's no confusion.

I feel so good about myself right now.

Thank you edledgard. (At first I thought he had a weird name - Edle D. Gard - but I suppose it's probably Ed Ledgard). He's posted other videos, but I don't want to watch them. I couldn't bear it if he was similarly enthusiastic about anything other than Paul Fung. Which means me. And not somebody else with the same, pretty common, name.

Do you think it would be weird if I travelled all the way to Stockton to thank him? I could turn up at reception and ask for him.

"Is Edle Gard there, please?"

"Excuse me?"

"TAKE ME TO EDLE GARD!"

We could hug. He could give me a complimentary suite. We could talk about the old days.

Would that be weird? I don't think it would be weird. I'm buying a plane ticket.

Oh, and if edledgard happens to find this, thank you sir. I'd be happy to return the favour by talking enthusiastically about you and, to a lesser extent, all the other Edle Gards that might be googling themselves late at night.

***

My name is Paul Fung by the way. You probably need to know that, or this post doesn't work.

Cop Out

Thursday

I've been downbeat today, so I'm going to try to write myself happier.

I don't know if that's possible. I hope it is. Maybe I'll find some magical combination of words that can inject a bit of joy into my brain. It wouldn't necessarily be the meaning that did it. Otherwise I could just write "puppies" or "Jeremy Kyle punched forever" and it would do the trick.

I think it might just be the sound of the words that does it. Like a note of a certain pitch that can thaw ice. I'm only writing words, so I'll have to hear the sound in my own head. And the acoustics in here are rubbish. I can barely hear myself think, and even when I do, it's all reverb-y.

So maybe it won't be the meaning of the words, and it won't be the sound of the words. Maybe my mood will be improved by the look of the words. The way they appear on the screen. Maybe the right combination of peaks and troughs and dots and crosses will be aesthetically pleasing. Like a painting. Maybe I'll stumble upon a golden ratio of text configuration. Probably not with this font, but still...

If I put the letters in the right order, it might conjure something up. The same way the word 'bed' looks like a bed.

I haven't found it yet. I haven't found the meaning, sound or look that will cheer me up. And I don't want to start messing around with colours or italics. Anyone who gets cheered up by something slanty and pink has serious psychological problems.

But I am starting to feel better. I think it's because of those paragraphs you've just read (unless you've started the blog post here for some reason - your eyes were drawn to the pink perhaps). I am happier because I've written some words and sentences and so on. So maybe the cheering power of writing is not about content or form, but about quantity.

Girth breeds mirth. We all know that. That was my school motto. It's a truism. And it's stuck with me. Whereas dozens of falsisms have fallen by the wayside (which is nearly full, by the way).

That principle probably sums up this blog. My self-esteem is directly proportional to the word count. It doesn't matter how poorly thought-out the entries are; if the text be there, the mood be fair.

We all know that. It's a truism. Or a half-truism at least.

I'm listening to some depressing music, which probably isn't helping matters. Though it is imbuing my prose with a depth and profundity that probably isn't there for you.

Why don't you re-read this entry whilst listing to it?

 

It's from that film Synecdoche, New York, which is a bit downbeat too.

I quite like bleak films every now and then. I get a bit bored with uplifting Hollywood. Sometimes I don't want to be uplifted. Sometimes I'm high enough already. Not now, but sometimes. If you're on top of the Empire State Building, you don't want to be lifted up. You want someone to tie a piano to your wife and throw her off the top of it (the building, not the piano). Sometimes you want that.

Yes you do.

Listening to film scores always makes your life seem more exciting. Even if you're on the bus. Jon Brion didn't know that his song would have a special resonance for me, having dropped my ticket onto my own shoe. But it fits perfectly. Even boredom can be beautiful if couched in the right melody.

You can't spell downbeat without 'beat'. The fundamental building block of music.

Or 'own'. You can't spell downbeat without 'own'. You really can't.

I feel a lot better now, though. So perhaps my soundtrack should change. Sad music does make writing seem better, but happy music can probably do something too.

Maybe it will make me funnier. I know that's difficult to imagine.

So, what's the most upbeat song I can think of?

How about this?

Bertha was basically the televisual forerunner to Synecdoche, New York. I've always said that. Both comment on art vs commerce; individuality vs conformity; the nature of life, death and forklift trucks.

And whilst the first song might give my writing an air of poignancy, the Bertha theme is sure to bring my words to life in a different way. Even that last sentence is better with Bertha in the background.

I feel much better now. Thanks for listening. Or reading. Or just looking.

Laughter is one of the best medicines. I've always said that.

!!~~POST #600 - BULGING COMMEMORATIVE SUPERNOVA~~!!

Well, well, well. Who knew? Hoon you?

600 blog posts. One for every letter of the alphabet. 600. More blog posts than there have been Planet of the Apes movies. More blog posts that a penguin has had hot dinners.

It has become a custom round these parts to celebrate each of these milestones with a long blog post, an embarrassing picture, and a spiral of shame.

If you'd like to see my previous anniversary posts, there are links below this very sentence.

Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500

I've re-read these and, boy...

Boy.

Boy, boy, boy.

Boy is a strange word if you write it six times in succession.

I was a boy when I began this blog. I was a boy at 100 posts. I was a boy at 200 posts. At 300 posts, I was a girl. At 400, I was a pteranodon. At 500, I was a boy again.

And at 600, I am a MAN.

A LIAR and a MAN.

I don't know what's going to happen in this celebratory bag of sweet, sweet fun. But I do know this: PEOPLE IN GLASS HOUSES SHOULDN'T THROW SHOT-PUT PARTIES.

***

I like mixed media. In fact, I might legally change my name to Mick Stmedia. I can claim it's Czech. Too much of one thing is a bad thing (even if the original thing was a good thing), as the old saying goes.

So, let's boogie.

As you can probably tell, I like implying that there is some significance to this "anniversary", when clearly there is not. Even for me, this is of marginal importance. But you know what they say: "Be quiet, Paul".

On the plus side, I like that I look away right at the end of this video. It looks like I've seen a ghost. On Youtube.


***


For the last few of these, I have been conversing with my future self/ve(s). We seem to click. I think it's because we have the same DNA and postcode.

In Post #500, I wrote:

Post #600 Paul - what did you have for dinner last night? Also, do you have a Blu-Ray player yet?

(I'm a brilliant conversationalist - I can't wait to see my response in 100 posts' time)

Well, Paul. Thank you for the compliment. I can tell you that last night we had vegetarian sausage stew. It was delicious. And we do indeed have a Blu-Ray player! It is rather good. A wise purchase.

You're unable to answer me now (as you no longer exist), but I'd very much like to continue this fascinating chat.

Post #700 Paul - what are you wearing? (I don't mean that in a sleazy way) Also, who is the most famous person that has died since I wrote this? (I hope it's not Obama. Or me. Although, it will be nice to be famous.)

***

Mick Stmedia Presents:

ORGAN LE FAY

a play in half-an-act

by

Dimante Bajér

Cast:

Noola Nine - explorer, ex-plorer

Chiff - merchant

Ada Fader - musician

Butler

Peppercorn

ACT 1/2

SCENE 1

A table in a room with all of them people/things what is up there.

NOOLA: It's not easy, you know.

CHIFF: What?

NOOLA: Giving up ploring.

CHIFF: Oh. No. No, I'm sure it must be very difficult.

NOOLA: It is.

CHIFF: When was the last time you plored?

NOOLA: Ages ago. University.

CHIFF: A lot of people start ploring at university. Because you're free of responsibility.

ADA: In ten minutes, we're all going to die. Also, I'm a figment of your imaginations. Also, I'm a cipher, used to explore fundamentalist Islam. Also, this is a play.

NOOLA: I don't believe you. Chiff?

CHIFF: I have mixed feelings. Like sappiness. Or angrenvy.

ENTER BUTLER

The BUTLER enters the room, sees that this isn't going anywhere and leaves.

EXIT BUTLER

ADA: Spirituality. SPIRITUALITY!

PEPPERCORN: This is the kind of thing that should be discouraged. Extracts like this. I mean, what is the author trying to do here?

ADA: Islam?

PEPPERCORN: No. I mean, the blog author. There isn't even anything funny in here. What's this for? The hilarious character names? The unlikeliness of it all? Even this speech is overwritten.

NOOLA: He must be shameless. The blog writer, I mean. Unembarrassable.

PEPPERCORN: He's done a picture of himself, and a weak video. Clearly shame is not on his (or her) agenda.

CHIFF: Let's stop now. 

END SCENE

***

That didn't go as well as I'd planned.

To be honest, I'm struggling to write this. I haven't got any ideas. I don't really want to do it. But I have to. I have to do this anniversary post before I can move on. I could just do a short one, but that would set a dangerous precedent.

Hey! I know! Louie!

We've recently been watching a comedy programme called Louie. It's made by a stand-up comedian called Louis CK, who is reasonably famous. I saw some of his stand-up before and liked it, but wasn't blown away. But this show is really great.

He writes it all himself (uncommon for a US comedy). It's sort of a mix of stand-up, sketch comedy and sitcom, but is always interesting and frequently hilarious. It's also occasionally dark and disturbing.

This is the programme I would like to make. It's ambitious and unique.

This clip might not be funny out of context, but it made me laugh and laugh and laugh when I first saw it:

His stand-up is great on the show too. I think of him as a bit like Daniel Kitson. Neither of them do anything obviously revolutionary, but have a really interesting take on the world. The difference is that Kitson looks at the world and, underneath it all, sees the wonder and beauty of existence. Louis CK looks at the world and sees a fundamental layer of shit.

***

Here are some quick jokes, to fill up the space between two lots of asterisk triplets:

Q: What's red and white and brown all over?
A: A Communist bakery

Q: How many light bulbs does it take to change a nappy?
A: 3. One to illuminate the affected area, one to use its filament as a safety pin, and one to burn away the effluence.

Q: Why did the tomato blush?
A: Because it saw the salad masturbating.

An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walk in two-by-two. WHAT WAS NOAH THINKING?

Q: What do you call a man with a spade on his cliff?
A: Liam.

Q: What do you get if you cross a tiger with a piece of farming equipment?
A: A combine harvestiger.

Q: What did one cloud say to the other?
A: I've lost my wallet.

***

I'm terrible at talking to people. I had this confirmed recently by a serious of awful conversations. The awfulness was all my fault. Part of it was people sensing my awfulness and feeling uneasy, and part of it was just me being awful.

I stand out like an inarticulate bear with a sore thumb. I try a joke. It fails. (I know it must be difficult to imagine any of my jokes failing)

I try to seem interested. I just seem creepy.

I try to join in a surreal dialogue. People look at me like I've just knitted a scrotum.

There's an awkward aura around me. I can knock things off shelves just by being uncomfortable next to them.

I rarely finish a conversation without wishing I could erase everything I've said. I want to be a mute. But in the moment, it all seems like such a good idea.

"Hey, I know!" I'll think. "Why don't I make a clever remark about Judaism or introduce a hypothetical discussion about which animal we'd most like to squeeze between our thighs?"

And then I say it. And then I wish I hadn't.

I should live in a sound-proof box. My thoughts sound better in my head. As do my songs and my Caribbean accents.

I probably don't need to get any more insular or solipsistic. But to be honest, the damage is already done. I'm 28. It's all downhill from here, on an uncomfortable sledge, in the middle of summer, on a level dirt track.

Only joking!

Life is great. I'm happy to be who, where and if I am.

This blog is a conversation. And I never regret what I've written here! Nope! Not even that play thing up there.

No regrets. They don't work. No regrets. They only hurt.

A wise man once said that. His name was Robbie Williams. And if we can't take heart from his profound words, we might as well give up eating.

***

I'm on fire now! I can't believe I had a lull earlier!

This is the anti-lull. The llul.

Welcome to the llul.

I think I should probably stop now. Always go out on a llul.

At least now people will walk away from this knowing that I'm a man of dignity.

Here's to 600 more posts. 600 better posts than this.