My sleep patterns have been all kinds of messed up lately. All this fooling around on other people’s schedules isn’t good for a body. Three cheers for holidays then, because things have been getting back to normal. For instance: last Tuesday evening I grabbed a bus after work, met up with a friend I don’t see half enough, watched a bunch of stupid videos, watched Syriana, read the Wikipedia article about Syriana, read the back of the Syriana DVD box, gave up on Syriana, went home, played Mario Galaxy til five in the morning, went to bed, woke up sometime in the middle of Christmas Eve. That’s a good night by anyone’s standards.
Since then I’ve gotten nicely into a groove of bed at 0700, up at 1500. That’s a sensible use of time. Who needs more than an hour’s daylight?
It looks like we are to have another general election.
Yes, because apparently we didn’t vote in the right people last time, and they’re going to keep on dragging us back to the polls until our faceless masters get what they want. It could be sprung on us at any moment (although probably 2012) and you can bet your arse that they’ll wait until we’re at our most scared and disoriented to try and sneak it through (although, again, probably 2012). I would urge you to at least spend ten minutes doing a bit of research and getting yourself to at least some kind of bare, junior infants-level understanding of the issues, but what’s the point? What would even be the chuffing point? We all know that it’s the worthless sheepy ludramans who form 51% of the population who carry these things, and even if by some kind of sexy miracle they manage to get their thumbs out and vote the right way (which is to say, the wrong way as far as the fat cats are concerned) then it will probably turn out that that was the wrong way to vote all along (which is to say, vice versa)!! And EVEN IF there’s a sexy miracle and thumbs are out and so on and they vote the right way (the right way) and that turns out to actually be the actual right way (see previous) then there’ll just be ANOTHER election in a few years’ time, and another, until we DO get it (actually) wrong (from our point of view)!!!
There is JUST NO POINT TO ANY OF THIS.
Homepages is out and you should buy it, because it will improve your life in measurable ways. You can buy it here. There’s wackiness going on with the postage prices so what you want to do is buy it in bulk. Buy enough and you can build a tiny fort for yourself. Or for homeless people, who have some kind of vested interest in this thing, I don’t know. I had glazed over at that point. Someone mentioned writing and the instinct took over. Like a shark on rollerblades. Only, he probably doesn’t know an awful lot about rollerblades so he tends to fall over a lot and slide off in random directions, and all things considered he would be much better off ditching the fancy footwear and sticking with what he knows. That is a metaphor.
Because I love yoghurt, you see, but the delivery system is less than ideal. Utensils are only acceptable in a dinner context – having to use a spoon every time you fancy a fruity snack is nonsense. If you had to use a knife and fork to eat a banana, the entire banana industry would collapse in on itself in one great big lickety-split of a jiffy. Let that be a lesson.
Of course, with a banana it’s easy to get away with using your hands. Not so much with a yoghurt. Seriously, you try eat a yoghurt with your fingers and you end up looking like some kind of crazy yahoo. Uncouth doesn’t even begin to cover it. Rascalous is closer, but that’s a made up word and who in their right mind has time for those in this day and age.
Anyway, this has all been a roundabout way for me to say that I really like Yop. I had one a minute ago and it was delicious. Forest fruits 4 lyfe, yo.
Saw that on the side of a bus this morning. There’s a list of priorities for you: are you breathing? pulse seems nice and steady? full range of movement going on? Good – then let’s get down to the serious business of loving the shit out of some bread.
I imagine a guy waking up in the morning and running through this little checklist. There’s a second of panic when he opens his eyes – am I still here? Life can be cruel, it can be snatched away in a split second, you might wake up and never know you’d missed it, and what’s most terrifying about that is that you might go down the plughole without letting bread know how you really feel. I mean, it knows, sure, it’s been established, but does it know? Does it really know? Does it feel it down at the base of its spine? Is there any flicker of a doubt in its doughy little head as to the full and true and pure extent of the burning, sickening, all-consuming, furious love you hold in your heart?
But the terror passes. Of course he’s still here. And of course it knows. He pulls back the covers, slips his feet into a comfy old pair of hollowed-out ciabattas and gets ready for the day.
I know. Hear me out.
The thing is: it’s you people. You know? My drafts folder is full of things, overflowing with things, that wouldn’t be worth throwing at you even if I knew you’d print em out, scrunch em up and use em for shoelaces. No, no, no. Not even if you printed them on coloured paper and put glitter on them, and were wearing custom shoes with snakes painted on, and the snake’s eyes were the holes for the shoelaces, and not even if you for some insane reason did decide to go out in public and Donatella Versace wandered up and said “Hey. Your shoelaces. Nice.” Because she would be lying. They are not nice.
But they will be. Yes. They will be.
I don’t like being bad at things. If I do something and I’m not automatically a genius at it I get annoyed. This is probably why I can’t do a lot of things.
But occasionally I go temporarily insane and decide it doesn’t matter if strangers see a chink in my armour of awesomeness, and I give something new a shot. Thus the woman and I went to our first tango lesson last night.
Turns out I needn’t have worried – tango is remarkably straightforward. In fact, it’s really just a two-step process. See if you can master it!
For women, the steps are:
- Stand kind of like this.
- Follow the man.
For men, it’s:
- Be an expert.
- Are you an expert yet?
I admit I’m struggling a little bit with the second part, probably because my shoes aren’t quite pointy enough. I must work on that.
The ISBN is 1-906027-13-7, if you feel like harassing a bookshop into ordering a few boxes (although I believe some shops already have it – in Dublin anyway). Alternatively, if you’re the kind of person who happens to see me wandering about the place, feel free to harass me for a copy. Price is ten euro, or 1.8 pints in the latter case (vodka and dash and a packet of bacon fries also accepted… no refunds).
Today I stumbled into becoming a cartoonist by proxy, thanks to the quick-witted, nifty-with-a-sketchpad and heavily-hyphenated Sparky Donatello. Which confirmed a suspicion of mine: while blogging is indeed a powerful tool of informational power media buzzwords 2.0, it’s not the blogs themselves that have the moxie; no no, my freakish little amigos, it’s the comments. You show me some maggoty ould tramp who wanders into a comment box and I’ll give you favourable if somewhat complicated odds that they’ll end up being treated like royalty.
With this in mind, I’m going to go lurk behind Leinster House with a laptop and mutter about tax cuts for the bearded. Going by my current run of luck, I expect sweeping reforms within the week.
My friends, I did something last night that I haven’t done in ages. Yes, that is correct: I am talking about schooling noobs.
Now, as anyone will tell you, full-on schoolination can only take place in a deathmatch. I mean, that’s understood. Team games are like, you can hand out leaflets to noobs for correspondence courses or whatever, but if you’re going to really give the personal touch and school the motherfucker, it has to be a free for all.
I haven’t played a proper deathmatch in ages, but was I rusty? Was I fuck. There was this one guy, I swear to god, I schooled the bastard to hard he came out with a PhD. I mean, I’m the god damn Gordon Ramsay of schoolin’ a noob here. Crossbow. Rocket. Crowbar. Done. Wait, where’s your arse gone? Oh that’s right, I schooled it right off your body.
I done messed up Burt Bacharach and all.
In other night-wasting developments, I watched the pilot episode of Fringe. The main character is a feisty female FBI agent, the kind of feisty you needed to be back in the 50s when you had to prove yourself to a load of smug men who gave you dismissive nicknames like honey and sweetheart and sugardonkey and so on, which for some reason people also do in this show even though it’s not the 50s anymore. I would speculate that it’s a feeble attempt to get us to root for her, because she’s terribly, terribly uninteresting in every other respect.
So Fringe: not so good. On the other hand it does feature that guy from The Wire and some dudes with transparent skin, and both of those are some pretty cool things. So who knows, it just might pick up.
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