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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