Thanks largely to that spectacularly gluttonous synapse that has been stuck open and hyperventilating since the first time I got a glimpse of a battered Ladybird1, I am inordinately and often uncomfortably aware that I’m supposed to be a writer. That being a given, I never really made any more than a half-arsed attempt at that whole deal with scrabbling around trying to find a calling2, but nevertheless there are odd Saturday mornings where I’m stood around in a dressing gown drinking slightly rum-tinged water from a glass I’m much too high-powered to wash and it occurs to me that some big human thing passed me by somewhere back when I was in short pants3, and I can’t help but wonder how exactly it is that other people settle on what’s going to get them up for the next whatever hundred thousand-odd mornings. Which, by a commodious vicus of recirculation, leads me to the reason I’m writing this: it would appear that people find out through the ancient ritual of taking to the streets and bothering foreigners.
Which level of blind self-assurance plays its own brand of havoc when you’re an otherwise fairly rickety 17-year-old, but despite all appearances thus far this isn’t about me so let us shall we get back to the point. [↩]
Not terribly specific, seeing as I was forced to wear such things as late as my eldest brother’s wedding, when I was 12. Golden opportunity to wear a Tiny Tux ™ and I’m garbed up like a cabin boy. [↩]
Does it annoy anyone else when people say “a couple” when they really mean “a few”? I mean, it doesn’t annoy me as such, but “a couple” very obviously means “two” and why would you use it otherwise, because that’s asking for trouble.
Anyway. The first link is one I got off this post on reddit. Executive summary: American mortgage broker becomes homeless, has laptop, maintains some kind of social life/support network by talking to people on the internet. He’s now set up a blog at Lillyweather Lane whereon he’s documenting his continuing adventures. I will point out that he is both smart people and good writers and well worth reading.
Link the second is to a main dudette of mine who has finally done the honourable thing and started a blog. She’s from Belfast, everyone. She has a funny accent. It adds at least three layers of excellent to her already jolly good material.
And just because I’m not about to be pushed around by no pedant, here’s a third link I happened to have open. I don’t care whose toes I step on.
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 abunchofstupidvideos1, 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?
I say stupid, that last one’s brilliantly done. Australian comedy: underrated. [↩]
I am seven kinds of wrecked today, so this kind of goes nowhere. It’s my Cormac McCarthy post.
The sweaty ginger apocalypse that is A Futurist Theatre played Doran’s last night and as per usual they raised rooves, wrecked gaffs and mixed metaphors at a rate of knots per hour. Since I’m friends with the band I’d like to be able to say that they’re rubbish, thus proving the Stalinesque ruthlessness of my critical intellect, but they trip me up by being consistently awesome. It’s starting to give me a complex.
Following a night swanning around my flat with a pack of cigarettes shoved up my sleeve, I had planned to blow everyone’s mind and James Dean the motherfucker. Unfortunately, my level of drunken bombast had blinded me to the worrying level of translucency of my one and only white tshirt. James Dean not being famous for subtly flashing his nipples at strangers, a post-work jaunt to River Island was necessitated.
By the ancient and unwrit rules of men’s fashion there was only propely decent shirt there, and that only available in extra small. Now, I’m prepared to call myself a svelte guy – I’m aware of the concept of muscles, but they’re not something I’ve ever got the hang of – so I reckoned I could pull it off. And it worked out all right, although things like eating, drinking, walking, dancing, breathing, thinking and so on were a little trickier than usual.
Plus, on an unrelated note, I accidentally kneed a guy in the mouth. Good times all round.
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