The Trouble With Experts Today.

Attempted murder is pretty tricky to get done, you know.

It’s tricky to only try to murder a guy, when his head’s right there in front of you. You want to alter someone…do things to their head. Most things, even just sighing on it will make them notice. An attempted sigh might not, but if you’ve managed that at least you’ve accomplished something.

I’m not sure why we’re talking about attempted murder, but frankly you’re freaking me out and I’m going to have to monologue until I feel comfortable again.

I jumped off a crane last night. It was- delicious, like eating…all the information in the world. Now that’s fairly esoteric to understand, just like the word esoteric, but it is true. It feels like you’re suddenly aware of everything, and this may seem fairly Buddhist of me but what that knowledge really revealed was understanding, but only understanding how much we don’t know and how much we don’t understand. And that this was ok.

Pretty Buddhist, as I said.

There’s a description of a person you don’t get much of… she was a pretty Buddhist. And she was being calm.

All I did was descend, not much to it but to pay the burly man seventy pounds, allow him to tie you up in lock-in straps that looked reassuringly used whilst disturbingly elderly. The fall made me pulse and breath, scream and swear, laugh and burst a blood vessel in my left-eye for which I am still looking for a good eye-patch. If it’s not a pirate-version, it’s for someone else because I only wear pirate eye-patches, largely because they go with everything.

Lemon-meringue bell-of-the-ball dress with boner-length heels and gold lipstick…goes perfectly with a pirate eye-patch. So does nether-the-neck nudity. Goes perfectly with a pirate eye-patch.

So I’m still looking.

I have some opinions about experts as well. You could probably tell that by the title.

What I want to distinguish here is the difference between run-of-the-mill, because-I’m-on-television expert, and the people that no-one is better at or more familiar in their subject matter whilst also potentially being an expander of their field.

You have those that are simply well-dressed and voicing their opinions by whatever means possible, and then you have those that are really too distracted being experts to offer their opinions to people like you and me. But of course you have the middle-ground, the beautiful grey area that has the forefront fellows like Stephen Hawking writing a book whilst he has a spare two minutes from sitting fairly still as a genius might.

I fucking hate it when people wade in without the proper equipment- the sole list of which being lack of time for the interview to really take place.

Experts are fucking busy, and you might realise that when you’ve got shit to do and your brain cells conglomerate to a point where they can actually conglomerate and if you’ve got some conglomerating brain cells then I can only try now to persuade you not to go onto the television and do some wading in. Proper equipment or not, there’s a time and a place to piss people of, so make sure your research rubs people up the wrong way. Unless you’re a masseuse. If you’re a masseuse, I can only say thank you and don’t you ever leave me be.

Leaving people be really tends to work, it’s just that incest sells more papers. Unless of course you’re a publicist that fucks his brother, in which case- you should probably stop fucking your brother-just in case he finds out. Other than that, leave people be and they will surely thrive.

Thriving matters.

I have a very small amount to say about a hell of a lot of things, so I’ll sign off with these three other important points that occurred to me as I was disjointedly writing this.

1. He’s dull. He’ll only eat it if it’s within bread.
2. ‘Calorie’ is, I know, a beautiful name for a female, aside from the regrettable association with chips.
3. If we’re being poetic, then the sun is the greatest thing to have on your face. If we’re being traditional, then I’ll refer you to the fanny in the corner. This is preferable.

For now,

Sam