I’ve long had a reaction to the claims by your typical racist chap that harps on about how black people look like apes.
The problem is that some black people do look like monkeys and apes, but this is in the same sense as the fact that there are people from all races who look like the FA Cup owing to a prominence of ear in the East and West of their head.
And in another similar sense, you then have those white people that look like chimpanzees; like my Northern Irish American-Film Lecturer: Ken Somethingsomething.
All in all, people look like things; it’s a human tradition.
Some look like dolphins, some look like insects; ultimately the fact that you look like our closest relatives throughout the Animal Kingdom (fellow humans aside) is probably a good thing.
This is just a thought I’ve had throughout the years, since meeting Ken.
And it’s not as though Ken wasn’t a handsome chap.
He had a desk-bound ruggedness, a man filled with poetical passion that let itself loose as he lectured the sweet-protestant-Jesus out of me and gave some rather fabulous ticks as he marked.
He was a ultimately an attractive man, if attractive men are you’re thing, and it was just the sheer shape of his face and the recession of his hair into full-blown male pattern baldness that made him appear more monkey-like than your average American-Film lecturer.
Also, for the record, male pattern baldness (MPB) is not a cause for unattractiveness.
Since we’re talking about it, yes, I do have an example.
Hunter S Thompson.
Thompson is an icon, a man who has transcended the mortal world and become a literal folk-legend; one of those historic men of whom there are countless anecdotes of his presence at scenes and his actions that caused scenes.
His works inspired generations, with 40 crucial years of extraordinary output that forged a new genre of literary journalism, and this is his writing alone. His attitude, the demeanour with which he strode the Earth is legendary.
He is amongst those men, such as his hero Hemingway, who made writing one of those very masculine occupations – not a world in which women were not equally capable – but one in which miners and welders and other such grizzled and anti-intellectual stereotypes wouldn’t be able to call them pussies.
Because Hunter S Thompson was not a pussy.
His into-the-fray technique of gonzo journalism evokes those terms that just feel masculine in this context. Much like my favourite Monty Python sketch in which good ‘woody’ words are discussed (not ‘tinny’ – “sorry old horse”).
Novelist (bit tinny…).
And Hunter changed the world from behind a type-writer and a cattle-prod, dousing the reader in the glory of the righteous crime of ‘not-giving-a-fuck-with-intent’ and wearing long white socks and with male pattern baldness.
And the male pattern baldness is only relevant here by its irrelevance.
Thompson changed the world, and my life, with utter and total freedom and male pattern baldness, and all whilst looking slightly like an aging chimpanzee.
And what I also adore is the fact that he took the helm of his head; echoing the essence of him being Master of his Fate and the Captain of his Soul by shaving his scalp and changing the world.
But still, I catch my Dad eyeing me fondly from the eyebrows-up, missing my hair that was his.
But to his fortune, he doesn’t look like a monkey. Or an ape.
They’re different, you know.
I’ve a nice big nose.
But it’s nice. And big.
It’s quite handy for obscuring either facial cheek from the opposing eye above.
This skill hasn’t really lent itself to the everyday, or even the exceptional life, at this point.
I do use it to turn off light switches when my hands are full.
I’m glad I haven’t seen any of the other apes doing this yet; I guess that what comes from being too stupid to have a big nose. And thumbs.
People can’t tell I’ve a big nose from straight on though; only when I turn, and knock pedestrians over with the nostrils.
My sense of smell is abysmal.
I can only tell if there’s been a gas leak when I hear the sound of the fire-brigade (plus the intense burning sensation that I can’t do much about because my hands are full and I’m not trying to turn on the light with my nose).
My voice isn’t nasal, it’s just a regular, nothing-much-about-me voice.
My nose in profile looks like it should belong to a pickpocketing villain who overhears your plans of escape and warns the dodgy policeman in exchange for some sort of nose-pleasing rub.
My nose looks suspicious, but I can promise you it’s not up to anything at all calculated.
It’s a nice big nose though.
Would I have it removed?
No – unless I could flip it upside down, attach it to my wall and keep two joss sticks in it.
But then I couldn’t smell them…
Could there ever be the chance that an acid attack might genuinely improve my nose?
I can imagine the compliments…
“Well, I can see all his teeth at all times and his eye keep dangling out, but his nose really is much improved in terms of distance to me.”
That’s the thing about my nose – you never quite realise just how close to you it really is.
It’s like rats.
I feel I can’t impress enough upon you how ridiculous the size of my nose is in relation to how bad my sense of smell is.
I have an exceptionally average-sized hanky.
My sneezes are mediocre in volume and spray.
There is nothing large about my nose other than the size of it.
And it is at this point when once comes to realise that some facial components are simply genetic traditions of your family, passed down from large-nosed grandpapa to large-nosed mama, until it lands in your lap and quickly works its way up to the centre of your visage: the bulls-eye of what people look at of you.
My nose looks like an Easter Island head, only – not just the nose – the entire head is the epicentre of my face.
And it inhibits me zero-percent.
I do, however, have the natural benefit of having a big nose, large thick-rimmed glasses and a big moustache; meaning that I can appear perpetually disguised as though I’d just walked out of a joke shop and wished to vanish into the midst of a ‘Generic Disguise Convention’ (filled with burly burglars in delicate dresses and sneaky chaps wearing a particularly suspicious hedge).
Are there any benefits to having a large nose?
Being easily describable in a witness statement.
Were I to commit a crime and the victim get away; you’d find it easy to describe me to the police.
Because I’ve got a nice big nose.
You can even tell when I’m wearing a full face mask because the mask looks like it’s pivoting constantly from a central location.
And it’s not a particularly sturdy nose either. I’ve been cracked upon it multiple times and shriek as nasally as the next chap.
There’s really not much more to it than that.
I’ve a nice big nose.
But then, so does my Mum, and her Dad.
Maybe it’s a gift.
And perhaps it’s a gift because, as I’ve said before, sometimes all you need is something to say.
And with such a large conk as my face possesses, I’ve had something to write about.
I didn’t need to write about it, but I did.
Go figure again.
I just spent 4 hours being unmanly.
Manliness is easier when sitting down, but therein lies the flaw of the matter – video games, despite all their sword-flailing/bullet-busting/gore-for-all enthusiasm, are not a manly way to spend ones time.
Stewing up a stench, gaining body fat in every region aside from the virulent thumbs, and alienating myself from my own inner dialogue, is not an effective use of my Monday; nor is it a good reason for all those cavemen predecessors to have procreated and died in a long line of folk known for their good thumb-work all adding up to me; eating more calories than I could possibly spend because I feel like it, with booze before noon, and a disdain for the unfashionable sunlight because it creates glare from my television screen.
Video games are a waste of evolution.
I can think of other species that would have died to have had those thumbs (in many cases – they did die – Dodos with thumbs would’ve vanquished those pirates); and here I am – wasting them like any other comparable metaphor that I can’t think of.
4 hours devoted to pixels is probably a major factor as to why I can’t do the proper word thinking no more.
Nobody looks back from their death-bed and wishes they’d spent more time wasting their life.
Oscar Wilde committed his last words as an epigram, proper sturdy wit that has lasted the ages as a bit of throw-away excuse-me-for-being-so-hopelessly-charming-and-acutely-smashing via the line: “Either that wallpaper goes or I do.” And he did.
Upon my own deathbed, surrounded by the failures of my life – obvious my omission – I shall advice this of the young: “Get ahead in Candy Crush early; it’ll save a lot of living”.
I don’t know why I don’t do things.
It could be the fear of failure. It could be the fear of success.
When I look back on the manner of living by which I have conducted myself, I could cry.
I’ve had a high-flying job, travelled the world, wooed fierce women and defeated great men, I’ve a formidable gang of friends and family that is quite simply better than yours, with a woman by my side whose perfection and reciprocated love for me is unutterable by any common tongue as it seems only constant and fiery devotion to one another will do.
I have a dog.
Me – not the dog.
My ancestors will die and leave me enough money that I will never have to work yet I can still envision myself being ignored by the people on the street as I begin to worry about eating that day and having very cold feet.
I was raised with my head in books and only the most-lofty of clouds, my arse in a theatre and my feet on the pitch. I was accused of being able to do anything I wanted in life, and so began a fear of taking those few short steps are all that require me to do so.
I have taken steps; no strides.
I could do anything, and it terrifies me.
Not deserved, what some would have killed for
I need to take no more steps, as I feel only strides will do. That great single stride that begins every great adventure, only it must be one that cannot be stepped back.
I’m not sure if its anxiety or simple stage fright (on that stage that all the world is, and all the people merely players).
Being an egomaniac is a terrible thing when you’re on your own, with nobody to make laugh and only the cold stare of your disappointed self, wondering why you haven’t made it great yet.
This ‘second coming’ wasn’t worth all the hype was it?
Time to be a man about this.
First, a good hardy slap to the right (upper) cheek.
Ow (Damn I’m good at that).
Second, a promise to be immediately fulfilled.
An article, written post-hence, to be properly proofread and fully uploaded to all available media.
The subject: the greatest aspects of Earth I we need to flaunt to all alien life for two reasons:
1. They are intimidated by the Haka and learn a lesson in fucking off.
2. They hear the immortal tale of the human condition of lucky suffering – ABBA’s Mamma Mia.
3. Well, read the article and you’ll find out.
I have to say, writing is a marvellous thing, as reading is also, and I think you’ll find that together we can get a bit of both jolly well done, eh?
And remember, “do not go gentle into that good night”, but make sure you give the dawn a good kicking too.
With strides only,
If you could have one attribute from another species, what would you choose?
And nothing smarmy, like the strength of a bear or the power of flight, something that puts you more into the oddity category, rather than smarmy-superhero. It has to be inconsequential in all manners aside from how it effects your humour.
I’d go with a tail – I think that makes a lot of sense for our species.
Balance is one thing, plus climbing, but mainly I think it’s about our mindset. For one thing, there’d be no more campfire stories, and hence no culture, because before we start to weave a subtle narrative from the holding-end of the marshmallow stick – we’d go: “Oh look, a tail – better go get it.”
I think mainly it’s about company. Try and spend the evening with your hair, or a foot; it’s lonely and only worthwhile if it becomes expensive and weird, but with a tail – that’s a very flirtatious and flicky sofa companion.
More tails please.
Swivel-ears? Because it’d be cute. An animalistic attribute is only really worth it if people’ll think you’re adorable – like how my wife adores how I smell like a dog stirred with honey.
I’ve a dog, Freddie, and Freddie is my first dog and that’s of great importance to me.
He’s titled: ‘My Dog’, and he responds when called that – partly because of the importance he knows that term denotes, partly because I keep calling him “My Dog”.
And Freddie does something that I couldn’t agree more with.
I cannot think of a more total show of affection than shoving your face into something with such emotional ferocity that it’s almost technically ‘eating’.
It’s as though Freddie wishes to become one with my knees, my palms, the top of my head, and I can’t blame him since those are all the most smashing parts of me.
And I’ve done this too, for many years, with my love – Jenny (particularly in the back of the neck as the sun rises).
You’ve probably done it too, when you’ve buried your face into the shoulder of a co-cuddler during a more intense an embrace, and you feel like you just want to be as close as possible that you’re quite prepared to enter their shoulder as a means of feeling better.
I can only recommend it – rub your face into the object of your affection and just see if you don’t feel well expressed.
The only issue is that I’m quite fond of dinner and I cram my face into my bowl of – it doesn’t really matter ‘of what’ – and then live with consequences for the rest of the dinner party.
So if not my dinner, and it not nuzzling on my own behalf, I’ll just take My Dog’s nuzzle when I get home from work.
I’ll take my dog’s face, because he gives it to me.
That’s ‘Brief…Therefore Witty’ enough, I feel.
So if any of you are distinct followers of this blog, you might know that I have a tendency for a smashingly swell idea for a regular series of articles that will blossom my writing career into something beyond the eloquence of a graffiti-less toilet wall…and it lasts one article.
One article, and then the rigour-mortis of arrogance and anxiety kicks in; wherein I’m so gifted a writer that I don’t need to prove it just yet, which is handy because I’m terrified it’d be no good.
I feel this one will last though, largely because it’s an interesting subject to focus on, largelier because I’m willing to devote one summary sentence before calling it a success as a matter of insistence and promptly moving on to insisting furthermore that “largelier” is a word. Of course it is; I’ve used it twice in one sentence alone.
The subject of focus will be perpetual fashion – that which is inherently ‘IN’ and irreversibly hip.
Do you recall the scene in ‘The Social Network’ in which Mark Zuckerburg ponders on how fashion is never finished? I didn’t, until I thought of these following few, bare, barely-articles in which I agree that, certainly, fashion is never finished; but it is for some things.
Like cigarettes and babies.
As Chandler Bing said: “Smoking is COOL!”
And there’s some on-the-nosemanship right there.
Smoking will never be out of fashion.
Whilst there are certainly manners in which smoking is not-cool, of course. Such as a when it’s grubby, withered knuckles and filthy tips shaking and stutteringly willing out some last form of devoted elegance as the rizzla wraps the tobacco and the dry tongue comes trembling out to seal the dirty deal before setting the whole ensemble on fire and then it starts raining. Oh wait – that’s still pretty cool.
Of course, dying of cancer or emphazema is as awful as can be expected; but that’s only related to this. Another article will come regarding whether or not dying of cancer or emphazema is cool (early insight: not cool. Tragically dying of any disease, preventable or not, hasn’t been fashionable since ‘Philadelphia’).
Humphrey Bogart in ‘Casablanca’ said it best as he wordlessly tapped a cigarette from its pack, tapped it again to ensure the tobacco was surely impacted well, placed it between is oft-watched, oft-listened to and thankfully rarely oft-smelt lips, lit the branch (otherwise known as ‘setting it on fire’ – also perpetually IN) and then performed the part of a lifetime; confidence set ablaze by the team-work back-up of tar, smoke and fire.
Very primeval; but I guess that was early film history.
Breathing smoke is inhuman and not possible; so we do it.
The ultimate accompaniment; that branch of flaming danger hanging from the lips like a gunslinger’s piece yet also perched, pinched, with the poise and whatnot-knowhow of a magician taking your attention and sneaking your watch; smoking is cool and I haven’t even begun to discuss how it acts like a phallus and is therefore inherently impressive (early insight once more; erect penises have been fashionable since day dot. Flaccid; well, I’ve got some tales to tell).
Smoking is cool, yes; tragically.
It’s a three-pipe problem Watson!
Yes, the pipe is cooler. Partially because it is a habit that comes with a skill – just trying smoking a pipe without the insight of one who knows better – and mostly because my Grandpa used to smoke one (along with Holmes) and he used to smoke Old Shag.
A class that I miss, especially since my Nana banned in from the house.
Babies, however, are the point of all life in the human sphere (when we get to the nitty-gritty of it). Whereas the self-destructive definition of us as a species that is so self-involved yet also dangerously and adorably curious is a true picture of the folk of Earth; all that ‘human ingenuity that brought fire to the cave and saved the world oh-so coolly’ pales like a haunted and freshly laundered wedding dress in comparison to babies.
Babies were our ‘point’ prior to the species.
They make everything look better, including your outlook on life and especially the photo-plastered inner-wallet of that gruff chap who never says much but turns out to have a baby and is immediately more pleasing. A guy with a cigarette in his wallet doesn’t have the same impact on the public in the lunch line.
Babies are the new and original black.
Give a man a cigarette and he’ll look cool for 84 millimetres, give a man a baby he’ll look cool until he hands it back; which he should do if he’s a genuinely cool guy. The coolest guys will put out his cigarette before receiving the baby.
Put a baby in a suit. It’s cool.
Put a baby in animal furs. It’s cool too.
There’s little a baby can be put in that it doesn’t carry-off tremendously with much aplomb.
What doesn’t a baby look cool in?
I’m not certain why, but a baby in a boat does not look cool.
Why don’t’cha just go figure?
I’ve focused on babies looking cool here; but that by no means equates to being ‘fashionable’.
But babies are still eternally fashionable; people just won’t stop with reproductive output.
Then again, it’s not as though babies are original.
That idea’s been had, a fair few millennia ago, and still…see them go – flaunted about and rightfully praised as the greatest accessory known to humankind and the very soul and individual origin of the it too.
Plus babies know all the classics of fashion; gurgling, crawling, toddling and tumbling, dungarees (it takes a man better than me to be able to work well with dungarees outside of a professional capacity) and the ability to simply be watched, nerve-wracking and utterly, utterly affirming of whatever one is currently pondering upon at the time.
Babies are IN.
Article complete. Cigarettes and babies are perpetually IN and I hope this series of articles with continue to be too.
Next time? I’m thinking vaginas and the Irish.
All the best,
(P.S. An interesting note on to cigarettes and babies as being perpetually IN; they are both enjoyed post-coitus, albeit one 9-months later)
When sitting down to write about Contemporary Art, there are two things to consider of the audience.
1: Prior to the first letter being inked (or in this case – pixelated), the reader will have dug their heels into the ground, before quickly whipping said heels off altogether and preparing to stab those stilettos between the authors eyebrows.
This is true of the coupled viewpoints on the matter, from the admirers of the form, to those who are adverse to it, or rather – in quote form: “How much?”, “Load of bollocks!” And “My two year old could’ve done that!”. (Indeed, then why didn’t your genius little two year old do it then and bring his postnatal worth up into the seven-figure bracket? Two years old and such an under-performing disappointment already…)
2: They’ve already gone.
Contemporary Art is to them confusing, accusatory, kind of funny, exceedingly odd, uncomfortable and alright-I-guess, to which is added the viewpoints of the above category and thereby making their lack of presence on the gallery floor more than understandable.
I’ve been all over the world and have walked into many an art gallery in my few years, so I feel I’ve a good handle on whether or not I’ve got a opinion on the matter.
And I’m pretty sure I’ve got an opinion on the matter.
And I’m about to share it with you.
Any second now.
There’s a great deal of art that floats my boat and splendid. Well done world. Good idea on all that art you did.
And some of the art I like provokes powerful emotions and thoughts within me, and that’s also fairly smashing.
When I take a good long look at the later work of Vincent Van Gogh, I am filled with a very sad understanding of the artist; who and how he was before his thoroughly documented end.
Of course I would, I believe, feel differently (indeed – potentially not feel at all) if I were unaware of the documented (by art historians via pen and Van Gogh himself via thick globules of emotive colour) decline of the artist as a fellow.
If it weren’t for my parents, some minor schooling and a jolly good book or two, I’d think ‘Sunflowers’ was but a painting of sunflowers and that ‘Starry Night’ was a painting of a village with low light pollution.
Had it not been for all that prior knowledge, I’d have no idea about that distinct hue of ‘I-want-to-shoot-myself blue’.
It’s the same with art in a gallery, particularly Contemporary Art.
There are two facets to Contemporary Art, as follows:
1. It looks cool.
Like guns and smoking and smoking guns (and, I don’t know if you can ‘gun smokes’, but if you can, that too).
I saw a piece today that was a wooden mallet, nailed to a wall.
It looked tremendous, suited the wall very nicely, and was unforgivably cool; giving the poor mallet some of that ‘juxtaposition-medicine’. The sort of thing I’d wear on a t-shirt, although preferably inked on – rather than nailed.
Sometimes art can be cool and at other times it can be pretty, like singular strips of highly expensive wallpaper by a renowned wallpaperist.
To bring up Feng Shui (because I feel bringing it up here will really focus the article’s inner energy and help with my flow), I’d say that art can really tie the room together (as per Lebowski’s rug).
Not much to think about, like a simple absurdist joke; the point is in the silliness.
There are worse things to walk past; worse things to ignore.
2. The second facet is that they have a tremendous given explanation typed on that vital little white plaque next to the art work, detailing what you should be understanding and how you should be feeling, all whilst speaking in the definite.
You may have seen the Damien Hirst piece: ‘The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living’. It’s a shark, preserved in formaldehyde, in a tank suspended from a ceiling, whilst you look at it and think about how you cannot really configure death, only ponder about how you can muse upon it.
The use of the shark as an image of death having died, paired with the image of it frozen in time whilst we are not, gets you oh-so thoroughly.
This is an example of a sturdy bit of art, something which stirs you deep down in THERE and gets you whirring away up THERE. Just like ‘Sunflowers’, just like ‘Guernica’.
And a good deal many people know how they feel about it and these other pieces I because it said what to feel, just next to it, on a little white plaque.
That little white square of essence.
A picture paints a thousand words, but I’ve got a thousand and one words and a whole load of capital letters and exclamation marks! See!!?
This is by no means the rule of all Contemporary Art: the nice art made for walking past, the art that looks cool whilst you ignore before wearing it on a t-shirt and the art that is utterly visually moving. But for the rest of Contemporary Art…those little white squares of essence are the only tale teller.
I could say that they go hand in hand, and that one cannot live without the other, like conjoined twins sharing the heart, but although I tried understanding some of the lesser communicable pieces of Contemporary Art prior to reading the plaque beside it…I think I preferred just reading the plaque.
The thousand-word-worthy image to accompany that plaque; I can conjure that on my own in my head.
Because that’s what words cause us to do.
The writer does the hard work for these guys and gals, so I’ll keep on reading, but I want the author of those little white squares of essence to get some credit.
Perhaps the main plaque could come with another, minor, plaque, detailing the intents of the main plaque’s author and listing his or her’s previous work.
Or maybe they could really broaden the genre, and squeeze some Romance, perhaps a little Sci-Fi, maybe even a good dose of innuendo (and out-your-endo).
Either way, all I’m really trying to say is that I went to an art gallery today and I emerged opinionated.
‘Guernica’ is heart-wrenching, ‘Sunflowers’ are heartening and the little white squares of essence are at times just as informative and emotive as the art whose meaning they attempt to convey.
Here’s to Pablo, here’s to Vincent and here’s to the authors of our art.
In related otherness, sunflowers are my favourite flower; I’ll tell you why soon.
I’ve always felt there’s a good deal of character to letters, and as a means of filling the blankness I shall now detail the alternative uses for letters and aspects of their character.
This began when is watched a chap fishing and consciously thought he was in need of a lower case g to hook them. A lower case q would preferable but only when armed with that delightful acute flick of the tail, as opposed to the droopy trailing disappointment that this font offers.
Let us continue.
Due to reading-aid picture books as a child, lower case ‘a’ perpetually remind me of apples and are consequently appear delicious to me, lower case only. Capital A looks like a truly broad letter that’d have its hands on its hips and speak confidently as per a pokemon and say “…A”. Capital A could were a cloak and look reasonable, whilst encouraging children to stay safe and always eat their lower case a’s.
Capital B looks like something you box with, but it also has breasts which somewhat diminishes the pain and tenfolds the impact. Pummeled and cheered via bosom. If not this, then handcuffs, again with bosoms, again intolerably sufferable. Lower case b, just looks like a nice guy, like a thumbs up. I can picture the b leaning on a lamppost, tiny wee cigarette alight and then b sees me walking towards him and…continues to be a b. Character development is non essential in a character, especially so early on in this alphabet epic.
Capital C is suspiciously communist, looking worryingly good in wearing red, whilst lower case c is adorable, like a cat curled up. I try to walk past these two quickly, in case I mistakenly wake the cutely sleeping and purring lower case c and also in case the capital Cs gang up on me a reclaim my property in the name of the proletariat. Not sure how to fight a C, but it looks rude enough to have a sensitive area to kick and I’d never forgive it for nationalising my pet c.
Capital D is for slicing cooking herbs. It looks appropriately slicey as you roll it back and forth across your herb, whilst also possessing a fortuitous handhold. Happy cooking. Lower case d is for propping your eyelids open whilst you continue through this article. There are some out there in this world that might suggest that the sole intended use of D is denouncing the positives of a fellow they consider a ‘Dunce’. Fuck these folk. It’s not meant for nastiness; it’s a for slicing herbs.
As for capital E, you can do as I do and either comb your hair (which, to be honest, I don’t do) or simply use it (as I do with a brush or, even better a cat) to scratch your back. Would it make an ‘EEEeee!’ based sound as you scratched back and forth with it? Probably not, because that’s silly.
A lower case f always appears to me (largely when hand written) as though one should be able to play music with it, as though it is to be strummed by a pale lady in a classically classless restaurant. It also looks it should make a longer sound than “fuh”. A melodic and elongated “fuh” – that’s what I’m trying to get across to you Dear Reader. Meanwhile the F’s capital is best dressed in pink and looking swollen like a proud marshmallow. Capital Fs always seem swollen. Shame but everyone’s got to be good at something; even letters, and capital Fs are absolutely top notch at swelling.
Both the capital G and lower case g looks like a hip place to hang out, either by reclining in the Capital whilst hunched over a chessboard (coz how hunched you are determines your passion for the game of chess. It’s all in the back) whilst the dangling tail of the g looks a fine locale for a dandy to hang about; somewhere suitably comfortable and dangerous…something adults wouldn’t approve of.
H is the contrary to the Gs, both lower and capital, as it seems the place that a responsible father would purchase to ensure his family lived in a secure home with a staunch roof. Both h and H appear to me as though they should been surrounded by a tidy little garden and neat lawn. There’s no doubt that H and h are the most financially responsible letters of the alphabet.
‘I’ looks bloody lethal, just a sharp jut of a letter, careful not to wave it about otherwise one might take another’s eye out with an I. And that’s weird. Lower case I seems as though someone examined the capital and thought…”Needs more dot” like a child proof version of the deadly I; welcome to i.
It would appear I’ve written alternative uses for letter all the way up to I.
And it’s been a pleasure, though I swear I’ll never do it again, no matter how kooky I’m feeling.
Although I would like to add for the record that I think lower case q is an unceasingly flirtatious letter and i wish it’d stop looking at me like that.
And a capital Z is an extraordinarily uncomfortable sleeping position, though it does sum up the journey via the finality of things, such as this twenty minute article, what with its zig-zagging nature, despite being in alphabetical order.
I have never been more proud of my species than the occasion on which I watched the video of an Australian man squaring up with and punching a Kangaroo.
To begin, this was not one of those cruel kangaroo-boxing charades as per the Victorian era…it was a kangaroo that deserved to be punched and man that deserved to do the punching.
To set the scene of this wonderful moment, it begins sadly.
A young Australian man has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, meaning that his life is a great deal more ‘over’ than the rest of us currently walking around.
This being so, the chap is still luckier than a fair many people; because he has his friends who are insistent on taking him out to live life whilst it’s still liveable.
So this friend takes his very ill pal out to do what they both enjoy most; hunting with their dogs in their jeep.
Here is where the video begins.
A shakily held camera (a shakily held camera is forgivable considering cancer) atop the jeep, Aussie outback whizzing past and distressed calls of the men looking for their dogs which appear to have disappeared.
As it turns out, they had a fear of what had become of their hounds, and the fear was confirmed.
The motor pulls to a stop and a man, the friend, leaps down and begins walking towards what we can now see; a large dog in the unfriendly embrace of a very large Grey Kangaroo (‘the big kind’).
The man is walking towards the two animals with manly purpose; and here’s why that’s brave.
A Grey Kangaroo is about 5-feet-something tall and filled with testosterone and all the muscly meat that entails.
Have you ever seen a shaved chimp? Whilst casually reaching for a banana you’ll see their arms ripple with all sorts of unnecessary-yet-insisted-upon-by-nature muscles, and a kangaroo is no different.
In a permanent ‘look at my muscles’ pose, a lone male Grey Kangaroo is highly aggressive and will happily consider your garden as it’s new pot to piss in.
Along with this, the kangaroo is deadly owing to one weapon in its arsenal; the tail.
Usually seen as a mere aid to its hopping about the wilderness, it is in fact like a crocodile’s tail; filled with muscle and unyielding bone, not prehensile but it’ll make you apprehensile (but only if you’ll excuse poor puns) when you discover it’s trick.
When fighting, kangaroos might look as though they are indulging in a bitchy little face pushing fight, with scratching being the order of the day, but this is not the end all. For the deadly strike, the kangaroo will lean back on it’s bewilderingly now-leg-like tail (currently holding its entire bodyweight) and proceed to kick out with its legs into the abdomen of the opponent.
Picture a tripod bouncing across the Australian landscape, only you didn’t realise this until too late and now its going to involve that third leg most unfairly in a fight.
The force breaks bone, and should claw catch flesh: the belly can easily be carried off and away.
To tackle this takes guts, as it is your ‘guts’ that can also quickly be staining your bush shoes and the kangaroo’s toes.
That is what this man is walking towards, with oh-so-perfect a purpose.
The kangaroo sees the approaching Aussie male, and let’s the dog escape (with which it appreciatively flees).
The man is now right up to the kangaroo, and there is a hell of a lot of testosterone in the air this afternoon.
He and the kangaroo both square up, with the Roo bulking out and the man shaking loose like Bruce Lee as he adapts to a boxing pose.
And then, the man promptly puts his hand though the kangaroo’s chin.
Through it’s chin.
Like UTTER BUTTER.
And I’m standing up and yelling “YEEEESSSS” at this, in my cosy bedroom at home, thousands of miles away and two weeks later.
The kangaroo waves is arms in pathetic yet vital little spirals in effort to keep balanced whilst it leans back dependently on its deadly secret weapon of a third leg.
The look on its face is of be-fucking-whilderment.
It does not have the processing skills demanded of it now to understand the tuned ability of this incredible species: humanity.
Exactly how to stand so as to generate adequate power for the punch, precisely where to aim and land the blow through the now-since-buttery chin of the kangaroo, and the compassion of heart to not have your mate’s trip spoiled by the loss of another great friend to our species: dogs.
The kangaroo is entirely and irrevocably undone by the chap’s species, his knuckles and his good form.
The standing up for your species and your mates is the pinnacle of what we should be spending our time doing and this could not have been better (like BUTTER) exemplified here.
Kangaroo defeated, humanity the victor, this Australian man nods his head in appreciation of the occasion (“Yeah.” would fit well here) turns, and walks away, back to his dog and his mate to enjoy the rest of their trip together.
My hero and yours.
The statement is ultimate.
The next time we have a chance do this this it might be Aliens…so get your shit together, do some push-ups and hug your mates.
Well done sir; bravo humanity.
Video here: http://youtu.be/FIRT7lf8byw
(Disclosure: A kangaroo WAS mildly hurt during the making of the article, but it was being a bully dick and deserved it.)
Third article in a row.
Third article in a row hurts.
With the get-go of the first and second I was enthused with such an efficient tempest of productivity, less than 24 hours ago, that now I gaze back upon it wistfully.
To begin, after an efficient cup of tea, I exercised in the manliest of manly ways.
That’s not to say I lifted the weightiest (owing to being medically buxom) femme fatal I could rescue and kicked in bolted dungeon door after bolted high-tower door whilst cloaked in a sexy sheen of man sweat and musk that made me both glow like a golden god and reek like the best bits of a bear. I did however, do some push-ups and then acted like I wasn’t breathing at all heavily – no big deal (I did 15 and 1 for luck; I promise).
To follow I made some notes, something I can reassuringly ignore later, like a comfort blanket in the form of a sheet of words that I can tug over my guilt of not wanting to write at that time.
This can be a pickle as time passes. And not a good pickle, like a summer’s day pass-me-the-pickle-jar-darling kind of pickle. Rather more the bad kind, is-it-a-pickle is-it-a-Victorian-baby-with-too-many-noses-and-not-enough-heads kind of pickle.
You might know it as a gherkin (oh the joys of language!).
Then I travelled by Greyhound bus from Byron Bay to Brisbane.
This is normally a tremendous chance to begin ignoring my notes, and I indulged heftily, though my ignoring was interrupted by the need to I wiped the drool from my wife’s chin, blouse, and allocated seating area (when the drool flowed out of this area; I considered it free to roam).
I then finished reading my book, a galant little number about a cheeky doctor and his silky ilk, before beginning a comic-tragedy the Jehovah’s Witnesses had whipped up (featuring some worryingly enthused illustrations, such as a reanimated-to-life woman who appears so jolly at what has befallen her she just might bite every living motherfucker out there).
Briefly Brisbaned Brisbane and bought the brand of noodles that taste just swell out of the sheer knowledge you’re saving money by having a mediocre time. The joys of discipline (feeling good about a bad time) are a treat we’re having to rely on these days.
I don’t care how, but I feel we should also say “noodles” more frequently.
It’s bound to help somehow, unless the osmosis effect is of people becoming more ‘noodley’ and that’s all too easy to envisage. The prospect of shaking hands with a ‘noodley’ man upsets me and my digits. Let’s cease this noodleyness.
Ate the noodles and spent the next hour wallowing in the few cents I’d saved in an attempt to stave off the oncoming nervousness I could feel in my thankfully ‘not-noodley’ bones.
Why was I feeling so? Noodles? Was I not feeling good enough about my bad time?
So I charged away and fled back again; meaning I exercised back and thither, hither and there across the apartment floor, waiting for the good feeling of discipline to take hold.
I would begin writing any second now.
There’s a tarnishing habit in myself and others in which we swerve in attempts to begin work by assuring ourselves we’d be far more productive at a more inconvenient time; translating to “we’ll wait till midnight to panic, by which time we’ll be far too slumberous to give the panic the performance it deserves so…might as well ‘beddiebyes’ it”.
Midnight was still a way away and so I tuned my efficiency once more, as a means of procrastination.
I washed my body and washed my clothes, became diligent in both, to the point of folding my socks and working out the creases by my eyes.
Currently…too much coffee, perhaps the inner conflict of procrastination against a righteous little hobby, or maybe the noodles let me down; in any case I’m beginning to find all actions and choices to be a slope well buttered and I’m sliding.
And now it’s tomorrow.
I’ve slept, awoken, watered and walked, before chasing my bed all the way home upon the discovery of my being unhealthy and not fit for public consumption.
And following a day in bed, I am exhausted, tired and getting the knack of being knackered (testicles are also commonly referred to in the British Isles as “knackers” and this is funny, if a tad tricky to work into this tale…goodness knows why but my testicles were not of tremendous feature this day).
Now my lass is home with me, drooling and occasionally sleeping, whilst I type this out to you feeling sad.
Third article this year and it’s a sick note from my self-created inner-mother (whom I’m finding worryingly attractive…hopefully due to her looking like me) excusing me from my tardiness and signed with an adorably audacious yet shaky signature.
I’ll write two now to make amends.
Consider it as writing lines.
It’s got to be vinyl.
Because we don’t need the Earth as much as we once so crucially depended on it.
I was very intellectually viewing a Vice video recently, in which the news was studied that Jack White (once a White Stripe) has purchased a vinyl record factory in Detroit, wherein he has a workforce devoted to bringing back about the tradition of music being heavier in the hand.
Throughout the interview, White gave his reasons for this endeavour, citing the enormous sales of vinyl in the UK and how music audiences have tired of the “invisibility” of music.
White also mentioned that folk liked moving mechanical parts to their music; which is nice.
I can see the appreciation of vinyl being a visible pleasure, for it was the same when I first purchased my first cd; Blood Sugar Sex Magic by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
The album art system is lost, with the purchased song now having the visible identity of a postage-stamp sized irrelevance in the corner of your screen.
Whilst one could claim that this gives the audience no illusions other than the sheer product of music itself; album art was and can be tremendous.
With Warhol and The Velvet Underground having the audacity to bend minds with a banana, the ludicrously luscious lips (even the tongue is still swaggering) of the Rolling Stones and world starting Big Bang of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (by the Beatles; a local Liverpool based group); these album covers gave an added appropriate kick in the teeth to authority and kick in the arses to those young folk whose attention had yet to be garnered.
Memorable to the mind, and our first contact with the album; the cover art mattered and it still can as it gives the artist another dimension the express and the audience an added bud to with which to taste.
The theme of dimensions plays again when regarding the idea of making music “heavier in the hand”.
The song you’ve downloaded from ITunes, is THE song. You’ve got it and so do your companions.
With the vinyl album, just as it was for me when I bought my first cd; what you hold in your hand is now YOURS.
That’s YOUR Appetite for Destruction. That’s MY Are You Experienced.
Of course, one’s chums had it too, only theirs was theirs, whilst yours was yours.
The album would be clenched to the strangling point of anticipation whilst you listened for the first time, studied diligently and blindly stared at as it revolved in ones hands as you felt what the songs gave you to feel or found a feeling within you.
I can tell because it’s in my hand. Yours is in yours.
As well as this, there is the factor of also listening to this music, should you care to.
“Crisp”, “clear”, “acute”, “sharp”, “sterile”, “cutting” – All words describing why you should purchase the latest model of audio technology.
“Cold” is another and is, for me, the definition of digital sound in so far as a pleasure.
It has a place, of course, with Metal and certain Dance and Techno tunes, but people are drifting towards the future of vinyl for the welcoming, wistful “warmth” that it breathes.
A pleasing, deep groove of a song comes from the speaker of a turntable. The familiarity of sound that resonates like that of ones father coming home from work whilst your mother was reading and you were really rather busy in the womb.
The sound of ‘next door underwater’ has, in my thoughts, a direct link to our first hearings from within mum’s tum; a resonance from before you were born.
That’s quite a selling point.
Why choose vinyl?
Because of this, that, and the other; especially those last three.
It’s also tall and wide and round and it spins, all highly pleasing attributes to most physical things and a record is no exception.
The flaw in the proud procession along the groove of vinyl’s victory parade over digital music is that leads to the inevitable and irreversible end of the Earth.
It is a physical thing, and physical things take up space about the planet.
They require a great deal of energy to create and distribute, both of which cause ice shelves to melt as quickly as teenage hearts to a sweet pop melody.
A vinyl record can be found lodged in the corpse of a once highly determined and regrettably dense seagull or tortoise, who took to biting and swallowing once the young chap on the brow of the boat impressed everyone immensely by demonstrating just how well a vinyl record could fly with the correction application of “spin”.
Sharpened well, a vinyl record could be the weapon of choice; whilst the digitally downloaded song is notably omitted from current editions of Cluedo as a method of murder.
And so the Earth will close for business and eternity; awash in seas of plastic discs and enormous and quality album art.
It’s a good thing Mars has all but invited us to call in soon.
I’ll pack in advance I think…must remember to bring my IPod.