What to Do With a Problem Like “Ghostbusters”
Posted: July 29, 2016 Filed under: culture, film, writing | Tags: 1984 ghostbusters, 2016 ghostbusters, Culture, Film, Gender, ghostbusters, marketing, sony, writing 1 CommentI was one of those chaps born in 1989, there are a few of us, and being one of those chaps I was perhaps too young to appreciate Ghostbuster when it came out in 1984.
Years later, when I was essentially an adult, I watched it again and found it to be…not that great.
The humour was a little meagre for my tastes, and the nerd/slacker focus was a tad uninspiring too. However, I found the creativity of the film, in ripping open the subject matter of nerds/slackers meet ghosts/history/NYC/paying the rent was tremendous; and this is the essence of the original Ghostbusters that the remake should have harnessed, rather than a mere brand name.
The film has received nastiness, nastiness inspired by revenge.
People are angry, but why so angry? Crappy films and crappier re-makes have been made and re-made before.
What’s the issue here?
Here’s the issue here.
Hurting Those Who Gave the Original Film the Prestige Sony’s Cashing in On
If you fuck with a cult film, you’re going to hurt people on an individual level if you don’t have the best intentions.
For a cult film to become so, like Ghostbusters, it requires that audience member to put a degree of themselves into their passion for it, in the same way anyone comes to love any project of theirs. So when someone (Sony) takes it and twists it, not for the better, you’re taking and warping a degree of that individual and in many cases it is their childhood or loner-hood.
Films can go from neglected to beloved by the power of the many individuals who come to love it and espouse its qualities and worth; best example being “The Big Lebowski” (my favourite).
The women and men currently in their 30s, those for whom “Ghostbusters” holds nostalgic and personal value, are smarting from not only the poor quality of the film but more so because now Sony has done it to them.
Want to know why they’re pissed off? Google “Ghostbusters” – see what comes up.
The Gender Issue
It wasn’t an issue.
It was an issue for one group only.
Sony.
The audience didn’t care that it starred women, only the studio did. You can’t take a beloved film and have 1 new addition, otherwise it is simply cashing in on the former’s reputation.
“Ghostbusters…This Time With Women!” didn’t need to be made. The studio’s highlighting that this time it’s got women as stars is not a selling point – it shouldn’t matter if it is men or women starring; gender of the cast should not be a selling point.
Doing this only goes to offend the nostalgia fans, the feminist movement and the audience at large because it’s meagre and a pointless transformation.
Gender should not be a selling point and the studio have insisted to the contrary.
By all means, make a film starring solely women, but don’t try to make that the reason we should go and see it. That’s shoddy marketing and an insult to us all.
The best intentions for a film like this should be that you wish to go by the old mantra: similar but different.
You’ll want to modernise the film in terms of what will gain 21st century audience attention span along with 21C humour, whilst also keeping the essence of the original.
In this case study, Sony did not have the best intentions and sought only to cash in on the brand name’s prestige and inject minimal creative additions: gender (ir)relevance and crappy 21C fad humour.
Awkwardness is not funny, as the abysmal yet sadly typical trailer demonstrates.
Just look at the work of the great comic Sasha Baron Cohen, who’s “Borat” and “Bruno” exemplified tremendously that awkwardness is an eventuality – not an objective – of comedy. If it doesn’t come from a funny premise, it is merely awkward and that’s not worth anyone’s time. Cohen’s characters always came from a humorous premise and this is why the films were funny, whilst their hallmarks of awkwardness were an eventuality – not the objective and not the selling point.
The Victims
Something to be born in mind here are those involved who are not to blame for Sony’s actions.
A good cast of actors, each with a promising future and dedication to their craft have been hoodwinked into believing this is going to be a quality product and have likely given this project their all, as have all those many names in the final credits of the production.
You can only do what you can do with a shitty script, poor direction and production, especially with an awful overseer in Sony.
They don’t deserve hate.
Given better projects, they’ll likely shine and we should wish them all well.
They will have learnt this bitter lesson.
Sony will probably do this again, as will other studios.
What to Do Now
Well, if you liked the original Ghostbusters, watch it again, laugh and remember, alone or with buddies.
The original film, or rather the “Good Ghostbusters” hasn’t gone anywhere.
It’s still there in all its 1984 glory.
So be sure your kids see that one first, and perhaps see what you can do to get the “Good Ghostbusters” higher in the Google rankings.
Go see the next Melissa McCarthy film, the next Paul Feig picture and even the next Sony release.
The might be good, might be horrendous, might be great. You’ll never know unless you go see it and give it a chance. If it’s rubbish; go home and watch the “Good Ghostbusters” again.
Let it fade into obscurity, just as this film shall, and relax.
Everything’s ok.
Jeez, I don’t like either of them anyway.
Sam
Gallant Without Option
Posted: July 12, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: chivalry, comedy, finance, funny, gallantry, Humour, masculinity, Weird, writing Leave a commentIt’s all in the shoulders.
Every last bit.
I lift.
And I can’t stop.
My shoulders are so gallant; I can’t help but ferry a woman over a gender-barricading obstacle upon mere sight.
I carried so many woman down 12 flights of stairs recently that I had to buy new shoes.
It’s all in the shoulders.
And I can’t get it out.
The cost of shoes is one expense to cause my wallet to shrivel in fear; yet this is merely loose change compared to my outgoings in the cost of capes.
My capes; my capes.
Once the talk of the town and vocality of the locality.
Now they either wait for me patiently as hostages in my dry cleaners till payment matters are met, or they lay drowned in an irrelevant pool I could not bear for a good and find lady to dare dirty her soles within.
It’s all in the shoulders.
Not in the slightest bit in the swing.
My hopes that my swooping swing of a really rather dashing glove my give cause to the insulter of my latest and sudden beloved suffer an embarrassed cheek, rather than myself to suffer from one hand gloved and another gripping once-pleasing remnants.
My glove bill brings tears to my eyes and drool to my tailor’s chin.
I must work more on my swing, less on my shoulders.
But one cannot bear a weight in one’s swing.
Only cause a whooshing sound.
It’s all in the shoulders.
Rather than lifting; I think I’ll take up dropping.
Sam
Immortalised Moi
Posted: July 12, 2016 Filed under: The Greatest Human to Ever Live, writing | Tags: Art, Culture, Earth, eating, funny, Humour, life, philosophy, phrasing, self improvement, self-development, statues, writing Leave a commentThree miles away, there shall be a bear, be it Black, Grizzly or Pooh – breed matters not, and it shall be fleeing; fleeing from the fact of me a’stoney – three miles away in the new capital, busied by floral tributes and perhaps some well-put-together and recently deconstructed oxen.
In terms of animal sacrifice, I feel it’d be rude not to accept.
It seems natural to expect statues of myself to appear; pimpling the globe, here – in honour of my recently being deemed worthy to have a statue, there – being used to keep the pigs in the forest.
I muse fondly the idea of having sat-upon-feet, by lovers sharing an ice-cream whilst also having no idea who I am because they’re young.
It is but a shame statues aren’t a rebellious art form, being an erection of the establishment only.
It’d work though, with a sudden subversive statue on your front door – cope with that won’t you please Mr Reagan?
Me, as stone, shall gather no moss and isis (because they deserve lower-case) will keep away from this piece of articulated rock.
They’ll take note of my presence and consider as follows:
- Naturally; urinate. Urinate all over their own western candy.
- Turn the gun to themselves, look down the barrel, give it a brief suck as some vague hope of demonstrating greater subservient allegiance before; finally…
- Emitting an “Oh I see” in that democracy is the way forward, being gay is irrelevant whilst gay people aren’t and woman are terrific – let them try a book.
How did they realise democracy is the way forward?
They read it my democratic countenance.
I look democratic.
And, thus, you shall also be democratic; because I said so.
It’ll go with your new rebellious statues on the city centre.
Since you’ve asked, and I’m glad you did, as to how I would most like to be appreciated in stone once departed, there are several things upon to ruminate upon within the hallowed-hollow.
Such as: what cloth shall I wear?
I shall be nude.
Everyone’s laboured hard today and we all deserve a treat.
However, I’ll need something to flow – the best statues have a flow to them.
Got it – the luscious hide of a monstrous beast I bested, tamed, struck up a striking brotherly familiarity with and finally put out of its withered misery with game of fetch so intense one might describe as being “to-the-hilt!”.
Plus an actual stab to the hilt, owing to it being a monstrous beast and needing metaphors to be hammered home somewhat.
And you can bet your bottom…arse…that I won’t be urinating.
But why not Sam, you magnificent chap you?
Because it’s remarkably amusing to see the number of honoured deities flooding the market square with well-plumbed flows. And whilst this may be so; I’ve a better idea for everyone.
For, yea, I shall shit you your daily bread and prosecute all trespasses.
Actually; I’m all in favour of permitting a hint of trespassing (yes – I went there), but the humour is more humorous if we remain in good humour and don’t get a little too technical.
Intelligently mechanised automated bakeries, installed within the magnificent depths (my depths are magnificent) of my statues, having collaborated with my personal physicians, will feed the poor and aid the working single mother on her way home without time to pop to the shops.
Every hour and 30 minutes, another loaf emerges from between my heavenly yet Earthly buttocks and plummets into the waiting arms of the grateful below.
An added advantage of this is the appreciation shown by the gulls and pigeons for the morsels of bready-leavings in that they shit on other statues in other parts of the city/woods.
And that show of gratitude matters to me most of all.
Not to mention, should you shit on me; I’m the kind of statue to shit right back at you.
Even it’s a nice, considerate shit in the shape of a romance-heart. Thoust should have shat elsewhere, birdy.
I’ll punch a poo into you purely because it’s lyrical.
You feathery motherfucker; you want to get shitty at height with this immovable object?
I’ll be immovable all over; takes your eggs and have an omelette out of your lineage.
Plus beaks are dim. Your main method of eating requires you to headbutt the floor until you’re certain you’ve met with a good angle to grasp, toss thee petty crumb of crust high into the air and swallow whole (and, yes, whilst this may be my own preference of eating grapes, I’m still insulting you over it. Only idiots eat like us).
A statue, grubby or not, tends to look as though a bath is very much so in order.
Craving, with rain teared stoney eyes, a soak in the tub.
Where’d I’d become warm and gooey as though the centre of the Earth only 6 times as delicious.
I bet the centre of the Earth is a tasty place to be.
Working your way there after the rough crust of Vietnam, with the necessary healthy greens of northern South America, avoiding Saudi Arabia because no one wants that bit – the coffee bean in the Minstrel packet.
And the Earth is good, sturdy, take no mercy filling, complete with pleasant surprises that tingle the tongue, like a subterranean nuclear-proof palace of Kim Jong-un, and the occasional mole.
Working through that filling like you’re lusty. Lusty and proud with a tongue they’ll write songs of.
I lap at that planet, watchful of those wettards which may be a little too soggy. The Atlantic is guilty of this. Meanwhile the Sahara requires a beverage post-lapping. And London is just right, if a tad gritty.
Though I’ll bet Florida is like the juice you cannot but glug away at, refreshment to the hilt.
“To the hilt” – a phrase to remind us of a time when the utmost by which a thing could be done was as long as the blade you plunged into someone.
Let’s keep this phrasing up, shall we?
Take myself, for example. I am writing this article to the point of stabbing a fellow to full extent. I couldn’t possibly stab him any further – I’d quite exhausted my reach of stab; that’s how hard dedicated I am to this article.
Because murder is convincing.
Not as convincing as a statue; of course.
And none more so than a statue of me as myself.
Because I’m the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Keep in touch with your stone masons.
Tip them regularly.
Sam
Muhammad Ali – Speaking to Himself
Posted: July 8, 2016 Filed under: culture, Matters that Matter, The Greatest Human to Ever Live, writing | Tags: Ali, boxing, confidence, Culture, history, life, life-advice, masculinity, morality, Muhammad Ali, philosophy, self improvement, self-determination, Sociology, speaking, writing Leave a commentI’ve heard some criticism as of late.
Following the seemingly destined article from Time magazine by a chap following Ali through his early to late years, an article of magnificent insight and appreciation as only from one who was there if not him, I read a “Dear Editor” letter in response.
Apparently a wanker had a pencil this day.
Forgive a paraphrase or two, (something along the lines of which I’ve said prior) for the response came as thus:
“I don’t like boxing. He wasn’t great. Nah.”
Indeed, this Italian chap named Fausto, spoke of his likelihood to not even read this edition; so strong was his disappointment of what it contained within. Not that he would know; owing to not opening the edition he was so disappointed in.
Little minds might well sift for insight into menial and miniscule subjects, and that’s fine (what could be finer than thinking about nothing much at all – please see metaphysics), but I don’t like a bully with or without a pen and to see a journalist and the dead picked on for the purposes of you wishing to share a bad day are unacceptable.
Get thee to a nunnery and from there turn left to OFF in a FUCK manner.
Why was Muhammad Ali great?
Was he?
Only in terms of people; yes.
In terms of the science of the sport; indeed – “Nah”.
Nifty and continual; a chap who showed his penchant for dodging like a loony-tune, and leaving a man exhausted from successfully achieved swings and far more numerate misses.
His boxing was very good; and that is an understatement when regarding the mass murder (he could kill me repeatedly if he wished) of him vs I, and then an enormous overstatement should he have ever dared (as surely he would have) to dance with Tyson.
And that’s that; most thatilly.
And it is joyfully important to recall to all minds that his boxing talent and skill were merely as they were; “His boxing was very good”.
Naturally you’re to assume I’m on my way to thriving in verbosity over his spirit and standing; his courage and morality; which I have regard for, but not before compliment boxing as the scene-setter it is.
A world of men willing to receive a knuckily death-threat to the pretty and increasingly ugly face, the whimpering brain and even the shocked visceral innards.
It might not be the art it is often entitled as; but it is an extraordinary frame.
And so on to the man beyond the athlete.
Compare the term “sacrifice” to the term “donation”. The sacrifice of three prime years to a melancholy ether, could well be a synonym for donation to his might, his thought and his future.
Less so a matter of sound fiscal planning; his absence from the boxing scene was a departure from the income scene; his heroism of self did his wallet and entourage no favours.
Still, though I am grateful to this man, who made demonstrate the easeless act of will in order to achieve a more contented heart.
Morality made apparent.
There is a final credit to devote to this man.
I’ve heard a plethora of vocal recordings, capturing Ali and often letting him loose, from squeaky loud mouthing to an old hat wearing a better one than you, I’ve heard what Ali said to himself.
“I am the greatest!”
“I AM the greatest!”
And thus he became so.
Amidst a dislocated brain from the meat mountain of Foreman and the part immovable object/part irresistible force of two-hundred-thousand-year-old genetics from Frazier, and the shuffling existence of the concussion-infused Parkinsons disease; Ali has remained the greatest through no victory other than this; he took the time to realise he was.
“I AM the greatest!”
Ali was because he told himself he was.
And luck – both good and sour.
Ali told himself he was the greatest and so he was.
Self-doubt can lay a person to the unknown foundations of tomorrow, but Ali would only be the foundations of that tomorrow following a regard held highly and a continuation of the mantra.
He told himself: “I AM the greatest!”
And then; see what happened.
Thanks,
Sam
For the superb article of Ali by Robert Lipsyte, see the following link: http://time.com/4358073/muhammad-ali-robert-lipsyte-on-the-life-of-the-greatest/
Reasons to Stay in the EU, Reasons to Fight on. Referendum; Before and After
Posted: June 26, 2016 Filed under: culture, Matters that Matter, writing | Tags: EU, EUref, Europe, hope, internationalism, Leave, philosophy, politics, referendum, Remain, silly, writing 1 CommentTHE BEFORE
Why stay in the EU?
By the way, I’m not campaigning; I’m pleading.
Having come back recently from Italy and noticing the ubiquity of EU flags outside commercial centres and all government institutions; it would be frightfully embarrassing to explain this to them when next I visit.
How do you not take this personally?
When the Scots threatened and nearly did leave; I took it personally with a worrying proximity to truly meaning the much repeated mantra of “Fuck the Scots”.
And let us maintain the fact that Europeans are not a bunch (a fairly accomplished bunch at that) of folk to insult. Two World Wars and a whole load many more is an indication as to whether or not Euro-Unity is a necessity.
I can picture too easily the heaving shoulders of a Belgian confused and hurt as to why I left him; and I can only say “it’s not you. It’s not me either. It’s fucking Nigel!”
I loathe, with enough depth so state the word “loath” nice and slowly like I mean it, Nigel Farage.
As of then and as of now; he took purple from us.
And I had purple intentions; and only a few of them were throbby.
Mainly revolving around immigration, though less so by fantasising hoards of ‘worringly-brown’ families walking up to me in a dark alley and stealing my job and raping my benefits and far more so about wearing a fairly funky shade of the stuff as I make my way about the planet.
And now purple denotes displeasure towards all other dark shades; particularly skin-wise.
I might feel inclined to omit Europe from my travel from hereon; owing to being English and quite ‘simply’, ‘terribly’ and ‘awfully’ (not to mention ‘ever so quite rather’) embarrassed if that’s not too imposing thank you please sorry.
Similar to when travelling around any country where incredibly dangerously English is not the first-language and you are happened upon by a regrettable local regrettably insisting on some back-and-forth tongue wagging and all you can muster (in a manner as though protecting your family) is: “I’m sorry; I’m English”. Essentially translating as “I’m sorry…I’m English…I just can’t…”
Because I’m European.
THE AFTER
I feel you’ll be able to tell the change in my demeanour; from dainty absurdist of luxury to…now…melancholy.
Perhaps I should have written more with an aim to convince in the hope of at least 1 chap happening upon it and from then seek to Remain.
And there are things that will be missed, and things we shall surely flinch at.
An economic dip (dipped in shit); forecast to upset even Eskimos.
A decline in international influence (we were an effective and moral country and now we can accomplish less for the world).
The future of generations only young are tarnished by the moral fibre of our elders; whilst the efforts of our even-elders are admonished (how could we have betrayed that corner of those foreign fields that are for ever England?) so as to indulge cowardice and ignorance at the hands of demagogue profiteers.
In a world of in dire thirst for unity, even less than that sacrifice of our European brothers and sisters; we have betrayed ourselves and the as-one spirit that can only come from a world of noble individuality.
From here; there is one way forward.
The absolute and merciless progression of compassion for one and all.
Outstanding or nothing.
The forging of great days or bust.
Though it is odd we are doing this now, not for our children, but for our grandchildren, such are the repercussions.
Epic-up Great Britain; for we now have no option but to save the world.
Ridiculous; isn’t it?
Good.
Fuck Nigel.
Sam
Just Give My Hands a Chance. And Leave my Penis Be
Posted: June 25, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: bacon, don't worry, elephants, fuck nigel farage, hands, massage, silly, writing Leave a commentOne of the most prosperous aspects of my body would have to be my limbs.
Vitals, organs and head are all fine, well and occasionally dandy; but it is in the lengthier extremities by which I earn my living and dying.
Naturally there will be some echoing hushed speculation as to why in the world my most extreme extremity; that of my really-rather-male junk (I’m talking about my penis; which is occasionally your penis) doesn’t bring home the bacon.
Because people will talk; that’s why.
Bringing home bacon with one’s flaccid phallus denotes that the two filthy breeds, pigs and apes, are come together in a manner that only David Cameron would find fetching.
Plus I imagine one would have to resort to tying it in a knot so as to carry said pork product, in which case I’d carefully consider the etiquette of the situation before I serve this to my wife and children.
Perhaps a bow is more suiting.
Perhaps bacon entwined in a pleasantly bowed father and husband penis is not suiting.
Either way, in any matter and whatever, my penis is more a class of width as opposed to length, meaning that whilst my wife and I appreciate regularly jabs (“What an occasion!”); I receive no passing praise in the street.
Instead, whilst my feet (previously listed – LINK) have had their say and instead to have many more (my feet, comrades, are non-negotiable), today is a matter of hands.
My hands; my hands.
I’d give my hands a round of applause if only that weren’t ridiculous.
Rather than cut to the chase, let us cut to the capture, and know now all of you; my hands massage elephants.
They can cause an elephant to wither, from fingertip to trunk; they can make elephants forget their own family.
It’s a grasp and shaft action, gripping a vast many roles of grey skin and then pushing the fucking elephant down to the fucking compound (should one deign to phrase it aggressively).
“Shove the elephant” is a mantra charged to endow one with hands like those of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, though my hands refuse to spend time hanging around on ceilings. They’re a rooftop collaboration and they massage elephants into submissive amnesia.
My hands are the talk of the town and the song of the city, strolling with stride into drinking establishments, emitting an elephant story or two, raising a few fingers in jest, inserting a few finger in romance pits and finally balling up into a versatile meat-boulder and making their way to the colonies because they really haven’t changed their views yet.
They may be a tad on the reactionary side but, being hands, fuck ‘em.
And whilst “Fuck ‘em” is assured, they still do some outstanding work in their community, if only they’d get along a tad more serene.
The left hand is of pomp, holding cigarettes in that certain way, twirling a movie star with the reddest lips about and lazily gesturing his way through dialogue that must surely have been signed by Shakespeare.
The right; sees to the garden.
It also has a way with dogs and doesn’t trust women wearing trousers.
This being so, when in and amongst the elephant community, they move on through and the population becomes congregation and I swear I’ve seen the elephants smile.
Have you ever seen an elephant smile? It looks like a vagina; pouting.
Unified they are too damn fine typists, whilst eagerly awaiting their return to the elephant village, the garden and the red carpet.
They can type 400 words a minute.
Or, to put it more accurately: they can type “400 words a minutes”; taking about 3-4 seconds to do so.
They can get a great deal done, my hands, so before you dismiss them as being not what this country needs in these sadly brave times; recall that the silliness occurring here goes a great way to give me something to do on a dozy Saturday, remind one another that being British does require a certain noble absurdism, and that from here on out; let’s just smile a tad more regularly. Eh?
Give my hands a chance.
And fuck Nigel Farage.
That’s an order.
Give my hands a chance and, it’s probably best, leave my penis be.
Thanks for doing so,
Sam
My Feet are Non-Negotiable. Help
Posted: June 21, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., culture, writing | Tags: feet, meeting women, silly, something, testosterone, writing Leave a commentI was fortunate enough to notice recently that my feet are non-negotiable.
With me and where I am, they go and there they are.
Offer any offer and my response, with no tone of mirth nor pleasantries, shall come as: “and my feet? Have you calculated my feet?”
Look me in the foot when you’re talking to me.
From the ankle down I really do represent a threat to international internationalism, as opposed to national internationalism (in which people of a nation are in favour of internationalism owing to largely national issues and somewhat even-more-so-largely owing to yearning for a greater selection of cheeses and meats).
Before concurments of worldwide benevolence may take place, I’m going to need some devastatingly tasty preferences in terms of what my feet get out of it.
My feet deserve it.
Just look at them; they’re so helpless. They can’t even kick, their best efforts amounting to a slap-via-foot. They need a good mothering don’t they just.
They do themselves no favours; my feet are aloof, tending to look down upon most that tower above them.
Not to mention I have a bulbous toe.
“Bulbous? How so?” (I hear you mutter admiringly)
Well, sometimes a man’s got to swell, and I swell with an abundance of testosterone having nowhere else to go and an urge-undeniable to tell you all about it.
Every man must have a flaw, and whilst for the longest time I assumed this meant “floor” and found myself purchasing many (though I’m more of a wall-guy than a ceiling or floor-guy) before I realised the in actuality I needed a flaw.
Though what flaw to have?
To begin with, it’d better be sure to not interfere with my meaning; you know what I mean? Because if you don’t get my meaning and it’s due to my flaw interfering then I’m afraid I’m going to have to discipline it with the back and palm of my hand as though I’m fanning it poorly.
I hate being misconstrued, especially by something that’s eventually going to be in my toe.
So then what?
“Too much of a good thing” is something some people say sometimes.
What do I have that be bountiful?
Testosterone.
Once such vast amounts coursing through me to the point by which I had to shave twice a day, if only it were my (muscular) jaw and (movie-star) chin but alas it…I had to shave my fiancé.
So much testosterone I made other people hairy and then by proximity their recently sprouted hair stood on end, less so as a matter of friction and more so as a desire for it.
I am most favourable in enclosed spaces with strangers, because everyone leaves with a tale to tell, a whole bunch of new friends, a great-day-in-the-morning grin and I fucked you all.
And I did that on my way back home to shave my fiancé, by gosh I must stop indulging in games of sardines.
It’s a wonder I can get my bulbous toe in nowadays, but they must come with me and I must be victorious at sardines, otherwise fucking you all in only half a victory.
By the way, having adorably helpless feet is a great way to meet women.
Just lay them on the table in front of some witty gals and state with no understanding of the possibility of a negative refrain:
“So…I see you’ve noticed my feet. Sure, they look like they can play a fair few concertoes (I’m not sorry) but they’ve only got a few left in them.
We’ve just come back from the chiropodist and…they’re gonners.
Apparently they’ve a condition known as, and I hope I’m pronouncing this correctly since I’m no fancy doctor with a hat from the city, but I think it’s called: ‘Isavedtoomanyorphansitus’ and now they’ve got nothing but their enormous fortune and me for company here in this dive.
Hey! I see you’ve got feet too, perhaps we could mingle with a little more tingle?
Ow.”
So it goes.
Look, it’s been weeks since I last posted and I had to get something up.
So this happened.
Not a lie has been told and I feel better.
Marvellous.
Thanks,
Sam
My Smashing Jumper
Posted: May 25, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: erections, fashion, jumpers, masculinity, positivity, silly, writing Leave a commentMy smashing jumper gifts me a perception from others as follows:
Erect but casual.
Sure, my erection might well enter the room without me owing to extraordinary confidence from the 5th limb, but all is well; I’m wearing a jumper for goodness sake.
Of course, whilst I might find purchase in such activities as sinking into a comfy armchair to the point drowning; all is well – “They say he had an erection with him at the time he went missing”.
I am confident there are those out there who will claim that luscious hair is the means to all favourably flavoured ends, but I tend to lean rather more towards the erection side of the debate, mainly because it’s sturdier to lean on.
A 21st Century renaissance chap has newer and distinctly less reasonable facial hair than the rest of the class and a tiresome duty to type with his erection.
This is the 21st Century after all (this far).
The erections of these people are named.
Aged.
Weighed and measured.
And finally hung and smoked before being unleashed upon the unwittingly nearby congregation.
The regrettably nearby congregation
And, with regards to virginity, terminally there.
And I am among them, keeping all at a 6-inch reach from me and one thrust away from grasp.
Please don’t misinterpret me here; the erection doth not the wooing, for his is merely the domain of the pleasurable presence and chemical pride.
Rather more so it is the smashing jumper that doeth the greatest woo.
These stiches know a woo or two, with a pattern so simply super that neither man, woman, beast nor basil bush can do much but falteringly implore for “Not here…my parents are downstairs”.
And whilst there might be little sway granted to man, woman, beast and basil bush, there have admittedly been some rather wall-like resistance and, in fact, submission to the fungi community.
It would seem my smashing jumper is not what once it was whilst away a’wooing.
Perhaps if I flailed?
Willingness to motion is a point desired in all but the most stationary of cultural backgrounds.
And should you see myself in such a smashing jumper as only I can actually be bothered to labour about; take care. For I’ve only a few jumpers and even fewer are smashing.
Anyway…
Sam
There They Go…
Posted: May 8, 2016 Filed under: culture, writing | Tags: 2016 deaths, bowie, Culture, death, Humour, lemmy, life, living, mortality, philosophy, victoria wood, writing Leave a commentTo begin with, as we know, everyone’s been dying for quite a substantial period of time.
Nobody’s not died in living memory.
We just keep it up, don’t we?
2016, in four months, robbed the world of mother and brothers, friends and lovers; most of which are unknown to all of us.
Now however, it would seem the entertainers are going.
Victoria Wood was introduced to me by my mother.
I had no idea in the slightest.
This is a very general rule for me, and becoming engaged with a funny looking lass who seemed to be wearing intergalactic clobber made it all the more so; not to mention her referencing to things which were evidently quite dull.
And then I aged.
A sad story, I know, but with these betraying years came the sublime smack of comprehension regarding the world that I had not known before.
I read a little, wrote a little, kissed here and there (once everywhere) and realised a bad time was sweaty and good time doubly-so.
And now I am as I am.
And me being what I am as I am now; I’ve gone and gotten myself and appreciation for Victoria Wood.
And I think she’s an absolute cracker.
Was.
Blending the northern grind of suburban mediocrity with the true surreal thrill-filled passion which consumes each and every one of us at our best and worse; she found her comedic niche and worked the hell out of it, building to the paramount point of glorious comedic beauty:
“The Ballad of Barry and Freda”
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpGQTbaXRSY)
She, being Freda, approaching the waning years of latter middle-age, whilst also being bloody Northern, is one evening filled with the passion of Greta Garbo’s smouldering glare and Marilyn’s off-the-shoulder-strap cheek.
Freda enquires, demands, pleads, proclaims, beseeches her lover, Barry – likely a chap still working though would rather more sit and scratch – this simple statement of the still-sparkling powerful cheek of she that is forever young (sometimes)… “Let’s do it.”
Barry cringes, is unkeen to go about the act of love making owing to some “it’s not right, s’not proper at ah age, you’re just bein daft y’old blody womun”
As is his right, with the timidity of the years bearing down upon him, though much still very so in love with his Freda, he’s a tad out of rhythm when in the sack.
And he is quite honestly intimidated by his wife.
However, her passion builds, bulges become commonplace in the front room and the crescendo cometh in the form of Victoria Wood bellowing, thoroughly accented like a bloody Northerner should be, with “TONIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!”
And I’m still listening to her sing it.
Recognition is the means of immortality and thus, for us, Victoria is very much so still here.
Lemmy basses about through a thousand stereos still.
Bowie’s bravery strikes chords in a million daily hearts.
And I’m reminded that I am fairly old for the average 26 year-old.
And I’d better get working.
You can’t take anything with you, but you can leave the world with something to remember you by.
They did.
And there they go.
Never forget, we’re lucky to have them…still.
Rest in peace humanity, and throttle life like you know you’re not coming back.
Thanks,
Sam
The Lateral Column 