The Seven: 3. Procrastination

Saturday, September 25th, 2010 - night time with a chill in the air

Why yes, I am still alive, thanks for asking. I've been busy though. Really busy. Only time to check my email once a day, busy. And I'm goddamn tired. But I thought it was probably about time I continued the seven things meme, before I totally forget about it and start babbling about something else instead. You see, I've been procrastinating my meme duties.

So yes, procrastination. I procrastinate quite a bit. I read somewhere that it was a sign of a psychological defect, but I hardly think that's true. I mean hello! Look at me. My mind is a healthy, devious, smart bastard. So I'm declaring shenanigans on that theory. I'd go find the article in question and link to it but honestly, I can't be assed right now so I'll do it later.

See what I did there?

Actually I don't procrastinate everything, of course I don't. I only procrastinate unpleasant things. I mean show me anyone who's keen to do unpleasant things. Only a halfwit with OCD or a Jim Carrey fan is in a hurry to do nasty things. Or a reality show contestant. Or whoever dares touch Lindsay Lohan without bio-hazard gloves.

I never procrastinate nice things. I mean you put a giant bar of chocolate the thickness of a rugby player's leg in my fridge and see how long it takes me to devour it. Go on, try it. I haven't timed this, but I'm willing to bet that before you can spell 'procrastinate' that bar will be cozy and safe in my belly. So obviously I don't have a problem per se, just a tendency to be selective about which tasks I perform in a timely fashion.

I was actually going to write out a list of things I procrastinate and things I don't but then I thought, 'Ah screw it, I'll do it later.'

Because that joke never gets old.

The Seven: Why Ukuleles Are Cool

Thursday, September 2nd, 2010, bedtime with a song in my heart
Well, I am certainly not doing well with this supposed "Seven Things" meme. So far I've written about one thing and then I totally ran out of things! Things eluded me, people. Until today.

Today I'm writing about Thing Number Two, "Astrophysics and the Process of Nucleosynthesis".

Ha, right. Look out your window. Do you see a flying pig? Well then. In that case I'm writing about "Why Ukuleles Are Cool".

 So without further ado:

WHY UKULELES ARE COOL

Ukuleles are cool because they are hideously uncool. You don't see dudes dressed head to toe in leather, hair in eyes, smoldering at you over a cigarette, carrying a little, wee, fey mini-guitar now do you? No. That's because those dudes don't know a damn thing about cool. Sure, your old school cool might involve leather and lung cancer and looking like Ethan Hawke if he hadn't bathed in a month, but the new cool? Ukuleles my friends. Ukuleles are cool.

I'll tell you why. A uke is like a tiny guitar. It makes tiny guitar noises. Like taking a guitar, shrinking it (kind of like you used to do with chip packets and an oven), then forcing it to make cute noises. Plunk plunk plunkety plunk. That kind of thing.

Also, they come in all sorts of fun shapes and colours and sizes. Some are shaped like pineapples! How cool is that? If you said "really fucking cool, Veg" you'd be correct.

Others are shaped like mini Les Paul guitars or tiny Fender Strats. But those are for posers with tiny penises. Don't get your ass caught with one of those. I'm kidding, mine's actually the Les Paul shaped one. I'm so ashamed. No, I'm not.

Ask Jude and Elly how cool ukes are. They'll open their arms wide as a goddamn football field. Because they know. You don’t have to wear cable sweaters, mountain-man bushy beards and eat lentils to enjoy the ukulele.

I mean you can if you want…

As if all this wasn't enough evidence of the mondo-coolness of the ukulele, remember they're from Hawaii and anything that reeks of Hawaii is cool by default.

Well, okay, maybe not Dog the Bounty Hunter. I imagine he reeks of ball sweat, old leather and cabbage. I can’t see that tosser with a uke, can you? A NUKE maybe…

But on the other side of the coin there are pineapples, hibiscus flowers, mai tais, surfing, glorious beaches, "Lost" and ukuleles.

Happy Thursday, bra! (That’s like…Hawaiian talk you know. I wasn’t talking to my brassiere. Not this time.)

The Seven: 1. Plane Sailing

Thursday, August 26th, 2010 – after lunch, looking like a crazy cat lady, mainlining coffee, singing badly
My good blogging buddy, Aly, over at Calling People Names, passed on a gigantic, sweaty, meme cape to make me write about seven things. Any things at all, not necessarily things you either love or hate, just seven things.

So because I’m me, and random is my middle name, I’m going to write about seven random, completely unconnected things over the next seven weeks. Can you stand the excitement? Hey you, wake up!

Thing Number 1: FLYING

Anyone who knows me knows how I feel about flying, i.e., I am not completely, 100% “jiggy wit it”. Not even 75%.

Now I love planes. Planes are a weird obsession of mine. I love what they represent, I love their sleekness, their giant size, the possibilities they pose, the way they look, the smell of fuel. Airplanes, aeroplanes, I love them.

I like watching them take off and land and I like loitering in airports watching people going places, drinking coffee and trying to lift suitcases the size of a condo in Miami, onto the conveyor belt. I especially like when they have to pay a baggage surcharge. What do you need a bag the size of Texas for anyway, idiot? Are you going away for a year? No.

My favourite part of any trip is that part; wandering around in the airport, people watching, buying dumb local nik naks, walking the wrong way on the moving pavement and wondering what innocent possession the TSA are going to confiscate from me this time. My eyelash curler (I’m still bitter)? My shampoo? My giant double-edged serated hunting knife with Jeffrey Dahmer’s initials carved into the handle? Is nothing sacred?

So, yes, I am down with all of that. But there are many things about flying I am not remotely down with. Other passengers, for example, are a major downside. If you are a passenger on a flight that I am also on, here’re some rules you ought to know that will keep you alive for the duration of the flight:

1) Do not sit behind me and kick my chair.

2) Do not sit in front of me and recline your seat. I don’t enjoy your head in my lap and the fact I can no longer use the drop down tray without removing a rib.

How do tall people manage to ride coach? It is completely beyond me.

3) Do not sit next to me and talk to me for seven hours about your illnesses, children, husband, job or well…anything. I just want to put on my headphones and shut my eyes.

4) Do not ask me if I’ll swap seats with your kid so he can look out of the window. I booked my seat months ago and I chose the window so that I could look out of it, so I’d have somewhere to lean my pillow, so that I could check the engines were still attached and so I could be sure at all times that the little green alien guy from “The Twilight Zone” – the one who drove John Lithgow and William Shatner crazy - isn’t darting around on the wing, pulling important things off of the fuselage. Plus, I don’t want someone clambering over me fifty times en route to the bathroom. The seat is mine.

5) Don’t stand up the second the plane is on the tarmac after landing. Look at you, all first to get on your feet, wrestling your giant, space hogging Skyscraper-sized bag out of the overhead bin, then standing around for ten minutes while we get to the gate and wait for the jetway. Guess what, genius? You don’t get off the plane any faster doing that. You still have to wait.

6) Don’t turn your stupid phone on the second we land and are still taxiing. People’s reliance on their phones drives me crazy. You can’t wait till you’re in the lobby? If someone’s meeting you they know you landed already, calm down Twisty McPantsonfire. Put the phone down. The day cell phone usage is legal on flights I’m going to stage a big, fucking rally protesting it. Can you imagine anything worse than eight hours sitting next to a brain dead fifteen year old who says “like” 3 million times and calls all her friends about her boyfriend?

Cell phones can only be legal on flights if airlines are providing a lounge for people to sit in if they want to use them. Otherwise I will be buying a cell phone jammer. The only thing I really LIKE about flying is that people can't use a goddamn cell phone.

Don’t do any of those things and we’ll probably get along fine. Well, unless you have an ornery toddler with you who insists on screeching the entire flight, in which case you better pray the TSA did its job with the hunting knife. Need I say more? I didn’t think so.

I’m not very patient on flights at all. I just want to get on, close my eyes and then get off again at my destination. Unhindered.

And of course, I will look out of the window most of the way. Because if the engines catch fire I am the person who will bring it subtly to the attention of the nearest Sky Muffin by yelling, “HOLY FUCK PEOPLE, WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”

Looking out of the window has its downside too though. For example, during one night flight to Europe, I spent the entire night fretting about another plane being too close for comfort. I don’t like being able to see any other planes while I’m up there. If I can see you, you’re too close. I could see the light of this plane just on the horizon as we left New York and I could still see it when we were flying over Ireland some six hours later. It was seriously freaking me out. Until it got light out and I realized it was the light on the end of our wing… Yeah, I’d been tracking my own plane all night, shut up.

No matter how I rationalize it, no matter how safe I know air travel really is in the grand scheme of things, I still can’t help being nervous when I realize that I’m sitting inside a giant metal cylinder filled with aviation fuel as it hurtles through the sky at 500 mph.

Does that sound even remotely sensible to anyone?

How To Be Unpopular Part Two: Denounce Religion

Wednesday, August 25th, 2010 - the wee small hours of insomnia

Religion. It's all around us. And it's killing us in record numbers. More than automobile accidents, more than heart disease or cancer. More than people jumping out of high buildings to avoid having to sit through act two of that comedian dude who smashes watermelons with a hammer.

But to quote the great unwashed hippy and legendary art school dropout, John Lennon, in his classic 1970s' peace ditty "Imagine", "...nothing to kill or die for and no religion too". Basically that song's preaching a lot of tree-hugging stuff about how if we didn't have nationalism and possessions and religion, the world just might be a better, more harmonious place.

Personally, I think that's a bit of crazy, idealist claptrap, but the bare bones of truth are there. Those things do create disharmony in the world because we abuse them.

So yes. Religion. Religion is not your friend.

That's a general "you", not a personal "you". You, yourself might be religious. Your faith might make your life more inspiring or a calmer place to be. If it helps you in some small way, who am I to tell you otherwise? I wouldn't dream of it. 

But generally, in the grand scheme of matters, I stand by my statement: religion is not your friend. At least organized religion is not your friend. Organized religion was never meant to be your friend. It was invented to control you. To give you guilt. To stop you questioning.

Answer me this. If there really was a God, would there be "Two and a Half Men"? No. You can bet your sweet ass there would not.

The thing is, in its purest form, religion is supposed to be your friend. It's supposed to be about unity, about peace, about kindness and sharing, about goodwill to all men. It's supposed to promote community and working together for a better world, acceptance, tolerance and understanding.

But it isn't. It isn't about any of that. Because we've all made it about hate. And intolerance. And war, hatred and segregation and then we go and justify all of those nasty traits in its name.

It's a man-made hate machine that separates people, that teaches superiority, judgement and fear over people who're not like us. We took something that was meant to be pure and corrupted it to suit our needs.

Soon we'll do the same to Justin Bieber. It's what we do.

I know I'm biased. I'm an unabashed Atheist. But unlike most unabashed atheists, I have actually read the Bible. I read it because I wanted to know what it was saying, what it was about and because if I choose to not believe something I want to know what it is I'm rejecting. And I came to the only conclusion I can imagine anyone coming to. It's a big book, written over centuries, by a lot of different people, reporting fables and stories by hearsay. There are hints on how to live a better life. A more noble life. It's not meant to be taken literally. Yet people use its stories to justify their prejudices. Except the bible doesn't tell you to hate women, or homosexuals, or other religions, or foreigners, or to kill your neighbours and take their land. Yet people do these things in its name every day.

I'm looking at you, Fred Phelps, you ignorant fucknugget. Among others.

I have not read the holy books of any other religions. I imagine them to be of similar ideas. My knowledge of religion in general is basic, but I do know this. It causes undue distress and trauma to the world. Wars start because of it, people hate other people for no reason other than their religious affiliation and countless innocent six year olds have to endure really boring stories in Sunday School when they'd much rather be knee deep in a sand pit with some Legos.

Back in ancient Greek and Roman times, people believed in divinity. They had Gods and Goddesses for everything. If you sneezed there was probably a God for it. If ancient Greeks are to be believed there were deities crowding the skies with their golden wings, bringing everything to the masses, from thunder to love. The heavens were a veritable traffic jam of godlike beings swishing through the clouds carrying exquisitely wrapped gifts of wisdom. We laugh at this notion because we know it's only fable. Yet today people still freely accept there's an omnipotent presence up there looking out for us.

Because that's so much more sensible.

This is what I think. Life is up to us. It's what we make it. God isn't going to make your life better or worse, you are. If you survive a horrific car wreck, it's through bold faced luck and your sheer tenacity. God didn't save you. You are not that remarkable. If somehow I'm wrong, and He exists, you can bet your ass He has more pressing things to do than snatch you from the dripping jaws of death. It's just life. It's not divine interference.

If it was up to me I'd banish it all and make us all one giant melting pot of humanity. Then everyone would need to come up with another reason for their intolerance of anyone not like themselves. Maybe then they'd have to figure out their real issues for once and for all.

How to Be Unpopular Part One: Denounce Children

Exterminate All Humans

I once met a Dalek in WH Smith.

Let me preface this by saying, when I was about three years old, only two things terrified me.  Turning into a chicken while I was asleep, and Daleks. 

That was it.

The chicken thing, I believe I’ve told you all before, was down to my granddad, who bought me a bright red Timex watch for my birthday, then told me in a hushed tone, sort of like the kid in The Sixth Sense when he’s telling Bruce Willis that he sees dead people, that I had to remember to take the watch off when I went to sleep or I would turn into a chicken during the night. 

Yeah, you laugh now, but when you’re three that’s some scary shit.   Adults think it’s funny pranking little kids, but man, we’re gullible.  You’re damaging us for life, fuckers!

Anyway, the only thing more terrifying than turning into a chicken in my sleep was Daleks, because well…you didn’t grow up in the UK and not have an ingrown terror of Daleks instilled in you from an early age.  In fact, you got handed that the second you squeezed out of the birth canal covered in goo, along with your National Insurance number and a Cadbury’s addiction. 

Daleks had been terrifying British kids since before I was born.  It was tradition! 

If you didn’t spend your entire childhood living in abject terror at the possibility of a Dalek attack, you were probably retarded and thinking about rainbows or your toes or some other nonsense.

Everyone fears Daleks.  It’s the British way.

I was fascinated by them and terrified, simultaneously.  They could just wheel on into a room, speak in a terrifying robotic monotone, then exterminate anyone in their sight.  It was a constant threat. That’s a lot for a three year old to comprehend, let me tell you. 

And to make matters worth we had one in our house!  Gasp!

OK, so technically it was a paraffin heater with a grill on the front.  The apartment was chilly and in winter my folks would use it to heat the bedroom before putting us to bed.  Except they had to do this covertly because I would not have that fricking thing in the room with me in case it started to talk and threaten me with extermination the second the lights went out.  I was petrified of that damn  heater.  It gave me nightmares. Nightmares of Dalek invasions.  You try being three and explaining to your parents why you’re terrified of a fucking oil heater. 

Strangely enough, back when I was living in England, I met a real Dalek.

He was in WH Smiths in Nottingham one busy Saturday morning and I was completely unprepared and unaware. I was innocently leafing through some magazine I had no intention of buying, when something prodded me square in the back and loudly, in that familiar robotic monotone, commanded. “PUT. THAT. DOWN.”

It was one of those moments when time stood still.  When pooping your pants was a very real possibility.

The Daleks had finally found me.  And I was way too young to die. 

When I turned around there was a full sized, silver and blue Dalek, looking right back at me.  I fell back against the magazine rack.  I mean what do you do when your nightmares come to life in front of you?

Me, I grabbed my camera out of my bag and tried to take its picture, but it rolled right back up to me and shrieked, “YOU. WILL. ASK. MY. PERMISS-ION.” 

Holy fuck.  Yes, Sir.  You don’t mess with Daleks, ever.  You just don’t.  Not if you want to live.

After he graciously allowed me to take his picture, I handed my camera to some old guy lurking nearby, who took a photo of me with the Dalek, while I tried to avoid Senor Dalek’s dangerous plunger of death. 

The old guy fiddled with the camera for a moment and the Dalek got impatient.  “HURRY. UP. OR. YOU. WILL. BE. EXERMINATED.” it told him, sounding frighteningly excited. 

So yeah.  That’s how I met a real life Dalek.  And lived to tell the tale.  What he was doing in a busy store on a Saturday morning I have no idea.  Buying some overpriced back-to-school supplies maybe? Who knows? I have a sneaking suspicion the imminent release of a brand new Doctor Who video box set might have had something to do with it, but just maybe it was an actual invasion.
 

And I was totally there.

Herro!

Wednesday, August 18th, 2010 - lunchtime, feeling evil, eating grapes

I was just lazing around the other night, watching a late night George Carlin comedy special and snickering in a delighted, smug manner to myself, mainly because I think it's entirely possible that George Carlin might have secretly been my dad, as I seem to share his opinions on just about everything. When the show came to an end, on popped some abomination featuring a really unfunny, chunky little man with his hand wedged up the back of a small, smug, wooden asshole.

Now I don't have many rules in life, but a few of my rules regarding what can or cannot be classed as "entertainment" go as follows:

1) No clowns.

2) No Carrot Top.

3) No ventriloquists.

It's straightforward. All of those "occupations" are wrong and there's no argument I can see, against this.

I never understood how anyone could find ventriloquists amusing in the slightest. Firstly, you can usually see the dude's mouth moving and secondly, someone needs to remind ventriloquists that just standing there with your fist up a tiny man's back yard, does not a show make. You still need actual material.

Also? Get some real friends, loser. You just know that a ventriloquist goes home at night to a Real Doll and a jar of Olay.

Plus come on, those tiny little wooden men are creepy, no? With their permanent half grin and icy stare, piercing your soul as if to say, "When you sleep? I am coming for you with my machete."

I was trying to think of ways to make ventriloquists more watchable and although I think it's probably not even possible, I came up with these suggestions:

1) Maybe your dummy could be a zombie. Zombies are always good material. Plus if he wasn't funny he could torment and abuse the audience and maybe rip pieces of flesh off your faces during the act. At least he'd be memorable.

2) Your dummy could have that bad form of Tourette's where he just yells things like, "Hey lady, nice dress, SHIT ON MY COCK!"

3) You could set yourself and your wooden twin, on fire and burn all the way to hell.

Up to you. Those are my suggestions. I might watch those acts. Feel free to leave your own suggestions in the comments, no matter how devious.

I like devious.

Does Someone Have My Mojo?

Monday, August 9th, 2010 – Six in the pee em, grouchy, lethargic, bad attitude
I’ve been all frustrated the past few days. Seriously, it’s like some demon entered my body through one of my unguarded holes, messed around with a whole lot of shit regarding my motivation to do…well pretty much anything really, and left me in this obnoxious mood. Ok, so not a whole big difference there I guess, you can say it. Such a lot of crap has happened lately, personally, that I've just had to turn my life around and make some pretty big decisions and it's all been a little depressing. But I'll live! But more on that another time.

I can’t even find my painting mojo and I almost never lose that. I even have a spunky new easel made of beautiful woody wood (I have no idea what kind of wood it is, shut up) and it’s all sturdy and new and paint-free and just about as sexy as hell compared to my old one which resembled a really drunk giraffe covered in old paint and that used to creak and fall over if you so much as touched it with a paint brush because it was made of balsa wood or some such cheap crap. The easel not the giraffe.

The new one is so lovely I want to stroke it all day, naked and purring. Also the easel. Although if there's a giraffe in the vicinity, we'll talk.

Anyway, here I am with a new easel and some fresh, blank canvases and everyone must know by now that blank canvases make me delirious with joy in the same way most ladies get gleeful over shoes, yet I can’t find the motivation to paint a damn thing. Well except anything that involves hurling paint willy-nilly at a canvas and winding up with something that looks like it was painted by Jackson Pollock while high.


I’m also halfway through about three paintings that really need to be completed, two of which are Airstreams and promised to various people, who’ll kick my ass if I don’t get on that soon.

So yes. Motivation is on the fritz. As is my Google Reader which seems to have given up the will to live by not deleting entries I’ve already read, leaving me to wade through three million others that I have read to get to the others. And I can’t seem to figure out how to rectify this, because I’m clearly a moron. In the end I had a tantrum and just marked them all as read while cursing, so I missed a whole bunch of you guys’ stuff from the past few days.

Stupid Reader. Stupid Google. Stupid mojo. Stupid me for not having a cocktail handy.

Stupid entry.