Right, I’m cheating this week as I’ve just spent the best part of three hours mixing in Garageband and thanks to a couple of minor glitches and one major one, I’m about to start swearing quite a lot. Suffice to say, I’m not really feeling writing about more movies. I will eventually, promise. Here then is some scribble from the past couple of weeks.
A list of random nonsense that either just happened or just popped into my consciousness. A vain attempt to write something down as I just can’t get this short story going. A bit like my sporadic but ongoing status update/tweet meme ‘Likes:’
During lunch I balanced a feta cheese cube on a bit of falafel and crammed the whole thing in my mouth. I said ‘it was worth it’ with my mouth full.
My parents must be so proud.
When I’m walking home from the pub I sometimes like to pretend I’m a zombie extra. If I’m really drunk I try to do that mournful moan they sometimes do that looks like they’re trying to talk. It’s probably good that I’m not usually in a hurry. Not on my own, mind you, I’m not that mental. Good friends are the ones that try to out-zombie you, I reckon.
I often get into ‘brrr-ing’ contests with my girlfriend. That noise you make with your lips that’s louder than humming and you don’t have an instrument handy and you either don’t remember them or there aren’t any lyrics. Anyway, I always seem to end up sounding more like I’m trying to impersonate a trumpet. A bit like Hugh Laurie at the end of ‘A Bit of Fry and Laurie.’ But not as good. The theme tune from Sanford and Son (Quincy Jones’ ‘The Streetbeater’) is nigh on perfect for a good bout of brrr-ing. As evidenced by Turk and JD in Scrubs, although they ‘na na na’ a bit more. Which gets you disqualified by my rules. That I just made up.
Anything I find remotely ‘more-ish’; Twiglets, Crisps, olives, peanuts, etc. General party hor’s d’oeuvres and that, are the bane of my existence. It’s like I need something to do and it’s the best way to keep occupied. I have to either remove them or have them removed or I’ll just keep going. Far, far beyond ‘full’. ‘The meal isn’t over when I’m full, the meal is over when I hate myself.’ – Louis C.K.
I don’t know if stuff like that counts as ADD but that and the fact that I started writing this while I was trying to watch Portlandia and then form thoughts enough to hold a conversation has me a little concerned. I like to pretend I’m multi-tasking. I know I’m not.
I just put my mouth into the mug I was holding and tried to lift it by suction alone. Although I was partially successful (my beard affected the integrity of the seal) my delight was tempered by the knowledge that there was still tea in the mug. Not the best idea I’ve ever had. But not the worst. In the running for that one would be the time I put my boots on first, couldn’t be bothered to take them off again and then tried to pull my jeans on over them with the aid of pliers.
I just did an impression of the yellow one of the Angry Birds. My favorite. Just the face, obviously, I didn’t hurl myself across the room or anything. Apparently, it was ‘alright’. I’ll take that.
Although I’m now a massive fan of music and have tried my hand at creating it, I used to hate music lessons. On a test at school, I defined ‘Allegro’ as ‘Car made by British Leyland’. Dad thought that was hilarious. Listening was my favourite bit. As soon as the diagrams and numbers came into it, my head started to hurt.
While I was visiting family in New Zealand for my nephew’s Christening, my Dad asked me whether I ‘was going to get one anytime soon.’ Just now, I was on my way into the bathroom to shave. Struck with sudden, overwhelming, hunger I decided to make myself some lunch. At 4.30 PM. My lunch consisted of a couple of fake mayo, turkey bacon and crisp sandwiches followed by a caramel rice cake with some maple syrup on it. All eaten while walking around humming. Half dressed. The polite way of answering my Dad’s question was ‘I know you’re never properly ready to have kids but I’d like to be a little more ready.’
When I first moved to the States, among many other mental lapses, I wondered how the preppy, butter-wouldn’t-melt, girl-next-door collegiate cheerleaders became the tanned, airbrushed, pneumatic, go-go dancers of the NFL/NBA. As if there was some sort of draft system to go along with their sporting counterparts.
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