17 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to find a geometerist friend (technically I don’t think this is a word, what I’m trying to say is a person who is enthusiastic about geometry).
An occasional element of my job is making structures out of something called zome tools. Basically it’s a very grown up building toy – lego that went to Yale. It’s designed to mimic the structures of crystals so to cut a long story short you can make some pretty cool stuff with it, the patterns are very intricate, and kind of trippy to be honest.
Anyway today I made a flower totem pole and this huge geodessic sphere (alright, alright – a massive ball). When I finished the sphere I was feeling damn proud of myself, and dragged my supervisors over so I could brag to them. ”You gotta see what I made, because frankly I am a goddamn genius!” (Once upon a time I used to be humble and modest, back when we used to have roast dodo bird for Thanksgiving.) Dutifully they came over to see my creation, they smiled, made all the right noises, “Yeah that looks really cool. Nice job.” In short they were completely underwhelmed.
I sighed and found myself longing for someone who would stand back and say, “Good lord, look at that truncated dodecahedron! It’s beautiful, and bugger me sideways if you haven’t gone and put a truncated icosidodecahedron inside of it!! Spectacular work Rambling Ro. Fucking gorgeous.”
But no. Instead I get, “That’s nice. So… what does it do?”
16 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
Living in Los Angeles obscures your sense of reality, no doubt about it.
After living here for a while you unconsciously assess what is ‘real’ and what is not: e.g. bet that wasn’t the nose you were born with; if the boobs look perfect but on the large side then they must be fake; no lines means botox; hmmn tight face – one too many face lifts; for the love of god stop having collagen fillers, your lips look like they’re about to explode; how do you wipe your ass with those nails; without those heels she’s actually 4 foot 2; hair extensions; hair dye; false eyelashes; colored contacts; tattoos; faux fur; pets in bags; is the sky really blue with a layer of yellow cloud; jobs as celebrity impersonators; cars on credit that you’ll never pay off; are you actually insane or is it character acting; knock-off designer clothes; padded resumes; one of our investors is a VP at the Warner Brothers studio; just got a recording contract; give me your info, I’d love to collaborate on a project with you… and so on and so forth.
It’s all part and parcel of this wonderful cesspool of insanity, and I have grown inordinately fond of this delusional environment ( like smiling self-indulgently at your little scamp of a nephew who’s just done something really, really naughty but gosh darn it, he’s just a lovable wee rascal), and I’ve succumbed to many of its influences (cosmetic departments are a dangerous place for me, ideally I should go shopping with Chinese finger trap.. or leave my wallet at home, that would probably work too). It has however changed the way I perceive my surroundings. This became apparent this evening when I walking past the library and heard the croaking of frogs emitting from their miniature Japanese garden. ”Gosh,” I thought to myself, “how odd that they would play a recording of frogs, that’s commitment for you – very Disney.”
Didn’t occur to me for a nano-second that there was a real frog in the garden.
15 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
Here’s my question: if you had the power to make time stand still (you know what I mean – everyone and everything freezes apart from you), would you mess with people?
Ethically speaking we all know it’s wrong. One should not interfere with the fabric of the cosmos and innocent bystanders; meddling will surely result in disastrous repercussions, yada, yada, yada.
But…
I’d be tempted. There are just so many opportunities for a gleeful misdemeanour. Obviously one could rob a large financial institution with ease, but I think I’d veer more towards things like upgrading myself to the spare seat in first class. Or I’d play cupid, the couple who’ve been secretly in love with one another for years would find themselves all tangled up .. maybe handcuffed together, depending on what I happened to have in my bag at the time.
I’d certainly never pay for another drink – why would I when I can help myself to the dusty bottle of Dom Perignon lurking at the back of the shelf? Although I’d still tip, it would be cheeky not to.
I suspect I might interfere quite heavily in politics, maybe change the outcome of an election or two. Before you judge me on that one, just bare this in mind: megalomaniac dictators only get a bad reputation if they make crappy decisions. Obviously I would not be prone to making crappy decisions! I am incredibly wise, I would be the good sort of tyrant.
I reckon the one area where I might abuse the power would be if I happened to spy Brad Pitt in a crowd. I like to think I wouldn’t, that I would remember my morals and not go down that dark and shadowy path (not that I would do anything too intimate – a hug would be okay wouldn’t it, if it lasted a few days), but …he’s pretty much Kryptonite for straight women and gay men. And sometimes I am weak. Lots of uber powerful people are: Bill Clinton, JFK, Arnold Schwarzenegger, this list could go on for a really long time.
I realise how dodgy this makes me sound, so, again before you judge me, ask yourself what would you do if the unattainable superstar that first caught your eye when you were fifteen, suddenly landed, gift-wrapped in your lap? Especially if no one would ever know? Would you be so perfect then?
Or would you dally that fine line between taking advantage of a situation… and being a dirty perv?
14 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
This time last week I was eating 2 pounds of crawfish after being in the swamp all day. In retrospect 2 pounds of crawfish drenched in cajun spices is a bloody stupid idea for someone who never eats that sort of stuff, for most of the following morning I had a nagging feeling that the crawfish were talking to one another inside my stomach. We live and learn eh… unless you die from food poisoning first.
Exploring in the swamp though is an experience I would repeat. I say ‘exploring’, but for the sake of accuracy I was actually ‘reclining’ in the swamp, on a rickety little bath tub with five other tourists being guided through the bayous by a man whom some would describe as “a salty old sea dog”, others as a “lecherous boozehound”, and others as ” that lucky bastard”. My favourite quote was: “I’ve got two grown kids, 29 and 31, neither of them are married. It’s probably because they’re both ugly as sin.”
Anyone who goes to New Orleans should take time to go to travel out to a swamp, because the wide swathe of the Mississpi and landscaped banks of Bayou St John which cut through the city, don’t even hint at the eerie splendour of the swamps. There’s a day and a night there, but other than that there seems to be no separation of hours, no demarcation of time. Drifting through the backwaters under willow trees and cascades of Spanish moss; nudging up against callow lilies spreading over the water, silky orange flowers resting in between deceptively sturdy looking lily pads (something I learned in a moment of optimistic stupidity, on a lake in Michigan: lily pads will support the weight of frogs and birds, not humans); emerald dragon flies the size of my palm flitting around the boat; fish leaping in and out of the water so quickly you hear the splash and see only the fading ripples; bright yellow swamp canaries; basking turtles; enormous blue herons skimming over the water or posing on a rock. It’s a humid slice of heavenly pie.
We did see one rather forlorn little alligator in the water, but he couldn’t be tempted to come closer with either marshmallows or compliments. (Alligators love marshmallows,allegedly because they look like turtle eggs…. but I suspect this is a blatant lie since the ‘gators come back time and again, and really, how many times would you have to taste marshmallow to know it’s not egg? As for compliments… alligators are very shallow.)
About 20 minutes into our two hour swamp tour, the intense heat of the sun was dampened by thick blacks clouds rolling in. Soon everything that the guide said was punctuated by enormous peals of thunder. The rain followed quickly afterwards. Fortunately we had a pragmatic group, none of us were bothered by water following from the sky in such a hot, muggy atmosphere. Nor was anyone remotely concerned when the lightning started. I suspect though that this was less to do with nonchalant bravado, and more to do with sheer ignorance. As a fork of lightning caressed trees 20 feet away from us I did find myself pondering our safely: ”Sooooo, we’re in a tin can on the water in a lightning storm. Can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m sure there’s some reason why we should be leaving quickly.” Ah well, it doesn’t seem to do the alligators any harm.
12 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
I went to a convention today, I promoted my company and talked to hundreds of people. After that I attended a 2 hour meeting where I was trying to pretend that I earned more than twice the amount that I actually do. Next I scoured various shopping malls for stuff that I couldn’t live without, lastly I went to a friend’s improv show at around 10 pm (ver, ver, ver funny, which is a relief because what on earth would I have said if they were crap?? Hiding my opinion is not at the top of my skill set).
Finally at about 11.30 I got home at which point I realised, that my shirt was on back to front, and my knickers inside out.
11 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
One of my colleague’s has one of those fandabbydozy phones that you can speak commands to it as opposed to typing them, and you will receive whatever information you desire in soothing, synthesised tones.
Last week he finished speaking his request to his phone and, being in a somewhat despondent mood, sighed heavily and muttered, “Ugh, I’m gonna commit suicide”, to which his phone replied, “I’m sorry Joe, there are no psychiatric depression treatment centres in your vicinity.”
Well now that’s just a really crappy response. Whoever programmed that phone is obviously a glass half empty person, only they don’t see it that way, instead they claim to be a ‘realist’. Harrrumph. I mean really, would it be so hard to get the phone to say “No Joe, don’t do it. Things might seem bleak now, but you can make it through this. Hold on I’m connecting you to a 24 hour crisis line.” Or even, “Hey Joe, there’s a bar two blocks away from you, turn left at the end of the street.”
Instead the phone might as well be saying, “Ah Joe, well we’ve all gotta go some day… there’s a gun shop two miles away and a ten acres of dense forest a ten minute drive away from here.”
Oh before you start to worry, I know this colleague well and he is not on the brink, just melodramatic.
10 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
Saturday afternoon I stood in line at Cafe du Monde, the large, unceasingly crammed cafe opposite Jackson Square on the banks of the Mississipi. Virtually every tourist who comes to New Orleans descends upon Cafe du Monde to sample the world famous beignets. Beignets are square pastries served piping hot and buried in powdered icing sugar. (The pigeons feast on all the sugar that gets liberally showered on the ground… there’s a lot of fat, diabetic, and toothless pigeons in New Orleans.) Basically it’s a doughnut with exquisite manners, a doughnut that went to finishing school in Paris.
The fame and the sheer volume of people in this establishment leads to three conclusions:
1. It’s the most expensive coffee in the city;
2. Fast service is not an option;
3. It’s a great place to people watch.
My travelling companion and I stood in the line at the take out window, inching our way towards the counter, contentedly sweltering in the heat and blatantly eavesdropping on the two women directly in front of us.
The topic of their discussion? Dwindling alimonies; uncertain fiscal future; the root cause of their divorces – “You know, he’s like a really nice guy, but I just outgrew him. He thought he was really smart but I’m way smarter than him and I got tired of pretending I wasn’t.”
The people in front of these scintillating conversationalists were with a school trip so they put in an order for 25 coffees and 30 beignets. You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that this was going to take a while. And to be fair, if you expect anything to happen quickly in New Orleans, other than dehydration and a loss of self-control, then you should really go to a different city, probably a different state. Louisiana runs on a different time schedule. Rivers don’t run, they meander. People don’t walk, they stroll. Laissez faire is the same as ‘lazy’s fair’.
However Divorcee Barbie and Alimony Sindy in front didn’t get the memo. They started huffing and puffing in that way that certain women do, “This is just ridiculous. How much longer is it going to take? They’ve got every person in there working on one damn order. Why would you got to a take-out window to order 25 coffees? How long does it take to pour 25 coffees? They cook beignets all day long, it doesn’t take that long to cook 30. It can’t. Have they gone break??”
Then they got bored of bickering to one another and turned their wrath outwards. ”Excuse me! Excuse me Miss! Do you think you could get someone else to work this window?”
It has all the right words to sound like a respectful request, but the reality was that it was delivered in the harsh tone of voice that is as painful on the ears as sandpaper on sunburnt skin.
It’s funny I heard her say those words but in my head they sounded completely different, more like “Oy maggot. Bow down and kneel before me, for you are young and full of cheer, and I am a joyless, bitter harpy, and therefore we are natural enemies. Now get me my iced-mocha-non-fat-extra-espresso-shot-latte before I rip your head off and fill your neck with a river of my yellow vengeance.”
I had a similar problem learning French at school, French words would be said and they were translated there was not one iota of similarity to what I thought I’d heard. My teachers despaired of me. ”Yes Madame Barton I do understand that a customer in a travel agency would be unlikely to ask for a pink monkey chewing bubblegum, but that really is what it sounded like… I didn’t hear ‘two tickets to Calais’ at all.”
I digress. Back to Harpy and Harperella.
Not content with bitching at the staff herself, Harpy also sends Harperella to the other corner of the counter for a tag team attack. Then she starts making thinly veiled jabs at the friend of the woman waiting for the large order. ”I’m not mad at you, it’s just that it’s a take-out window – it’s meant to be quick, they should have a special place for large orders, or a phone number so you can pre-order, that way everyone else doesn’t get held up.”
Eventually she gave up. After a last expletive of, “Jesus, this is fucking ridiculous!” she stomped away with Harperella, squaring her pilates toned shoulders and flicking her hair so everyone would know that they had crossed beignets with the wrong cookie this time.
… do you know, I think “I outgrew him” might be a euphemism for something else. Possibly ‘my husband divorced me to have sex with a woman who doesn’t speak English … and charges by the hour not the decade’.
09 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
I’ve spent the last five days in the city of New Orleans. It feels like I squeezed more living into that short span of time than I do in a whole month in Los Angeles. Truthfully, it was hard to get on the aeroplane home. Even harder was dragging my carcass into work this morning. Now that I’ve discovered that when left to my own devices I like to sleep until 10 before enjoying a leisurely breakfast of French pastries, home made preserves, and freshly squeezed juice; apparently I’m not so satisfied by getting up at 6 and racing through yogurt, so I can go to a windowless space and deal with a never ending to-do list.
Ostensibly I was there for Jazz Fest, the gargantuan music festival which spans the last weekend in April and the first weekend in May, drawing crowds in from different parts of the world. The reality though was that I only spent one of the five days at the festival. Because it’s so damn expensive!! $65 for a day, tcha! You know something’s overpriced when in a predominantly black city the only people who go to the event are white and from out of state.
The reality though is that even if the tickets were cheaper I would still have only gone for one day because there was simply so much to enjoy in New Orleans. The rest of my time was spent ambling round the city (too hot to move at a regular pace), finding live bands, street parties, art sales, clowns and their spouses in need of couples therapy – the lesson in that eccentric scenario is just because you’ve got a big smile plastered on your face doesn’t mean you’re happy.
Basically, it was the kind of long, sweet weekend where you greet every suggestion with “Sure, why not?”
Before I collapse with post holiday exhaustion (How does this happen? The only time I got over two miles an hour was when I was kayaking, and I certainly didn’t waste time exercising my brain.) I just quickly want to mention the plane ride out there. (Unbelievable isn’t it? Five days in the most debaucherous and culturally diverse city in the North American continent, and I want to talk about the time I spent airborne in a tin can.)
The flight is four hours long and the cabin crew seemed to wait an oddly long time before coming round with the drinks trolley. Not that I was overly concerned by this, complimentary peanuts, whilst delicious, are not the be all and end all of aviation.
Once the drinks trolley did make it’s way round, the reason for the delay became clear. Everyone on the ‘plane was going to New Orleans to party for the weekend at Jazzfest, and the decision to kick off the party in mid-air was unanimous. There was not one sober person by the time we landed (hopefully the pilot was the exception). The aisles were crammed with hammered baby-boomers flirting, swapping numbers, making plans to meet, downing the airline’s bottles of scotch. The crew ran out of booze eventually, and a myriad of fedoras where left behind or ended up going home with new owners.
I don’t think I’ve ever been on a flight that was basically a club without the music. The closest experience was a flight from Liverpool to Nice; the plane got delayed by six hours just before we were due to board, so everyone had gone through security and there was nowhere to wait except for the bar. Obviously that was a boisterous journey. (Well really, what did they expect to happen with 100 scousers in a pub for six hours?) It’s also the closest I’ve ever come to being arrested…a story for some other time.
03 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
Boris/Horatio and I cooked together tonight. More accurately I burnt stuff and Boris/Horatio lurked. I’m not sure what he does with his evenings, other than plotting my imminent demise of course, but I fancy him something of a musician, a cello player perhaps.
Burnt offerings aside, there is something which has caught my attention recently. It’s a pick-up truck. Pick-ups do not often catch my attention, unless you are at a tail-gating party in which case they positively scream at me, “Yoohoo! Over here, the flap’s down and the ice chest is full.”
This one is different.
For one thing it’s been parked in the same spot for weeks. Not just the same street, or the same block, or even the same five spaces… it has been in the exact same position for weeks. There’s dust collecting on the tires. This leads me to believe that it has been abandoned. Or the owner’s died/ got deported/ won the lottery and buggered off abroad (depending on whether you’re glass half-full 0r half-empty) and no one wants to claim possession of it.
Secondly it’s not quite black. It looks like it’s supposed to be black, but has been attacked by layers of smoggy dust so now there’s a brownish tinge to it which isn’t chocolaty, it’s not muddy, or even smoky, just smoggy, not-quite-black.
Thirdly, the owner – or the practical joker friend with a trust fund – elected to have red ‘ghost’ flames painted all over it. When I say all over it, I do mean ALL over it. You know the sort of flames I’m talking about, typically they’re electric blue and designed to look like they’re seductively licking the fenders. At least, that’s the plan. Well this guy – or gal, hideous taste isn’t sexist -, has them on the sides, the bonnet, the back, and, I’m not tall enough to see the roof, but I suspect they’re up there too. Maybe he/she wanted the vehicle to look like it was on fire?? Sadly the flames are all identical in shape and set in a uniform pattern so the effect is less “smokin’ hot” and more “I say, look at that, it’s a truck covered in red sperm”.
It’s true, the flames look like a spermatozoa army swimming towards HQ ( not head quarters … homecoming queen).
It’s no wonder the truck’s abandoned.
Right, I’m off to do something terribly important for a few days or so, and I’ll be far too busy being marvellous and splendid to find internet access. I’ll make you green with envy about it when I get back.
02 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
Still alive….although Boris/Horatio has disappeared like James Bond in a brothel, so who knows what the night may bring.
Today I entertained one hundred five year olds for two hours in our head office. Five year olds en masse are not known for their zen tranquility so I didn’t make many friends amongst my already-stressed-to-breaking-point colleagues.
However, the powers that be let me have a microphone for the morning. Honestly it’s just not a good idea. There’s something about a microphone that turns even the most considerate, appropriately behaved, and good mannered of folk into megalomaniacs that crave the spot-light. It’s like a Jekyll and Hyde act starring Reese Witherspoon as Dr Jekyll, and Lindsey Lohan as Mr Hyde. Consider weddings where best men, fathers of the bride, random uncles, estranged brothers, and bitter in-laws, decide that this is their moment to shine because, by the power of the microphone, they will be louder than everybody else put together. (Note to anyone currently planning a wedding: think ahead and find out where the volume control is on the speakers, and also where to unplug the microphone.)
It’s no different with me, I get behind a microphone and suddenly a small gremlin emerges on my shoulder whispering, “mess with people… just a little bit. Go on, pretend you’re the voice of God… it’ll be really funny. Look there’s a priest walking along with a rabbi – do it! Do it NOW!”
Anyway, today I was wonderfully restrained. I limited myself to telling jokes to an extremely unimpressed audience. Here’s a sample.
Q: What do you call a camel with three humps?
A: Humphrey!
Q: What’s white and black, and black and white, and white and black?
A: A Zebra in a revolving door.
Q: What do you call a T-Rex with narcolepsy?
A: Dinosnore.
01 May 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
Boris/Horatio escaped.
Obviously he will now be out for vengeance against the woman who held him captive for two days.
Farewell, loved you all.
29 Apr 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
There was no post yesterday due to me being utterly incapacitated… again. This is my second week in a row of intoxication to the point of not being able to type and I am starting my Sunday filled with self-loathing and paranoia – fabulous. Really I do not wish to be fourteen again, what’s next? Will I be getting wasted in graveyards and playing spin the bottle? (This tells you pretty much everything there is to know about my adolescence.) The worst thing is – apart from the god awful headache that will stay with me all fucking day- is that I got drunk in front of the same person both times, so now I can’t even lie about it and pretend I didn’t because there’s a witness! Oh and I left my debit card in the bar… I hope.
Let us speak no more of this. I am mortified enough. I need a damn hobby to keep me out of trouble.
Instead let’s move on toBoris/Horatio. Boris/Horatio is a spider that is currently living underneath a transparent, pink plastic cup on my kitchen floor. He has been there for about 24 hours now, and despite my innate ability to kill off any living organism in my care, he appears to still be alive. I’ve yet to make up my mind as to what his name should be. Boris is my stock name for spiders (I’ve no idea why this is so, I’ve just always associated the name Boris with spiders. I work with a chap called Boris, he doesn’t look anything like a spider, and he definitely looks like a Boris… soooo I’m not really sure where I’m going with this tangent). However, this one has a somewhat nautical air about him so it’s Boris/Horatio for now.
The reason that I have a spider trapped underneath a cup in my kitchen is not that I am scared of spiders. I used to be but then I worked in vineyards in Australia for a couple of years and that’s basically Cancun for spider spring break so I got over it. No, what happened is that I was on a cleaning spree and I was mopping the floor – this is true , every couple of months I got into manic cleaning mode and then it stops as quickly as it started – when suddenly a small brown speck started moving swiftly across the floor. The speck had eight legs so I deduced that it was a spider and there fore it needed to either move outdoors or pay me rent. As I was bending down to scoop it up a thought flashed into my mind: ”Rambling Ro stop! This a brown spider, maybe it is that poisonous spider, the brown recluse. Probably it would be better not to pick it up with your bare hands.”
It was at this point that I trapped it under a pink cup.
Of course I had every intention of performing the slidey-paper-under-cup manoeuvre, but I got distracted by something that was of such great importance that I can’t remember what it was. Then I had to go on a hike with a friend, and then I was late to go out and I was rushing, and then I can’t even remember coming in last night so clearly there would be no freeing of the spider then.. and thus, Boris/Horatio is still in my kitchen.
Because I’ve had time to think about it I now find myself with a dilemma.
I do not want to kill the spider, that seems cruel and unnecessary. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t lose sleep at nights over eating dead animals, but spiders… well…. I could pretend that I’m a humane person, but the truth is that I secretly worry that the spider’s friends and family will come to exact their revenge upon me if I murder one of their kin.
So option one, throw it off the balcony.
Option two carry it carefully down three flights of stairs and release it onto a green and pleasant shrub.
Option three release it into my under-the-stairs cupboard so that it may duel to the death with Borisina, the black widow that is currently residing there.
Ah yes, Borisina. Again I do not want go kill her, and she’s really just minding her own business, and I’m hoping that she’s eating termites. However it has been pointed out to me that according to the laws of nature, even the most respectful black widow tenant will eventually have babies that probably won’t be so respectful and will feast on me in my sleep. It is something of a quandry. I’ve been thinking of buying a can of spider killer but tricking someone else into using it…. or maybe just ask someone who doesn’t have a problem with slaughtering spiders.
Back to my options.
The problem with option one, is that it might land on the balcony below me. That doesn’t seem terribly neighbourly. Hello, I’ve come to borrow a cup of sugar, here’s a poisonous spider for you.
Option two requires effort which frankly does not appeal to me. I am lazy. Also, if I drop the cup or the paper slips then I have poisonous spider roaming around my person. It’s not my idea of a good time.
Option three, what if Borisina and Boris/Horatio don’t duel to the death. What if they develop a fierce love-hate chemistry that sparks into passionate anger sex and produce a new strain of mutant, uber venemous babies. Of course Borisina being a black widow would eat Boris/Horatio after the passionate anger sex so that would solve my original problem… but then hundreds of uber venemous baby spiders. Hmmn, tricky.
There is a fourth option. I can slide the cup into the corner of the kitchen and leave it alone until Boris/Horatio pops his clogs. But that could take months and it seems like something a weird person would do.
28 Apr 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
I had an epiphany this morning.
As I’ve been moaning about for some time, the last few months of my life I’ve been consumed by work. However all of that came to an end this week.
No, I did not get fired.
Simply the work load got lighter. Consequently I am able to do things like go for a walk or a swim, which I haven’t done since January. It’s been blissful, however it’s also brought an unexpected, and undesirable side effect.
I was walking along peacefully enough, when I found myself lapsing into an imaginary conversation in my head (don’t even attempt to mock me, every body does this). The problem was that this particular conversation was a rehash of an altercation I’d had a few months before. At the time the confrontation had made me feel spectacularly shitty, and the replay in my head where I got to be an utter asshole and demolish everyone with my scathing wit (it’s my imagination, I am entitled to be the owner of scathing wit… I also get to have the body of a professional athlete, and snorkel in tropical warm waters every day) made me feel equally as bad. The thing about fantasy scenarios in your head is that they still produce genuine emotions. So, unless you’ve got a delightfully magical day-dream going on, it’s really not very good for you mental health to succumb to this make-believe life.
Which is also a valid argument against the perils of becoming immersed in virtual reality. I’ll save that for another post. Back to me.
I realised that I didn’t do this at all when I was immersed in work and sleep deprived. Obviously I don’t want to go back to being all work and no play, but it’s clear that I need something to occupy my mind. (Truth be known I’ve never gotten the hang of this everything-in-moderation lark, I’m much more comfortable with excess thank-you.) Hence I’m currently seeking a new obsession. It needs to be one that is socially acceptable, enjoyable, beneficial rather than detrimental to my health, inexpensive -preferably free, or even better, something that actually makes money- and, given my uncanny knack of being able to kill off pretty much everything, absolutely nothing to do with plants or animals.
Suggestions gratefully received thank-you.
27 Apr 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
The weekend is nigh, thank [insert appropriate divine deity name here].
Not that I’ve had a bad week. It’s been pretty good actually… although there was the episode where I had a filling done without any anesthetic but I don’t see a need to dwell on that. However, tomorrow as noted is Friday. I intend to finish work at lunch time and soak up some culture. I’m not quite sure what that may involve, maybe I’ll take in a museum, find a blues band, watch a show, ride the new metro line, or visit Ireland at the bottom of a Guinness glass. Who knows? The world is my mollusc.
The nice thing about living in LA though, is that if you’re ever bored you always have the fool proof last resort of going to the beach.
It doesn’t have to be a hot day, and you don’t need to go in the water. Instead you can take bracing walks, or sit on the shore and stare dramatically at the crashing waves (it’s always good to practice dramatic facial expressions in public, one never knows when one might be spotted by a talent scout). Personally I’m a fan of building sand castles. Or more accurately sand animals. Sand castles leave me cold, they’re nothing more than walls and a few crenellations – pah. Sand sea creatures however are a different matter entirely. Creating the slope of a turtle shell; making sure that the legs on the octopus are all in proportion; getting the scales of your imaginary fish just right… this is hypnotic absorbing stuff, meditation for people who can’t sit still.
Some people might find this a slightly odd past time for an adult, but if you do then you’re wrong. Sand castling or sand sculpting, in an industry all initself. Amazons sells a variety of “How to build amazing sand castles” books. There are people who list their primary profession as ‘sand sculptor’. Furthermore, you can take lessons in making sand castles! It’s absolutley true. A lesson in the art of creating stuff with sand on the beach costs around $60 per hour (I suspect I know what you’re thinking right now, and I’d just like to say I agree whole heartedly with you, “F*@#ing 60 dollars fhmnne grrmnphnsm sixty fucking dollars,gnemhph frmmrm pushing blurmphing sand! fnnr fkn gnt cn” Or words to that effect.).
I wonder what they teach you. The perfect water to sand ratio…? How many grains make a heap…?
If you’d like the answers to these questions and more, I apologize I cannot help you. But there are several overpaid professionals who can.
26 Apr 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
Crap, crap, crap. I completely forgot I had something else to do this evening apart from be extremely lazy. Consequently I am offering the bare bones version, the skeletal, anorexic, catwalk model version of my favourite news story today.
There is a condition called POIS, or Post Orgasmic Illness Syndrome. The condition is self-explanatory, after ejaculation men become wracked with nasty symptoms: fever; nausea, dizziness, swelling of the lips and throat, headaches, speech impediments – just to name a few. The symptoms can take several days to go away. The cause for POIS is sometimes psychological, but it can also be physiological. The article followed the story of a fifty old man who had suffered from the condition for over 30 years. It seems that the unfortunate man is allergic to his own semen. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the allergy also provokes premature ejaculation.
The man was restricted to sex once a week on a Friday night so that he could have the weekend to recover. The fact that he has suffered with this for 3 decades and not become celibate leads me to the conclusion that the sex he’s getting must be pretty damn good, albeit over quite quickly.
However after 30 years, Murphy’s law has decided to take some time out from this guy’s life. A course of anti-inflammatory treatment has reduced the ailments, and also the premature ejaculation, which – as the writer of the article so eloquently pointed out – gives not just the man, but also his wife, a happy ending.
25 Apr 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
My fingers are still tired from tapping out such a long post yesterday, and I have to get up early tomorrow to play the role of Miss Piggy as an astronaut. (More often than not my job likes to swim in surreal waters. Why, just this morning I found myself in a cramped cage wearing a horse’s head whilst my colleague performed a phantom baby tap-dancing routine for my benefit alone…. it was rather good actually.) Therefore today’s post will be get straight to the point.
Yesterday I found a mushroom in my fridge that looked exactly like a pair of buttocks.
It was so impressive I took pictures. Sadly I am technically inept and cannot upload photographs from my phone so you’ll never share the joy of the buttroom. Hmmm…that sounds exceptionally dodgy, perhaps I should call it the mushbutt instead?
24 Apr 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
So many things that crossed my mind today when I should have been working. Actress Susan Sarandon for one. She’s been quoted this week as saying that she has seen her FBI files and they confirm that she has been put under FBI surveillance twice. As she’s extremely outspoken in her views, which are vehemently anti-Republican, and we do live in a country that seems to have the ideology of “It’s only against the law if you do it; if I do it then it’s perfectly legal and of great benefit to everybody else – why you should be thanking me actually”, this comes as no great shock.
Celebrities are often in the press giving their political opinions, which seems to generate many comments along the lines of, “How is it that celebrities can go from being waiters and bartenders to over-blown self-important movie actors, to experts on government, war, education, marriage etc.. overnight? Why don’t they just do what they’re paid to do? Say the damn lines, look pretty and then shut the hell up.”
A tad harsh I feel. Whilst it irks me no end that people who are famous in the entertainment industry are paid outrageous amounts of money simply for showing their faces at social events, I don’t think we should take away their right to an opinion. In fact I’m fairly certain that there might be something in the constitution about freedom of speech (although, given that it’s long overdue for a makeover, it may not be the best piece of legislation to cite).
When you witness time and time again the colossal cock-ups that so many politicians make, it seems ludicrous to hold onto the belief that politicians are somehow better at understanding how the world should be run than any other person on the street. Actors might be concerned with a tremendous amount of things that I am not (head shots, networking, and pilot season to name a few), but this does not mean that they are intrinsically stupid. In fact, considering that the ones who are criticised for being so vocal are often filthy stinking rich, I think they might have a degree of intelligence there. Are surgeons, or electricians, or valet parkers, or welders, or teachers, or astro-physicists, or nurses also unfit to hold a political opinion? They are not professional politicians either therefore their voices must also be worthless.
I suspect that it is not being in the entertainment profession which provokes so much hostility, but the wealth of the speaker, especially if that wealth does not seem to have been hard earned. I fully admit, if I heard one of the Kardashian clan dispensing political soundbites my instinctual reaction would most likely be, “What the fuck does she know?” A difference in wealth/ standard of living is no.2 in the list of top causes of the “us and them” mentality. It is second only to the male/female divide. So it’s easy, instinctive almost, to deride someone of a different economic background when they’re speaking about an issue which appears to effect ‘us’ and not so much ‘them’.
However it’s not entirely their fault that they are so sickeningly rich and famous. The media will target regular people and raise them to the status of living legends. There is an entire industry devoted to publicising individuals and marketing them. Actors, singers, athletes, they all earn ridiculous amounts of money and are treated with the kind of sycophantic reverence that would turn any self-respecting deity’s stomach. (Once upon a time revered sportsmen and women at the top of their game had the same financial worries as everyone else, the only difference was that they had job satisfaction.)
Now, I can blame the media for their marketing strategies and their blatant manipulation of the public. In fact I’m happy to blame the media for a whole bunch of stuff, if I thought I could fob off my parking tickets on them I would do so with great joy. However it is undeniable that the bottom rung of the ladder which supports all of this madness, is the regular folks like thee and me. We buy the magazines; we read the sensational headlines online; we watch the reality TV shows; we pay for the expensive tickets; or the pay-per-view fee. Every time we are given a new opportunity to fuel the fires that make normal people famous, we rush towards that opportunity armed with a canister of gasoline and a dozen packs of matches. We live vicariously through famous people, and we are addicted to their lives of tainted glamour. I suspect we would all be having a lot more fun if we concentrated more on experiencing our own tainted glamour.
If we are truly sick of hearing famous movie moguls, stand-up comedians and sporting heroes talk about right and wrong, then we must cease the craving for hearing anything from them at all.
23 Apr 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
Let us consider today the oft forgotten synchronised swimmer.
Synchronised swimmers are something of a joke in the sporting world and I think that this a grave delusion.
Firstly they have lungs like whales and I have a tremendous admiration for people who can go without breathing for long periods of time, it is clearly a valuable skill. You know those scenes in movies where someone is trapped underwater and they manage to hold their breath for a ludicrously long amount of time? Well obviously I attempt to hold my breath for the duration of the sub-aquatic scene, just to see if I could survive in the same situation if it were real life and not me on the couch. (I know I’m not the only person who does this. And there are other people who distinctly more silly things, like trying to jump when the elevator stops at the bottom floor, to see if one can survive the cables snapping.) You’re probably not surprised to learn that I have zero chance of surviving any underwater debacle, I can get to about 30 seconds before the world goes wibbly – technical term.
Secondly, they do this pointy toe business which we all know is a fast route to cramp, yet they never show it. They smile glamorously throughout the searing pain of muscles spasms contorting their toes. Other athletes can frankly be a bit wimpy in comparison synchronised swimmers: ”Ooh someone kicked me, I must lie on the field until a man in blue runs out to tell me that actually I’m fine, and I should really stop being such a baby” the expression on runner’s faces … generally agonizing not joyful; team sports … all the players tend to look a bit grim faced. I’m not really suggesting that other athletes don’t compete through pain, (I’ve been a spectator at a marathon, I’ve seen them hobbling along with blistered feet and bleeding nipples. It made me 100% certain that I would never ever attempt to run 26 miles.) merely that synchronised swimmers are pretty hardcore to be able to cope with the pain with such grace, and they should be lauded as such, rather than being the recipients of sniggers and patronising phrases such as “It’s very pretty to look at but it’s not a real sport”.
Thirdly, they are upside down, in the water. Go down to your nearest pool and try it. Spin around in the water with your legs in the air and your head pointing downwards. It’s really fucking hard…. and somewhat humiliating, be prepared for some funny looks.
Fourthly, they are essentially dancing to music that they can’t hear, and they’re doing it perfectly. So as well as swimming, they’re also counting. Such multi-tasking! No wonder it went from being a male dominated to female sport. True there are underwater speakers in the pool, but if you’ve ever tried singing underwater – yes I have, frequently, I am happy little songbird, I grew up watching The Sound of Music every year at Christmas, and Mary Poppins, and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, I blame Julie Andrews entirely – you’ll know that water heavily distorts sound.
Lastly, they are synchronised! They are all moving together, with precision, and they’re all in the correct place at the correct time. If you try swimming laps in your local public pool you have to share lanes, which in theory are perfectly wide enough for two people to pass one another, yet it’s not unusual to come home with the same type of bruises that you get from 10 bouts of karate. However these gals are in the water, upside down and they never bump into one another, not for them the cry of, “Ow, get your foot out of my ear.“
Top three benefits of being a synchronised swimmer:
1. The option of having a day job as a pearl diver.
2. Being able to put your head under water if you’re tired of listening to what people are saying.
3. Vastly improved chances of surviving a crocodile death roll.
21 Apr 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
There was no post yesterday, and no forewarning either.
There are only three acceptable reasons that I offer for not putting up me daily post.
- Vacation
- Illness
- Lack of internet access
I am citing all three.
Yesterday I took a mental vacation. I got day drunk… and then evening drunk… and I may have made it to night drunk. Can’t quite remember if the sun went down, but my companion did sport pyjamas at some point.
I feel incredibly ill today, and this plague definitely started last night. If I owned a chainsaw I would be decapitating myself right now….although realistically I would be collapsed in a heap on the floor begging someone else to decapitate me because I don’t have the strength to pull the cord.
There was no access to anything in my world last night apart from vodka. The internet was a ver ver ver long way away.
And this is all that I will be writing today due to extreme illness. The headache started in my frontal lobe and is now down to my teeth – they are throbbing. I have gone from Oh-god-my-head-hurts-but-this-is-funny-because-I’m -still-drunk to Kill-me-kill-me-now and I am also consumed by a nagging feeling that I did not flush my host’s toilet after passing out upon it last night. (Honestly I am normally a great house guest).
Adieu.
20 Apr 2012
Rambling RoPosted under Uncategorized
I can distinctly remember my French teacher telling me when I was 17, that there would come a moment in your life when you truly understand for the first time that one day, you will die.
I don’t think I ever had the memorable flash of realisation of which she spoke, maybe that joy is still waiting for me, but I did catch myself thinking a few months ago, “It’s alright. One day I’ll be dead and this won’t matter.” I can’t remember what the catalyst was for that particular revelation – probably some stranger trying to kill me on the freeway, or an unexpected tax bill – the point is, even though I can’t state the exact moment when it happened, I’ve become cognizant of my eventual demise… although I still don’t think I really and truly believe it. I mean… you know, I’ve got stuff to do, a lifetime just doesn’t seem long enough to fit it all in.
Generally speaking, people aren’t comfortable with the idea of living and dying without making an impact of some sort. So many people seek fame for fame’s sake, and there are those who simply want to be great, the best in their field; others want to be heroes and role models, living legends. It all comes back to a desire to be special, to be unique, stand apart from the common herd, be admired, or even reviled, just as long as someone notices you. (I’ve no idea why, but there is a desperate need within human beings to prove that they are worth more than ants, which in the grand scheme of things is a very silly thing to need. It is ludicrous to believe that the universe values us more than the industrious, noble ant.)
To this end, the Guinness Book of Records is doing the world a great service. Anybody can get their name into print and go down in history as being the best at something. For example there is a man who holds the world record for riding on a unicycle on top of a row of empty beer bottles. Another chap proudly bears the title of record holder for longest time spinning a basketball on top of a toothbrush held in his mouth. There’s a whole big bunch of people who jointly can claim the fame of being the people who set the record for largest number of people wearing sumo suits gathering in one place.
This is the brilliant thing about the Guinness Book of Records, you don’t have to be an expert in your chosen field, hell you don’t even need to be less than mediocre. You just need to find something so outlandish no else has thought of making a record out of it before.
It’s not as easy as it sounds though, it takes a great deal of inventiveness. Want to make the world’s largest ball of lint? Don’t bother, it’s been done. Got a talent for standing eggs on end – good for you, but so has someone else, and he’s managed to get 429 of them to stand to attention at the same time. Jack Bibby holds the record for having the most rattlesnakes in his mouth (4 in case you’re interested, and just the heads). The world’s fastest sofa travels at 87 mph! And I’m not sure who is the impressive soul that has achieved the furthest nasal projection in history, but I do know that I have no wish to meet him whatsoever.
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