Journey into the mind of a 5cm tall finger puppet and discover, like in a classic episode of 21 Jump Street, that all cats are grey in the dark. Or differences are only skin deep. Or bandanas are not ever going to make a come back as head gear. Some shit.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
You Remind Me of Someone
If the previous post wasn't enough to give you the idea that my ranting-block is continuing, unabated, then how about we try this on for size? Yes, again, when the well is dry, Youtube comes to the rescue.
I had never heard of these guys before following the link on Ms Fits' lovely page. Then I found this skit which initially made me laugh for all the times I've forgotten someone's name and then, finally, for the ending. I, too, have admitted to having a generic face.
Writing, recently, has been something of a struggle. I have found myself walking around struggling to remember the name of the first nascent 'hipster' film that A* and I saw, back in the day, that was filmed in edgy black and white at the UCLA (Berkley? Who?) campus in America and involved 20somethings dealing with their lack of direction, etc, zzzz. It also contained the excellent scene where the 'writer' man leaned back in his chair, over powered by ennui and writers block and catalogued the things around him. "Ceiling. Shelves. Chair. Wall. Roof. Fuck."
Yep, pretty much.
If I were him I would be writing "fucktard morning crowds at spencer street, ugly people, how hot is it, fuck"
So nothing exciting then, obvs. Or even remotely worth reading.
Thank god I've finally re-remembered things that I enjoy.
To whit:
Writing offensive emails to Tone Loc that are systematically rejected by his server. There's only so many shitty forwards a finger puppet can read before the need to inform someone that they suck dick comes into play
Lying, pointlessly, at parties. Yes, yes I am allergic to lavender. Violet! You're turning violet, violet! Was totes a catch-cry from my childhood whenever I was thoughtlessly forced to handle the near-fatal substance known as lavender.
Actually, now that I'm reminded of it, being told that I have 'Gene Wilder curls' which I gleefully translated as being told that I have curls which remind one of a (potential) kiddie fiddler
Instructing my mother in the art of saying "no". Saying "Nein" "Nee" "Nyet" and "Non" are all things I enjoy doing immensely and with aplomb
Having HumanRash (nee Spakattak) woefully confess that he is now a walking, itching, human rash at a party and then hearing JZ yell across said party a few hours later "hey! Rashman! Oy! Human Rash!" Ah. Good times.
Assuming the moral highground with two of the more ideologically aware people I know. Herbert: No, of course coffees are out of the question! Hotness + B: Oh.. but.. isn't that food? Herbert: I can't believe you! I'm appalled! What is WRONG with you people? Don't you know that that's contrary to the whole spirit of the experiment??? Hottness + B: [silence] Herbert: [self righteously shaking out the saturday paper whilst sitting in the wading pool, cleaned and filled with water during water restrictions] I just can't believe you people sometimes....
So my weekend kicked off with two rather sad occurances.
I had to bid a final For Reals farewell to mah Park, which involved incredible amounts of denial on both our parts and a resolution to meet each other in argentina for some rose eating and spontaneous combustion, and also a trip to the dentist.
I found, as I tottered out of the dentist forty five minutes after arriving there, that there are few things more destabilising than hosting two strangers' hands in your mouth for almost an hour. Particularly when they are weilding small things with hooks and strange vacuuming things that suck on the inside of your cheek. Particularly when they leave you with the feeling that you have four new teeth in your mouth and none of them like you.
There is nothing about a trip to a dentist that has not been covered before by science fiction writers and directors but that doesn't make any of it less true. Going to the dentist is fucking wrongtown, people. Damn.
Yesterday I 'helped' my dear friend Park pack up her flat and sell her belongings in preparation for her impending move to bro-town. I am terribly sad that she is leaving and that I will never be able to pick my way past such an incredible selection of pot plants on my way to her flat ever again.
Rather than dwell on all that is sad and final about her leaving, however, lets make lemonaids, shall we and be more upbeat and pollyanna-ish, as is our want. (All you haters sitting out there thinking "herbert = happy go lucky pollyanna?!" yo' don't know me! So there!)
Things that have been pretty awesome about 'helping':
riding shotgun in a fancy car (it is truly one of my favouritest things in the whole world to sit next to someone dear to me as they drive around. If there is a radio playing so-bad-its-good music for me to sing along to, so much the better)
Taking time out from packing to sit in cafes (various) to eat cake while each of us read separate, awful, trashy magazines (and exclaim loudly over the contents)
Wearing diamante encrusted sunglasses, inside, while moving things in... not just mono, not just stereo but trio-a-phone. And then making up a speaker system that means three times the fury just for the hell of it
Perfecting the art of 'helping' with Hottness. We realised, as each of us found our perfect slump on the futon couch from which to watch three other people struggle with moving a queen size bed out of the way and down four flights of stairs, that together we had combined our powers of helping to new heights.
Finally hearing the real version of "the first cut is the deepest"
Gin and tonics and 'Dude, where's my car?'
Running shrieking into the sea
Finally finding some joy in knowing all the words to Rick Astley's song in a fish and chip shop somewhere in Brighton
Travelling as a twentysomething is meant to be some cliche-riddled existence full of overstuffed backpacks and ugly clothes. I accept the former but fight the later.
