tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47804487172941678742024-02-18T21:01:14.430-08:00The write guffOne part early mid-life crisis. Two parts overweening literary ambition. Three parts infernal comedy. Four parts pointless arithmetic progression.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-84240652187269632002009-08-30T06:37:00.000-07:002009-08-30T07:23:17.831-07:00Choke on it, bitch: reflections on infernal tokens of exchangeForgive me, blogger for I have sinned. It's been three months since my last post.<br /><br />But this time I've changed. I really have. I'm going to post more frequently, stop eating ice-cream and be nicer to puppies (like giving up eating puppy ice-cream for a start, furry <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> fattening).<br /><br />Having been away a long time, I thought I'd kick off with an easy topic. A crappy film I just watched.<br /><br />Drag me to hell, starring the delightful Alison Lohman (rowrrr, etc)<br /><br />In this film, Lohman plays a bank loans officer bucking for promotion who is cursed by an old gypsy woman when she refuses to grant her a <span style="font-style: italic;">third </span>extension on her over-due mortgage. The gypsy attacks her, rips a <span style="font-style: italic;">button </span>off her coat and um curses it. The effect of this curse is that Lohman will be visited by demon for three days running after which she will be dragged to hell for all eternity to suffer burning and sharp poking and <span style="font-style: italic;">Family Ties</span> re-runs.<br /><br />Firstly, this is a little harsh for, you know, just doing your job as a minor functionary in the halls of not-quite high finance. Eternity is a long time. Longer than the list of stuff found in Michael's Jackson's blood. (Boom-tish. Too crass?)<br /><br />Secondly, it's a little hard to create dramatic tension around a button. Normally, these things are done with rings or golden chalices or burnished swords. Not usually those cute as a, uh, you know <span style="font-style: italic;">thing</span>, that you keep your shirt from flying open with.<br /><br />"Uh, well, it's a nice little teal and tortoise-shell affair with four holes and a smooth glossy finish and <span style="font-style: italic;">its a portal to hell</span>!" Somehow I just don't associate paths to eternal damnation with the rag-trade. I don't know. Maybe it's just me.<br /><br />We're also asked to believe that Alison Lohman, in real-life an urbane and sophisticated Hollywood stick-figure on 144 GSM paper, is a previously fat farm girl. I think she would stand a good chance of out-weighing the demonic button but not by much. (Her previous weight problem and a few scenes involving food and throats and shit like that led one IMDB theorist to opine IN SHOUTING CAPITALS!!! that it was all in her head as a result of anorexia. Um maybe.)<br /><br />Anyhoo, once her scheme to unload said demon fails, she learns she can unload her impending fate by simply giving the button to another person. Ouch. Life is cheap and hell is cheaper (but nice 400-thread cotton sheets, not so cheap).<br /><br />She learns (so much learning! A B-movie is not unlike kindergarten) that she can give the er button <span style="font-style: italic;">back </span>to the cursing gypsy (even though the woman's now passed beyond the bank's earthly jurisdiction if you know what I mean). This leads to immortal piece of Shakespearian wit: “Choke on this, bitch.”<br /><br />I'm just disappointed in their choice of one-liners. Would it have been so hard to go to the next level: “Choke on this, bitch! With interest!” Or “jam that up your fixed-rate derivatives portfolio!”<br /><br />[Spoilers!!] The nasty twist at the end (a turn of the screw, a flip of the button) is that the satanic, um, button is in an envelope which falls to the floor of her boyfriend's car after a sudden stop. She looks around for it desperately and then finds it, neglecting to actually <span style="font-style: italic;">check </span>if the hell-spawn chemise-fastener is indeed in there. So when she re-gifts it to the old biddy she's just passing on an empty envelope <span style="font-style: italic;">sans bouton</span> as the French say and hence does not avoid her fate.<br /><br />Which reminds me of two things I already knew:<br />1.Fashion is pain; and<br />2.In the end, everything comes down to good stationery management.<br /><br />You have been warned.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-82197434699450925622009-05-10T03:08:00.000-07:002009-05-10T03:22:38.372-07:00seeing is believing in seeing betterMaybe its because someone I know outed herself as an employee of one of the various massive multilateral optometry combines but I seem to be seeing ads for eye wear <span style="font-style: italic;">all the time</span>. Literally <span style="font-style: italic;">all the time</span>, as in: I stay awake around the clock using amphetamines with my eye-lids stapled open and saline solution dripped across my peepers while someone shows me a non-stop loop of optometry service provider commercials. It <span style="font-style: italic;">literally </span>is that frequent.<br /><br />It culminated in three different optometry ads in one ad break including having a commercial for Service Provider A sledging Service Provider B for not being particularly Australian and all that followed immediately by an ad for Service Provider B (who did not deign to mention their competitors).<br /><br />What is this? Is the Global Economic Crisis making everyone go blind (or at least <span style="font-style: italic;">blindish</span>)? Are people rushing out to spend their unearned rudd-dollars on fashionable eye-wear? Is it a sinister plot by a malevolent alien force to make everyone more bookish and intellectual seeming and therefore too effete to go to the bother of defending Earth?<br /><br />I'm banking on the third option because its what I'd do if I were a malevolent alien force.<br /><br />Lucky I don't need glasses so I'll be around as the last free man, standing on the Statue of Liberty with nothing but a .303 and a ham sandwich, knee-deep in alien slim, screaming 'maniacs!' Or something.<br /><br />Sorry, what was this post about again?Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-42677933520810269652009-04-24T15:24:00.000-07:002009-04-25T02:11:43.322-07:00No more animals!I went down to the coast last week (or 'down the coast' as we say) with my kids and Jessie Mo and her daughter Boops. The four of us, excluding JM, went to Mogo zoo which is<span style="font-style: italic;"> not a bad zoo</span> as zoos go though perhaps not worth the $20 entry fee for those of the grown-up persuasion.<br /><br />For some reason, a day or two earlier, I had hit upon the idea of giving Boychild and Girlchild two dollars pocket money each. I can't remember why. And thereafter, into Kmart, out of Kmart, into Aldi, out of Aldi, etc there were constant queries about what they could buy with <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> money and what I should buy anyway <span style="font-style: italic;">just because</span> and why did I have to buy that awful thing which I <span style="font-style: italic;">had </span>to buy and claim that it was for them when in fact they hated it?<br /><br />I managed to get Girlchild to spend her not-so-hard-earned on a small donut from Dunkin' Donuts (<span style="font-style: italic;">I know, I know..</span>.) but then Boops and Boychild had to have some donut too which somehow I paid for. Just one donut which I cut up three ways for them. Boychild then bought a sweet for himself and Girlchild. Cost: sixty cents. Leaving one dollar forty. (Helpfully the ancient crone behind the counter of the tobacconist where he bought the sweets gave us the wrong change, charging us for only one sweet, allowing me to supply an instant moral lesson and maths lesson combined into a tasty pedagogic treat).<br /><br />But then I never heard the end of <span style="font-style: italic;">one dollar forty</span> and when could he go back to that store and buy the bubble gum balls (price = twenty cents each) that he meant to buy the first time round but didn't?<br /><br />I don't know. Later. Never.<br /><br />Anyway, [<span style="font-style: italic;">rolls eyes</span>] as I was saying, at the zoo. The kids had money and an ice-cream in mind, as a possible way to soak up any spare cash that might have been lining their pockets. So you go looking at animals, trying to take your time because when you've spent forty dollars to look at animals, each animal should hold your attention for <span style="font-style: italic;">at least</span> ten seconds so that you don't find yourself back in the zoo car park ten minutes later.<br /><br />I was proposing that we take the path less travelled (by us, the left fork to the gibbons and lions) when Girlchild suddenly shouted: <span style="font-style: italic;">No! No more animals!</span> Which is a little rough I think on any animals that might have been listening and there could have been quite a few because we were just near the African safari exhibit with its mix-and-match collection of savannah trash.<br /><br />Anyway, the kids got the ice-creams, I got the desired pacing, and the animals, including the lions and gibbons, got a little attention.<br /><br />One lingering question remains. What the hell is a serval?Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-76925174430232464242009-04-05T22:20:00.001-07:002009-04-05T22:29:01.911-07:00SprinklesPeople sometimes say to me: Nick (because that is my name), Nick, you lead an incredibly interesting life. Show us just how interesting by favouring us with a few sprinkled anecdotes replete with international intrigue.<br /><br />Very well.<br /><br />Today at KidCity I was playing with the giant bouncy core balls with Daughter-H, popping them into a large hole, rolling them around, chasing them across the floor etc. Finally I threw the large sky-blue ball very hard at said large hole. It hit the edge and bounced back smacking myself fully in the face. Three sub-genres of comedy were invented on the spot.<br /><br />Then I went back to drink the world's worst muggacino (tm, patent pending), only I inhaled all the chocolate sprinkles on the top, causing me to cough violently and spit a mouthful of cappucino froth on the back and arse of a nearby mother tending to her children.<br /><br />When I realised she didn't notice, I realised it was quite funny.<br /><br />Then we went home.<br /><br />Good night.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-3342840067702176792009-03-30T00:19:00.000-07:002009-03-30T00:22:50.575-07:00A few haiku thoughts<span style="font-style: italic;">five syllables here</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">and now seven go here then five</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">here. A freakin' haiku!</span><br /><br /><br />Has anyone ever tried to translate the Haka, the Maori ceremonial war dance, used to open rugby games and international expositions, into haiku form and if so, what would it be called?<br /><br />Did you know that if you invert a haiku (7-5-7) the space-time continuum will collapse? Try it for yourself at home...Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-16100528979130928882009-03-25T17:41:00.000-07:002009-03-25T18:00:51.259-07:00A good terramycin is hard to findIs this not the most beautiful spam poem ever? I laughed and then I cried and then I fought injustice and then I collapsed at the weight of it all:<br /><br /><blockquote>From: Dollie Judd [mailto:<a href="mailto:MargerydevourHammer@bearparade.com">MargerydevourHammer@<wbr>bearparade.com</a>]<br />Sent: 27 July 2008 6:54 AM<br />To: Nick Crumbedprawn<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Subject: beyond traitorous</span><br /><br />chorine chorine schmidt<br /><br />turnover silvery attic? contraption, duckling ambulate.<br />contraption belmont contraption un contraption dean, traitorous<br />pacemake turnover ditch ambidextrous belmont.<br /><br />terramycin dobbs.</blockquote>Huh. I assumed it was gen-u-ine pharma-spam because I certainly didn't <span style="font-style: italic;">solicit </span>it in my work in-box. I <span style="font-style: italic;">thought </span>it was a random combobulation of words designed to hide the identity but not the location of their product from Google's all-seeing flying monkey robots. But maybe it is a real poem, disguised as spam, disguised as a real email. (And this is cunningly disguised as a real blog post).<br /><br />Because the email seems to have come from <a href="http://www.bearparade.com/">bearparade</a> -- a <span style="font-weight: bold;">real </span>poetry site with <span style="font-weight: bold;">real </span>poetry in it.<br /><br />Frankly, its beyond traitorous. I guess I fell into their trap. I would have got away with it too if it hadn't been for these meddling kids.<br /><br />Jeez, its like being in a soft-drink commercial based on a movie based on a Philip K. Dick novel based on a bad burrito dream <span style="font-style: italic;">without Rutger Hauer</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">PS</span>. I was thinking of calling this post 'Luckily I already have a large penis (in a box in the attic)' but I thought it may be taken the wrong way. The title, that is.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Edit</span>: the poem doesn't appear to be on bearparade anywhere according to the magic crystal ball held up by said monkey-bots. Which means it <span style="font-style: italic;">is </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">real</span> spam pretending to be etc etc<br /><br />And did I mention 'etc'?Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-65540159227963097722009-03-24T00:04:00.000-07:002009-03-24T00:37:51.376-07:00Words happen when you least expect them but sometimes on the page<em>A writer writes, always.</em><br /><br />Except for the dead ones.<br /><br />Two questions have often occurred to me: one, hey, Nick, if you want to be a writer so badly, how come you don’t actually write very much and two, if you want to be a writer so badly how come you don’t seem to enjoy writing that much?<br /><br />Well, smart-arse (he said to himself), the answer the first question is in the second question. Writing and not enjoying it does not appear to be that uncommon. Witness the parade of mopey bastards that the Guardian interviewed (<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/mar/03/authors-on-writing">Writing for a living: joy or a chore</a>). With the exception of Will Self or thereabouts, they don’t seem to particularly like the act which has underpinned their (successful) lives.<br /><br />For example: ‘Writing novels is no fun; nor is, generally speaking, reading novels. Reading people writing about novels is not always fun, either.’ – Amit ‘I Am A Human Sunbeam’ Chaudhuri. Or: ‘When I was young, I thought that the fun part of writing would be the "creative" bit, making stuff up and inventing things. The older I've got, the less fun this has become. I dread it.’ – Geoff ‘Sponge of Dripping Joy’ Dyer.<br /><br />Of course, if you’re AL Kennedy – which I am not – I don’t suppose you’ve ever encountered joy anyway:<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwV044e1EnuhP5L_xeGbZwTLkrgdmzWsHI22zypmdDmg_QPeMCk5WdA3LXczh8AYSzJmAoX5vRteV99cHubz920JKD14nlyX9NDcxrcpVF7sFefRizbeL26RW8Mr97eR8HlatD1oESZPk/s1600-h/alkennedyGodwin140.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316650902992514530" style="WIDTH: 140px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 130px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwV044e1EnuhP5L_xeGbZwTLkrgdmzWsHI22zypmdDmg_QPeMCk5WdA3LXczh8AYSzJmAoX5vRteV99cHubz920JKD14nlyX9NDcxrcpVF7sFefRizbeL26RW8Mr97eR8HlatD1oESZPk/s320/alkennedyGodwin140.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em>This is AL Kennedy on acid</em>.<br /><br />But the second question remains. Why the apparent lack of enjoyment? I guess it's partly fear of failure. Writing is important to me. I'm afraid I'll do a bad job. Ergo I don't enjoy it. If I were surrounded by an infinite number of validating monkeys then it might be easier. (Do you know any?).<br /><br />If you can write unconnected from expecations of succcess or failure, actual enjoyment may be possible.<br /><br />I've had a little more success in writing of late by forcing myself to write 500 words a day. I've stuck to it for about a month now, meaning my novel is now up to 62 000 words. The 500 words zip by if I have a clear idea of what to write. They drag by if I have to make up the plot as I go along. The last couple of nights I've been conscious of hauling the plot kicking and screaming in a direction it probably doesn't want or need to go in. The two short scenes I've written probably aren't that necessary for the plot -- and yet the very act of having written them is useful, I think. They may or may not make it into the final novel but doubtless something from them will be salvaged and while I'm writing, I'm er writing <em>always</em>.<br /><br />I have this difficulty: I know that writing when the way is clear is much easier than when it is not -- but if I stop to plan a scheme I frequently grind to a halt. I tend to develop byzantine plots with uncomfortably large holes in them. Simply writing is often the best (or only, albeit painful) way to fill in these holes. If I sit around and order my brain to produce exciting plot-filla (tm), it tends not to oblige.<br /><br />Soooo. The moral of this story is... The moral of this story. Is...<br /><br />Arrgh. A hole. Will fill it in later. Or you, dear reader, can write your own moral.<br /><div><a href="http://www.blogger.com/" name="&lid={inBodyPicture}{AL Kennedy}&lpos={inBodyPicture}{1}"></a> </div>Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-35333184787311018352009-03-16T18:29:00.000-07:002009-03-16T18:43:24.340-07:00In the liftThe lift up from the basement was crowded this morning. It's not that I don't like people, it's just that they're loud, coarse creatures with poor hygiene and a propensity for starting religious wars and sitting in front of me at the cinema.<br /><br />To the fat guy who got off after just two floors at the offices of the medical research council: <em>Taking the frickin' stairs is good for you. Read a medical textbook sometime.</em><br /><br />To the IT guy who said to the other IT guy 'Blah blah blah windows message box of the web app blah blah blah': <em>what?</em><br /><em></em><br />To the naked opthamaologist in the clown-make-up chewing on cajun alpaca jerky: <em>where were you?</em>Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-21086438090922390392009-03-11T19:40:00.000-07:002009-03-11T19:48:52.094-07:00It's true that I am no match for the risen living Lord Jesus Christ and and His armyIn my <span style="font-family:georgia;">mailbox the other day, I</span> found a small piece of paper, about 5cm by 5cm which had been photocopied and cut (all-too-obviously) with scissors.<br /><br />I reproduce the text on it below, as faithful as possible to the typography and spelling errors:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">YOU COME AGAINST AUSTRALIAN FAMILIES (ESPECIALLY THOSE IN FOSTER CARE AND ‘WARDS OF THE STATE”) WITH YOUR WORDS, WORKS, WAYS, WICKEDNESS,LAWS,EVIL PRIDE,DECEIT,POWERS AND ALL YOUR UNITED VOICES, BUT WE COME AGAINST YOU IN THE NAME OF THE LORD JESUS CHRIST AND THE POWER AND AUTHORITY OF HIS HOLY WRITTEN WORD WHICH YOU ARE DEFIEING [sic].WE DECLARE AND PRONOUNCE YOUR REIGN OF TERROR OVER ALL AUSTRALIAN FAMILIES (THE YOUNG IN CAPTIVITY ESPECIALY [sic])HAS FINISHED.YOU ARE NO MATCH FOR THE RISEN,LIVING, LORD JESUS CHRIST AND HIS ARMY SO THIS DAY HE IS HANDING YOU OVER TO US AS THE LORD WORKS WITHOUT REGARD TO ANY HUMAN MEAN.HE IS PREVAILING AS ALL ELSE IS FAILING.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">I'm guessing that this little fibrous ray of light was mass-produced and then dropped in the letter-boxes of many homes in the Greater Republic of Ainslie. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><em>Or was it!?</em> Perhaps I was targetted specifically because the author (not to mention the Author or even the AUTHOR) knows that I despise and regularly 'come against' Australian families. </span></span><br /><br />Or they may have confused me with the Government. Happens a lot -- we're both large amorphous entities that crush the hopes and dreams of countless people while simultaneously waging war on two continents.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-91603384119064714102009-03-06T22:04:00.000-08:002009-03-07T02:41:20.877-08:00Putting on the best darn school play everMy friend David used to say as a joke: 'we're going to put on the best darn school play ever!' It was an ironic expression of the extreme saccharine positivity of a certain species of American movie. After all the (most likely farcical) challenges and knock-downs they'd faced, the characters were going to respond in the only way they knew how, by embodying the best traditions of American small-town life, come together as a community, rehearse their plump mono-saturated fat butts off (or if not 'off' exactly then at least 'around') and<span style="font-style: italic;"> put on the best darn school play ever</span>!<br /><br />I was reminded recently of the 1983 film <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086429/">Testament </a>(featuring Kevin Costner naturally) which is about a small American town after a nuclear war.<br /><br />The things is: at the time the bombs fall, there is actually a school play in rehearsal. As civilisation unravels, the residents decide to keep going with it and actually try to<span style="font-style: italic;"> put on the best darn school play ever</span> to keep the community going and hopeful.<br /><br />In reality, of course, they'd be roaring across desert wastelands in a souped-up Falcon coupe running down petrol-thieving mohawk-sporting neo-primitives. But maybe that's just me.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-4383607056166529912009-03-05T18:47:00.000-08:002009-03-05T19:05:47.840-08:00Rejected openings to a novel-in-progress #1"Several moments passed after Gavin farted before he realised that the ipod he was listening to may have inhibited his capacity to determine whether his <em>silent release</em> had indeed been as discreet as he had planned it to be. He quickly looked from side to side to see if his interlocutors at the International Nuclear Weapons Disarmament and Counter-Proliferation Conference had noticed."<br /><br /><em>Apologies for opening this exciting series with a piece of scatology. But you know, whatever, as the kids say.</em>Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-19279848319741202942009-03-03T17:40:00.000-08:002009-03-04T16:38:12.857-08:00The following I'm story?I walked into work this morning fulfilling the promise I made to myself and to the human race that I would start listening to GREAT WORKS OF LITERATURE on audio book on my Ipod rather than random young-person music.<br /><br />I'm starting with Nabokov's <em>Lolita</em> which is arranged into five minutes chunks of creepy goodness.<br /><br />The first part was a longish and dullish framing device by the supposed editor of Humbert Humbert's manuscript. Then it leapt to Jeremy Irons as Humbert Humbert describing him and Lolita shifting from squalid hotel to foetid motel in search of a nameless fugitive and an illegal good-time before changing gears again to talk about HH receving the gift of a box to hold his chess pieces.<br /><br />It was fascinating stuff but I did wonder why the story lurched about so much. I mean, I like taking a chain-saw to traditional narrative structure as much as the next guy but I was surprised at how it slid imperceptibly from one thing to another without any particular logic that I could discern.<br /><br />That's when I noticed my ipod was on "shuffle album".<br /><br />On the way home I'm going to slavishly adhere to convention and listen to it in the "correct" "order". Sometimes, the dominant paradigm is dominant for a reason.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-52231748590728156272009-03-02T04:23:00.000-08:002009-03-02T04:43:47.331-08:00I am the last person left on earth with integrity and even I regard myself as fundamentally compromisedIt's not like I'm stalking Hazel Blackberry's <a href="http://liedown.blogspot.com/">blog</a>. Or if it is, it's nothing that would stand up in court.<br /><br />But... I read this post:<br /><br /><a href="http://liedown.blogspot.com/2009/02/i-cant-play-your-interviews-cant-hear.html">http://liedown.blogspot.com/2009/02/i-cant-play-your-interviews-cant-hear.html</a><br /><br />which features this exchange:<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: italic;">"Here's some music you probably won't like," I told New Girl.<br /><br />"Who's this singer?"<br /><br />"Bob Mould. Formerly of Husker Du."<br /><br />"Formerly of the Planet Zark! When you talk about music I can't understand a word you're saying."<br /><br />She listens to a lot of Kanye.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Before I got to the end of that, I had a thought (and yes it must have been a very quick thought): "formerly of the Planet Zark"? The Planet Zark? Is that some ultra-cool pre-Husker Du (I don't know how to do the umlauts, I'm sorry) vehicle for Bob Mould?</p><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Husker Du? Bob Mould totally sold out when he joined those hacks after Planet Zark impoded during their first gig on a Tuesday night at an abandoned High School in western Kentucky. You haven't lived unless you've read the unpublished review of the unpublished cassingle (of which all copies were destroyed when the only copy ever made was accidentally left too close to a four-slice toaster.)</span><br /><br />But no. My quick thought was quickly silenced by the brutality of the next lines. The truth is hard and cold. Not unlike an empty thermos flask.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-1526599519896750582009-02-28T14:33:00.000-08:002009-02-28T15:29:41.856-08:00Mosquito Sideboard #1I had a vague notion (not to be confused with Ken Kesey's great notion)that I should ruthlessly emulate <a href="http://liedown.blogspot.com/">Hazel Blackberry's awesome blog</a> with its light but nutty blanc mange of funny remembered conversations and piercing insights.<br /><br />So I thought *I* should start remember all the fitfully amusing conversations that *I'm* part of. Like:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me</span>: Just this, thanks. [<span style="font-style: italic;">Displaying copy of Sydney Morning Herald that I intend to purchase</span>].<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Newsagent</span>: That'll be [<span style="font-style: italic;">notional price. This is a fake anecdote. I don't really know how much the Herald (or S-M-H as Jessie Mo insists on calling it) actually costs</span>].<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me</span>: OK [<span style="font-style: italic;">Handing over coins</span>].<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Newsagent</span>: Here [<span style="font-style: italic;">handing back a coin when I believed I'd given him the right money</span>]<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me</span>: Oh?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Newsagent</span>: You gave me [<span style="font-style: italic;">notional amount</span>] too much.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me</span>: Oh, OK, thanks.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Newsagent</span>: No worries. Have a good day. Also I don't think the holocaust really happened.<br /><br />But seriously (because that <span style="font-style: italic;">was </span>a fake anecdote and the holocaust <span style="font-style: italic;">did </span>really happen. But it's nice to know that a fictional holocaust denier can at least have some integrity when it comes to fictitious money. Fictitious holocaust deniers are bad people to be sure but they may not always be pure evil through and through), I had some bitter old men around for a drink in my back garden. Anyway, a couple of exchanges were fitfully amusing and I swore to remember them to post.<br /><br />I thought that if I remembered a key word from each exchange I'd be able to piece the conversation back together. I carefully committed to memory: Mosquito Sideboard. Let me repeat that: Mosquito Sideboard.<br /><br />But several weeks later, I'm buggered if I can remember what they signify. I'm like a police sergeant giving evidence in court.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Judge</span>: Counsel for the defence may examine the witness.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Defence</span>: Thank you, your Honour. Sergeant, can you please take us back to the events of the evening of the 27th of March?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sergeant</span>: Yes, sir. [<span style="font-style: italic;">Laboriously flips through note book, forwards and backwards, several times.</span>] Ah, um, Mosquito Sideboard.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Prosecution</span>: Objection!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Defence</span>: No further questions, your Honour.<br /><br />Next time I post, I may try to piece together the mystery that is Mosquito Sideboard.<br /><br />In any case, Mosquito Sideboard is a perfectly decent band name. Along with my new current faves:<br /><br />Use of Bees<br />Airport Emergency Fuel StopNick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-29383093602745719612009-02-13T17:09:00.000-08:002009-02-13T17:22:59.160-08:00The day we called it a dayOn the plane down to Sydney, the young woman next to me was writing out a long Valentine's Day message. It began: 'Dear Mum...'. Has it come to this? Are we now expected to write Valentine's Day cards to our parents?<br /><br />"Dear Dad, I know we share a lot in the way of genetic material and that neither of us are gay but you're really becoming distinguished as you get older (those greying temples, mmm!) If I were an older gay man, I would totally go for you. Love, your son."<br /><br />Should we move on to other festive occasions?<br /><br />"Dear Mum and Dad. I know we all share republican tendencies but can we just take a moment to wish the Queen 'Happy Birthday'? Yours with affection etc"<br /><br />I wonder what gift my sister will get me to celebrate Armistice Day!Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-80305603448781885802009-02-08T16:26:00.001-08:002009-02-08T16:43:36.608-08:00The best idea since pre-sliced breadI was at a meeting the other day and someone said: ‘we don’t want to reinvent the wheel.’ Everybody nodded.<br /><br />Inwardly I recoiled.<br /><br />Why not re-invent the wheel? Is there any other human invention from 6000 years ago that we still use? If the PC had been invented by Assyrian goat herders, would we be so loathe to interfere with its engineering?<br /><br />Why are we protecting the wheel from innovation? What are we afraid of? Are we so afraid of the shock of the new that we must swaddle this tired old piece of artifice in stale tradition? Can we not conceive of injecting a little new thinking into its ancient design?<br /><br />Round is best. <span style="font-style:italic;">Everybody </span>knows round is best. Of course. Of course. The one-sided shape is always the answer to your transportation or rolling needs. One side good, two sides, three, four sides, more sides bad.<br /><br />I think it's time to challenge this cosy “common sense”. Its time to attack the comfortable perch of the spoked circle and its brainless adherents.<br /><br />It is time, in short, to reinvent the wheel. Our children and our children’s children demand nothing less than an absolute commitment to relentless scrutiny of conventional wisdom. <br /><br />I am going outside immediately to replace my car tyres with eggs and soft toys held together with sticky tape. Sure, it may not work. But how will we know until I try?Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-46616709183206324542009-01-25T14:45:00.000-08:002009-01-25T14:59:06.250-08:00This stuff fascinates me. Or: the brain in exile...This stuff does fascinate me. Which is why I put it in my blog where it may or may not fascinate you.<br /><br />OK. Bear with me. <br /><br />The Belarusian People's Republic, also called the Belarussian National Republic (BNR) to disinguish it from later Communist states, was declared on March 25, 1918 during World War I, when Belarus was occupied by the Germans according to the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk.<br /><br />The Belarussian People's Republic was absorbed into the USSR in 1920 and recast as the Soviet Socialist Republic of Belarus which later became independent in 1991. In 1920, a BNR Government-in-Exile was created in, er, exile. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">It still exists today</span>. Its current president is a woman named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ivonka_Survilla">Ivonka Survilla</a>.<br /><br />Two years in existence. Nearly 90 years in exile. <br /><br />Just like my toothbrush*.<br /><br />* <span style="font-style:italic;">Long </span>story.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-45344271309168767702009-01-19T06:18:00.000-08:002009-01-20T21:01:01.159-08:00Life, friends, is a journeyAnother from the random memory department:<br /><br />My cousin, who was the more or less same age as me but grew pubic hairs much earlier, was my best friend for some time. We used to play frequently at his house. More so than my house – because his parents, my uncle and aunt obviously, were much looser than mine and also because of the sheer force of his personality which brought me to him rather than vice versa.<br /><br />Anyway, this one time, many years prior to puberty, I was running in his back yard, down one grassy, plum-tree shaded side of his house and I tripped. I put out my hands to protect myself and was amazed to find one hand sliding across the ground.<br /><br />I discovered that my right hand had met with a fairly fresh dog turd belong to the retarded spaniel-cross known as Kelly. I stared in amazement at the smear which had lubricated my palm’s path across the parched earth. I looked from my darkened hand to the black skid on the grass and back again. I was amazed. Disgust came later but amazement got there first.<br /><br />I don’t remember where I was going that afternoon or what I was running from but I do remember the journey.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-86870086490598826042009-01-18T01:59:00.000-08:002009-01-18T04:34:49.302-08:00Insanity and decadence. It's a twofer!This afternoon I did some quick shopping before my kids arrived at 4. I hadn't seen them since Christmas morning and I wanted to pick up a few little items like an extension cord but also wanted to look for new sheets. I went to Dickson intending to go to Harris Scarfe (formerly Allens. It's freaky to have encountered Harris Scarfe like this given they were the perennial low-rent department store as I grew up in Adelaide. To suddenly explode across the East Coast after so many years of sketchy docility is a little weird.)<br /><br />Anyways (rolls eyes at own digression) I noticed a new two-dollar-crap store in Dickson called Bill's Bargains. (I love these stores and god bless capitalism (but mostly China) for being able to serve up all kinds of handy stuff for less than the cost of a sandwich. I mean, 100 LED fairy lights with variable sequences for $21? (Although you can quite readily get three sandwiches for that price I'll grant you). Try explaining that to Edison -- his being dead won't be the only barrier to comprehension)<br /><br />Anyways, in this store, there was a tall, very thin, weird looking bloke chatting affably to the store owner (who may or may not be "Bill". History does not record. Which is History's loss).<br /><br />I wandered from aisle to aisle looking for flash gizmos or tasty ethnic handicrafts for the price of a fancy sandwich, all the while eavesdropping. (Confession: I do like to eavesdrop on strangers at restaurants and in shops. You hear some fascinating stuff. I justify this as research for a novel. Any novel. Maybe <span style="font-style:italic;">Watership Down</span>, for example. I would imagine rabbit dialogue is quite hard to do.)<br /><br />He was talking non-stop to the owner who was merely nodding and aha-ing and mmming.<br /><br />Here’s what I recall of what the dude said: ‘Yeah, it’s going to be great for Canberra. [blah, blah]. It’s going to clean the scum from the streets. [blah, blah in which I gather he’s talking about a caravan park somewhere which will apparently draw all of Canberra’s impoverished disenfranchised scum into one handy location]. Yeah, I’m going to manage it [may have been: I should manage it]. Because I know all the people and all the trouble-makers and all the tricks and all the deals. [blah blah, something about being interviewed by the police but being kicked out because he’s a drunk.] Yeah, I’m a drunk. [blah, blah, something about it being the police’s loss because he has some tasty information]. I could have told about that time twenty years ago that somewhere broke into the police armory and took all that cord [I think that’s the word he used]. They thought it was terrorists but I know it was right in their back yard. Milo tins full of the stuff with fuses. [So I gather we’re talking explosives. Blah, blah, something about heavy interstate bikers. Blah blah.] Of course I know a lot more than that. But if the police pull me over and ask me now I’m not going to give them the time of day.<br /><br />At this point, I rounded the final aisle and came face to face with the owner for the first time. He gave me a sweet little eye-brow raise by way of greeting, part hello, part kill-me-now. I gave him one in return, part hello, part I’m-not-sure-the-authorities-would understand. You’re on your own Bill/notBill, purveyor of bargains.<br /><br />And then I swept out elegantly past the tall thin drunk and went and bought 400-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. Decadence! Now if only I could have got them for the cost of a sandwich.<br /><br />I will however view powdered drinking chocolate a little more suspiciously from now on.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-67841517820815340452009-01-07T03:07:00.001-08:002009-01-07T03:15:48.317-08:00Krap post for the new yearHi! Sawadee krap (krap being the masculine ending for many words in thai apparently)<br /><br />Oh god, the pressure of the blank pixel has never seemed so real nor so alive! I'm sitting here in an internet cafe in Bangkok with paid-for minutes ticking away idly and I get to thinking: why are Thai shopping centres so bad at signage? Is it because the Thais were never colonised by a more geography-conscious European power or is the reason more sinister? Are the Thais in fact all vampires who navigate from dairy to toiletry aisles by smell alone with no need of direction-giving placards? Could that be the reason I wake in the morning pale and wan or is it just how I went to bed the previous night...? (I swear I'm getting browner, I swear).<br /><br />No, I got to thinking: blog quiet. blog post end blog quiet. kill blog quiet good. hammer keyboard til black writing-sounds show on bright square. appease almighty web god. spare first-born in spring etc.<br /><br />So this is the result. A cheap and tasty blog post that will leave you wanting more when I return in mid-January.<br /><br />Oh, god is that the time? I have two minutes left! Must dash! Pad thai doesn't fellate itself...Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-71098650792057098742008-12-17T13:49:00.001-08:002008-12-17T13:59:27.914-08:00Random memory as a blogging placeholderI've been thinking that I really should blog about an important and troubling topic. But it was not quite important or troubling enough to actually make me put skin to key.<br /><br />So in the meantime, I offer you this random memory from about twenty years ago which struck me this morning as I crossed at a pedestrian crossing (pedestrian!? It was dull as dish-water!):<br /><br />As a teenager I was watching a war movie one night, one of those harrowing Russian front affairs full of the futility and brutality of armed conflict, an anti-war classic (but not so classic that I can actually remember what it was called). By the end, I was practically sobbing, my chest heaving, my eyes thick with pain. My God! I thought to my young self. My God! (Because I was and am a repetitious creature, a repetitious creature) What a sophisticated and emotionally deep person I am! So visceral has been my disgust at the idea of war that I'm having an *almost* physical reaction to it. Am I sensitive or what?<br /><br />And then full-blown flu symptoms appeared the next morning...<br /><br />But, you know, I really am very sensitive.Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-17062945857409531722008-12-03T19:41:00.000-08:002008-12-03T19:49:35.949-08:00This could be a coded messageThis could be a coded message:<br /><br />"I removed 8 organically-grown carrots from the fridge. Although they had been purchased quite recently, they were somewhat limp which my colleauge observed. She said that I possibly had not stored them correctly. I said that I had put them in the vegetable crisper. What else was I to do? She said that her grandmother had stored them point down in sand. But that was because she had to make them last the whole winter. Where was that, I asked. Europe, she said. After she left I coarsely peeled the 8 carrots and then ate them with spring onion dip. When the carrots ran out, I spooned the remains of the dip ("cream cheese, shallots, sour cream, onion, garlic, lemon juice [etc]") into my mouth with a tea spoon. It was initially delicious but ultimately cloying."<br /><br />This could have been a coded message.<br /><br />But it wasn't. In the words of John Berryman, this did actual happen.<br /><br />It's also remarkable that the label says "spring onion dip" but that the principal ingredient is "shallots."<br /><br />If it had been a coded message I expected it would have said: "Go on my signal. And wear cotton."Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-9542073867967708342008-11-30T01:51:00.000-08:002008-11-30T02:04:26.758-08:00Self e-steme<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNick%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">Because this is a new blog and I’m not yet down with the cool kids and their cool memes dispensed like raspberry life-savers behind the bike sheds at lunch time, I have to invent my own meme. A meme that starts here and probably ends here. A static meme or a ‘steme’ as I like to call it.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Because this is a literary blog <span style="font-style: italic;">(so we’re keeping up the pretense one more day? –ed. Yes –not ed)</span>, this is a literary steme.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Literary steme<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">So you like books, huh?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yes.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">And, like, words and stuff?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Uhuh.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Stupid question really cos books are full of words, aren’t they?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yep.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Along with pages and glue and stuff like that.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yep.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Is it true that book-binding glue is made from horses’ hooves? I read that somewhere.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I don’t know, sorry. Maybe once but I doubt it today.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Maybe I read it in a book. Ironic, huh?</span>
<br />I guess so.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Are books still important in today’s digital age?</span>
<br />Yes.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">I guess I should ask some kind of follow up question like: ‘why?’</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yeah, 'why' is usually used in memes like this to round out an answer and prevent silly one-word answers.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Really?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yes.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">OK</span>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Uhuh.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">OK, moving right along. What’s your favourite page number and why?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Page 39 because of an inside joke from a novel I once enjoyed.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yeah, that is better. Fuller, richer, longer. Like a giant-size violet crumble</span>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yep.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">W<span style="font-weight: bold;">hat was the name of your first English teacher and why?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mr Bach, because that was his father’s name. Last name I mean. Mother’s too probably. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">So you want to write books, do you? And why?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yes, because I like writing and it would be nice to do it full time.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">I once saw a TV show where someone asked ‘why’ of a computer and it span that question around in its electronic head unable to find an answer until it blew-up. Amazing, huh? Do you think that could happen in real life? </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Spun.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">Huh?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The past participle of spin is ‘spun’ not ‘span’.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-weight: bold;" class="MsoNormal">What? Oh, that’s a word thing, is it? You writers crack me up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Huh.</p> Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-82094343929007120782008-11-22T23:58:00.000-08:002008-11-23T13:36:14.622-08:00Things I've learnedThings I've learned this weekend, because its important to keep learning all through your adult life.<br /><br />(1) Canberra isn't unspeakably cold and then nice for a week and then unspeakably hot. It's unspeakably cold, nice for two days then unspeakably cold again before lurching frantically into unspeakable heat (I'm taking this last one on faith because it hasn't happened yet).<br /><br />(2) Being the first stand-up comedy act in a roomful of drunk kids <span style="font-style: italic;">[by which I mean, late teenagers, early twenties, people up to their fifties and so forth -ed]</span> is not a rewarding nor an enjoyable experience. It does not teach you anything about people, about comedy or about life in general. (Actually I already knew this but it's nice to be reminded once in a while).<br /><br />(3) My kids won't eat mashed potato no matter how much freaking butter, cream or salt I put in it. Nor will they eat all their snow peas or carrot (both raw and steamed). They will however eat their calippo ice-block and their packaged yoghurt because I am a weak, weak man.<br /><br />(4) The capital and largest city of the Republic of Djibouti is called Djibouti. Thanks Wikipedia! (I just wanted to end on a life-affirming and upbeat note. Consider your life affirmed and beaten up).<br /><br />(5) Bonus lesson. Delegated parenting works. If boy (6) wants an ice-block, then I say he can have one if girl (3) eats two snow peas. Then I lie back and let nature go about its gory business!<br /><br />[Obligatory writing note in pathetic deference to the alleged theme of this blog: Tonight when the kids are asleep, I'm going to continue writing my sitcom screen play. Hopefully.]Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4780448717294167874.post-44211846060004701852008-11-19T18:15:00.000-08:002008-11-19T18:18:18.725-08:00When I grow up I want to feed the monsterI’m one of those people who has always been obsessed with the question of what I’m going to do when I grow up. It’s a question I’m still asking myself at 37 after 15 years in the workforce (it’s called that because I’m forced to work).<br /><br />And its frankly depressing that I am still asking that question. I had hoped to be freakin’ fulfilled now, career-wise, leading a purpose-driven life full of meaningful sweeps of the hand and clear-eyed visions of a better tomorrow. But I’m not.<br /><br />This is why I’ve returned to writing, something that I’ve vacillated to and from over the years.<br /><br /><ul><li>Writing is the answer!</li><li>But no, it’ll never work, you’re not good enough and no one reads novels anyway! </li><li>Dayjob is the answer! Dayjob is solid and dependable and really quite interesting when you come down to it!</li><li>No, it isn’t! Dayjob sucks! Dayjob will never make you happy! You don’t care enough about the kind of things Dayjob needs you to care about!</li><li>Writing! Writing is the answer!</li></ul> I’ve reached this point in my life where I’ve realised that writing is the answer <em>even if</em> I’m not good enough and <em>even if</em> no one reads novels or whatever the hell I’m going to write. I just don’t have any other option of a satisfying way to fill every goddamn ticking day (apart from intercourse and pasta salads, of course. But those take, what? Twelve? Fourteen minutes?).<br /><br />I had a what-I-want-to-do-when-I grow-up moment about 10 years ago when I saw a documentary about the making of the sitcom <em>Roseanne</em> (which was really pretty funny and maintained some strong character arcs). It was called <em>Feeding the Monster</em> and was about the awesome difficulty of consistently <strong>bringing teh funny</strong> week-in week-out for seven seasons or whatever. This room full of (mostly) men eating pizza and writing funny scripts to a fearsome deadline had tremendous appeal to me.<br /><br />So why aren’t I doing it? (And why do I eat pizza so rarely?). See above I guess.<br /><br />Anyway, as I sat in a meeting in Dayjob this morning, full of people full of a passion that I can’t find it in myself to share, and as I doodled ideas for something I’m working on (good ideas too!), I was struck again by the aptness of this metaphor.<br /><br />When I grow up I want to feed the monster. But the growing up and the feeding begin right now.<br /><br />Because when it comes down to it, don’t we <em>all</em> have a monster within us? A dark cave-dwelling beast with fangs and poor hygiene that must be tossed scraps of metaphorical rotting meat to prevent it from tearing your (metaphorical) head off? (Or at least, I have a monster. You might have a kitten or an alpaca or something. But they still need to eat, right?)Nick Crumbedprawnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14991487469270018336noreply@blogger.com4