The reason I decided to start blogging was because I had a few thoughts I wanted to get down, to record somewhere before I lost them only to have them pop up in a few months again and be annoyed with myself for the lack of originality. Those ideas have now been recorded, at least the ones I remember. I hoped this would make way for new thoughts, like some sort of lightning rod.
People who know me would say I've a compelling narrator, a competent orator, and generally an all-round adequate communicator. They're likely to say other things, which might not particularly relevant at this time: that I am merciless at Halo, have a head for utterly worthless trivia, and that I am boring as fuck.
Actually, let's explore that last one.
My stories don't go anywhere, nothing interesting happens to me. The terrible shame is that I didn't notice this early on in life and make a decision to work on it. I could heave learned to play an instrument, studied more, had a greater social life, worked harder. I remember when some tweenage guitarist called Nathan Cavalieri was earning accolades for his great skills. He was may age! Maybe a little younger! Why wasn't I "Jammin' with the Cats"? Ok, so the kid's career when nowhere, maybe because being a young and talented guitarist can't hide the fact that no one gives a shit about old-school Rhythm & Blues anymore unless it's central to the adventures of Jake and Elwood on the run from the police/national guard/Nazis.
Shouldn't my envy have been my first hint that I wasn't getting everything I wanted out of life and should work harder? Apparently I can't take a hint. My wife can attest to that - it took about four months of heavily dropped hints for her to get my attention. I think if I'd been any slower on the uptake she would eventually have led me to my bedroom, thrown off her clothes and screamed "take me!".
I might be overstating my own appeal a little bit, but it's true in spirit if not in fact. Besides, this is my blog and I can be an object of frenzied desire if I want.
This circuitous string of half-thoughts brings me neatly back to my point. See? I can't even segue properly! I stay relentlessly on track even when I'm shamelessly padding! If I were a Family Guy writer Seth MacFarlane would probably come down to my office shaking his head sadly and ask why all my episodes were only eight minutes long. Then he would go back to tweeting about how all album covers have hidden penises on them if you look hard enough.
Anyway, the point I was making is tha- hmm, this Appletiser sample I got today is refreshing and all but I don't see me buying this product. Nice try, Coca-Cola Amatil.
Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I have thoughts, and I have ideas, but they're so stock and expected that there doesn't seem to be any point in expanding on them. I wanted to be a writer but I have nothing to write. I considered being a novelist, but that requires creativity and at least a modicum of originality. I considered being James Cameron since he doesn't need any originality to make money, but nobody likes him.
Deep down, I'm just not James Cameron.
Showing posts with label 0 cigarettes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 0 cigarettes. Show all posts
Monday, 11 April 2011
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Visual descriptors
I posted earlier about describing a person by race, and the trauma this caused me over the past few years.
Ok, maybe trauma is too strong a word. Mild social discomfort. That's more reasonable, I guess.
While I've come to terms with referring to people by their race (not always convenient if I don't know their race - I once caused offence to a Greek girl by admitting she looks a little bit Lebanese, but whatevs, we were good buddies. It only came up because she asked, because she looked Lebanese enough that people made the mistake. It was on her personal FAQ.
It's for the most part not too difficult to describe someone in those limited occasions where it's necessary to do so... for instance, if you're really shit at learning and remembering names. On the other hand there are times when someone's key characteristic isn't tied in with something noble like their heritage.
Would someone be offended if I referred to their glasses? Maybe not, unless they are nine years old, and I call them four-eyes or something. But that's my individual insensitivity rather than any standing taboo or indiscretion, so I guess it flies. Glasses are pretty normal these days, because we're all using our stupid eyes for stupid visual things like books and video games instead of hunting, gathering, and... whatever else people did before books and video games.
(Shit, what did people do? The world must have been really dull pre-Renaissance. Just saying. Suck it, 14th century! You got nothing on Assassin's Creed... huh.)
But if someone has a weird birthmark on their face or they're fat you might not want to draw attention to these things, unless you're deliberately being unkind, in which case... high five! No, not really. Stop being a douche, douche.
I remember wanting to bleach myself when I was eight years old because a classmate assured me that by the time I was an adult, my freckles would have joined up and I would be orange from head to toe. The possibility was less than appealing to me.
Luckily I had the sense to ask my mother if it was alright to bathe in bleach before just trying it out, and I guess she put me off the idea because I am here twenty years later, writing this, and not dead.
But if you're socially appropriate (and not eight years old) you're unlikely to point out that someone has a big smear on their face that looks like they were scalded by recently-boiled tomato sauce. Or maybe you'll spit into a hanky and say "c'mere, you got something..." and dab at the edges of it. Your efforts will slowly peter out as you realise your error, your diligent scrubbing with gradually slow pace like the jaw of a man who realises that instead of spaghetti, the fork he put in his mouth mostly contained centipedes.
The person will stare at you, their eyes gleaming with shame behind a mask of passive calm. Your face will glow with your own humiliation. Both of you will wish yourselves into death.
Ever ask a fat woman if she's pregnant? Ever ask a well-groomed dude if he loves the cock? Sometimes social awkwardness does not come from within, it is thrust upon us. Be cleansed in the fires of shame, and rise like a phoenix of interpersonal aptitude!
Maybe if you know a guy with a big hairy mole, you'll stop relying on words when you're referring to them. Let's assume his name is Pete, but there is more than one Pete in the office. You're fucked!. You'll go up to your colleague and say "hey Marty, where's Pete?" and he'll want to know, do you mean normal Pete, or Pete with the fat mole? Marty twiddles his finger around his left cheek, as if caressing imaginary three-inch long hairs sprouting from an invisible growth on the side of mole-Pete's stupid face.
You nod, knowlingly, message communicated. Marty is on the same page here, everything is cool, and neither of you were overhead discussing what can only possibly be Pete's parasitic twin, which he feeds with a combination of catfood and pig blood twice a day. Probably.
Ok, maybe trauma is too strong a word. Mild social discomfort. That's more reasonable, I guess.
While I've come to terms with referring to people by their race (not always convenient if I don't know their race - I once caused offence to a Greek girl by admitting she looks a little bit Lebanese, but whatevs, we were good buddies. It only came up because she asked, because she looked Lebanese enough that people made the mistake. It was on her personal FAQ.
It's for the most part not too difficult to describe someone in those limited occasions where it's necessary to do so... for instance, if you're really shit at learning and remembering names. On the other hand there are times when someone's key characteristic isn't tied in with something noble like their heritage.
Would someone be offended if I referred to their glasses? Maybe not, unless they are nine years old, and I call them four-eyes or something. But that's my individual insensitivity rather than any standing taboo or indiscretion, so I guess it flies. Glasses are pretty normal these days, because we're all using our stupid eyes for stupid visual things like books and video games instead of hunting, gathering, and... whatever else people did before books and video games.
(Shit, what did people do? The world must have been really dull pre-Renaissance. Just saying. Suck it, 14th century! You got nothing on Assassin's Creed... huh.)
But if someone has a weird birthmark on their face or they're fat you might not want to draw attention to these things, unless you're deliberately being unkind, in which case... high five! No, not really. Stop being a douche, douche.
I remember wanting to bleach myself when I was eight years old because a classmate assured me that by the time I was an adult, my freckles would have joined up and I would be orange from head to toe. The possibility was less than appealing to me.
Luckily I had the sense to ask my mother if it was alright to bathe in bleach before just trying it out, and I guess she put me off the idea because I am here twenty years later, writing this, and not dead.
But if you're socially appropriate (and not eight years old) you're unlikely to point out that someone has a big smear on their face that looks like they were scalded by recently-boiled tomato sauce. Or maybe you'll spit into a hanky and say "c'mere, you got something..." and dab at the edges of it. Your efforts will slowly peter out as you realise your error, your diligent scrubbing with gradually slow pace like the jaw of a man who realises that instead of spaghetti, the fork he put in his mouth mostly contained centipedes.
The person will stare at you, their eyes gleaming with shame behind a mask of passive calm. Your face will glow with your own humiliation. Both of you will wish yourselves into death.
Ever ask a fat woman if she's pregnant? Ever ask a well-groomed dude if he loves the cock? Sometimes social awkwardness does not come from within, it is thrust upon us. Be cleansed in the fires of shame, and rise like a phoenix of interpersonal aptitude!
Maybe if you know a guy with a big hairy mole, you'll stop relying on words when you're referring to them. Let's assume his name is Pete, but there is more than one Pete in the office. You're fucked!. You'll go up to your colleague and say "hey Marty, where's Pete?" and he'll want to know, do you mean normal Pete, or Pete with the fat mole? Marty twiddles his finger around his left cheek, as if caressing imaginary three-inch long hairs sprouting from an invisible growth on the side of mole-Pete's stupid face.
You nod, knowlingly, message communicated. Marty is on the same page here, everything is cool, and neither of you were overhead discussing what can only possibly be Pete's parasitic twin, which he feeds with a combination of catfood and pig blood twice a day. Probably.
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