I'm talking passive aggressive, here. Physically anyway; a large dose of massive verbal aggression is playing protagonist.
WHY?
Easy. The use of proverbs, popular sayings and pointless phraseology through absolute laziness. "Wake up and smell the coffee!", "hasta la vista", "I'm not being funny, but", "do you know what I mean?"... and the worst of them all, the use of a gratuitous "hun" in a text. They make me heave. All of them, and more.
I am a hypocrite - I use the word "dichotomy" in most things I write but hell, it's not throwaway! It's the lack of context with which these words are thrown into the space just in front of their plank-conveyer's mouth of stone that makes me feel vomitacious; people can be so lazy.
Hayley: "Ooh look, someone's just said something, what can I say in response? I am a bit stupid but I've only got a tiny word repertoire"
Stacey: "Oh, I know! We can use that phrase makes no practical sense, because we know it!"
Look, the English language is a precious thing. There's a huge mountain of words underused by the public-at-large - they're just a dictionary away for you precious idles. Although please stop and shoot me if I ever hear any of many of seemingly braindead buswrecks in the local vicinity using a personal favourite, "symbiotic". Stop me right there.
Saturday 6 June 2009
Monday 25 May 2009
The times they are a-changing
A brief moment of nostalgia appeared in my mind while traversing the cultural hotpot of Watford today - I barred it nigh on immediately, mind.
It's back now though for a cameo: it takes in a recollection based upon how once upon a time, I used to use dial-up. And my Last.fm charts would only update on a Sunday. It was excitement in times of academic despair.
And now? Life updates all the time. Through the machines. Humanity doesn't wait on it, obediently, it facilitates it all the time. It gets it involved. The two, they are friends!
Another microthought of epic proportions that entered the vacuum the other day: privacy - what does it mean now? Is the new paradigm one where there are no universal standards and instead, we set our own limits according to the level of self-obsession we wish to publicly display? Has this always been the case, just in less explicit/SEO-friendly form? Is this true of my regulatory ideologies, can the concept be transfered and extrapolated to further far-reaching places?
The answer is a stonking yes.
It's back now though for a cameo: it takes in a recollection based upon how once upon a time, I used to use dial-up. And my Last.fm charts would only update on a Sunday. It was excitement in times of academic despair.
And now? Life updates all the time. Through the machines. Humanity doesn't wait on it, obediently, it facilitates it all the time. It gets it involved. The two, they are friends!
Another microthought of epic proportions that entered the vacuum the other day: privacy - what does it mean now? Is the new paradigm one where there are no universal standards and instead, we set our own limits according to the level of self-obsession we wish to publicly display? Has this always been the case, just in less explicit/SEO-friendly form? Is this true of my regulatory ideologies, can the concept be transfered and extrapolated to further far-reaching places?
The answer is a stonking yes.
Sunday 17 May 2009
Life hashtags
I'm writing for the sake of it. In case you've been staring at this here page since May 5 awaiting the next act, I'm sorry. But I'm recompensing now with a bumper edition, avid reader; in topic, not in size.
It's Twitter-related.
Specifically, it's hashtag-related.
Tagging - outside of Twitter - is an exercise whereby words are used to sieve the irrelevance out of the word-bulk and situate a few key words in a compartment specifically designed to get more people involved in the otherwise solipsistic enterprise of web-blogging. But with Twitter, there's no such compartment. Every word essentially has an implicit hash tag.
And?
Well, it goes like this: hashtags are the equivalent of The Man having a dishwater conversation only to intersperse it with a one off Tourette's-esque episode based on the shrieking of the phrase MADELINE MCCANN!!!!!!. Preceded, as read, with triangularbracket-bee-othertriangularbracket etc, like a twat.
The word is there. Like recently, atp/camdencrawl/tge/bbcqt. It's dumbing down, isn't it? It's elitism gone wrong, that's for sure.
Well is that like life? Perhaps. In fact, definitely.
They're great fun for (consciously self-depreciating) writers like myself who add them wittily. I've used ones like #originalityepitomised before. But that's funny and great because it's me, and because it's... actually, is it? It's like some strange Director's commentary.
It's about order, again.
It's all about order, again.
And the end of this is akin to Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. Or something.
It's Twitter-related.
Specifically, it's hashtag-related.
Tagging - outside of Twitter - is an exercise whereby words are used to sieve the irrelevance out of the word-bulk and situate a few key words in a compartment specifically designed to get more people involved in the otherwise solipsistic enterprise of web-blogging. But with Twitter, there's no such compartment. Every word essentially has an implicit hash tag.
And?
Well, it goes like this: hashtags are the equivalent of The Man having a dishwater conversation only to intersperse it with a one off Tourette's-esque episode based on the shrieking of the phrase MADELINE MCCANN!!!!!!. Preceded, as read, with triangularbracket-bee-othertriangularbracket etc, like a twat.
The word is there. Like recently, atp/camdencrawl/tge/bbcqt. It's dumbing down, isn't it? It's elitism gone wrong, that's for sure.
Well is that like life? Perhaps. In fact, definitely.
They're great fun for (consciously self-depreciating) writers like myself who add them wittily. I've used ones like #originalityepitomised before. But that's funny and great because it's me, and because it's... actually, is it? It's like some strange Director's commentary.
It's about order, again.
It's all about order, again.
And the end of this is akin to Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. Or something.
Tuesday 5 May 2009
Dreamlets
I was at a party in a forest, which consisted of two massive warehouse-type spaces connected by a massive log. It looked like this but darker and more red-tinged:
Between the logs there were some small greenhouse things which housed some open bars and a few dodgy characters as well as a wall of LCD televisions. And when I entered the greenhouse, my brain was suddenly (and involuntarily) turned into something akin to this:
Not just common or garden CCTV, but instead, screens showing what key people in a certain acquaintance of mine's life were up to. I could tell you who he or she is but for the 1.5 per cent chance that he or she finds this - highly unlikely, for certain.
Whilst the person is someone who's, well, around, it's not someone I've given that much thought to of recent. Nor do I know that much about these constructs I was apparently intent on following. I'm nothing like the once-guilty Mr. George:
What does this mean? That my nighttime brain works on random selection from a normal distribution? That I am in fact more inclined towards this person than I first thought? That I am as imprisonable as another non-guilty citizen of the world?
The night before that, I had a dream that myself and a bunch of people were singing karaoke in the street. One of them broke their shoe and another got stuck up a tree.
Off to sleep I totter, I'll be back soon doubtless with more Tree Tales for your receptive ears.
Between the logs there were some small greenhouse things which housed some open bars and a few dodgy characters as well as a wall of LCD televisions. And when I entered the greenhouse, my brain was suddenly (and involuntarily) turned into something akin to this:
Not just common or garden CCTV, but instead, screens showing what key people in a certain acquaintance of mine's life were up to. I could tell you who he or she is but for the 1.5 per cent chance that he or she finds this - highly unlikely, for certain.
Whilst the person is someone who's, well, around, it's not someone I've given that much thought to of recent. Nor do I know that much about these constructs I was apparently intent on following. I'm nothing like the once-guilty Mr. George:
What does this mean? That my nighttime brain works on random selection from a normal distribution? That I am in fact more inclined towards this person than I first thought? That I am as imprisonable as another non-guilty citizen of the world?
The night before that, I had a dream that myself and a bunch of people were singing karaoke in the street. One of them broke their shoe and another got stuck up a tree.
Off to sleep I totter, I'll be back soon doubtless with more Tree Tales for your receptive ears.
Monday 4 May 2009
Quiero...
Taken from here, it appears that I've got a lot of things to do before I can say "I won".
Namely, they look like this:
(1) DJ a London clubnight (if you haven't heard my Spotify playlist yet, clicky clicky here
(2) Indulge in a spot of artist promo - preferably music to my liking. See here for further indicators of whether you're likely to come under that umbrella. I'm talking writing your press release, masterminding your campaigns, offering you life coaching and much more.
(3) Starting up a label, singles club-stylee. This is dependent on finding someone with more money than myself but less brains. Probably unlikely to find such a person on here...
(4) Find someone who owns a massive manor house with a garden where I can organise a miniature-Latitude. Preferably, the person would be single, male and beautiful.
Now I'm not being funny (mate) but I'm pretty well equipped to do all of these things; the only thing holding me back is a lack of capital. I've got a Law degree for frick's sake, no need to employ corporate suits at an expense. I know a fair amount of people so am at a headstart there. AND I've got pretty much free reign on a very successful music website. I'm not clued up on artist management (granted, that phrase probably has little application) and I don't appear to know anyone willing to invest in my schemes (yet), but hell, maybe I should go get a loan? Is this crazy talk?
Advise me. E-mail me! Talk to me.
nat.musos AT googlemail.com
Namely, they look like this:
(1) DJ a London clubnight (if you haven't heard my Spotify playlist yet, clicky clicky here
(2) Indulge in a spot of artist promo - preferably music to my liking. See here for further indicators of whether you're likely to come under that umbrella. I'm talking writing your press release, masterminding your campaigns, offering you life coaching and much more.
(3) Starting up a label, singles club-stylee. This is dependent on finding someone with more money than myself but less brains. Probably unlikely to find such a person on here...
(4) Find someone who owns a massive manor house with a garden where I can organise a miniature-Latitude. Preferably, the person would be single, male and beautiful.
Now I'm not being funny (mate) but I'm pretty well equipped to do all of these things; the only thing holding me back is a lack of capital. I've got a Law degree for frick's sake, no need to employ corporate suits at an expense. I know a fair amount of people so am at a headstart there. AND I've got pretty much free reign on a very successful music website. I'm not clued up on artist management (granted, that phrase probably has little application) and I don't appear to know anyone willing to invest in my schemes (yet), but hell, maybe I should go get a loan? Is this crazy talk?
Advise me. E-mail me! Talk to me.
nat.musos AT googlemail.com
The Gordon Ramsay woman
It's sunny, around 3pm. I'm on my way to the pub (presumably) via the altogether futile (or rather single-purposed) Canons Park station. It'll get me to a more exciting place, that's the general ethos.
This time, however, it entertains me in and of itself. It houses an exciting character, who for now, I'll moniker 'Gladys'. Gladys hesitates upon approaching the ticket barrier, but in a way I've never seen a person hesitate; she has a deep antagonism about her while at the same time, desperately trying to contain her oozing fervour.
I bypass her in my desperate quest for the train, the route out, and she escapes my headspace temporarily. Until, that is, she comes clambering up the stairs. I can hear a faint humming, unsure if there are words or merely emotions, which become increasingly lucid/fuzzy as she gets closer to me. She is dressed like a board-game detective, all conspicuously inconspicuous. A mac is wearing her.
She takes chick steps until she reaches the bench, to guide her two-minute wait for the next train. A Man is also sat on the bench, which potentially houses a total six humans. Gladys sits in Man's miniature radius, and he feigns 'unflinched'; it's not that he 'doesn't care' that she's on him, more that he 'doesn't know'.
I become a nameless spectator, watching the A Man and Gladys premiere. Gladys, the protagonist, begins a song from the movie's original score. The song is simply astounding. It's a new paradigm for songwriting - the lone melody somehow creates the feeling of counterpoint, tierce de picardie upon tierce de picardie. Of course this is all an illusion.
The lyrics are what matters. They're a tale, like a liveblog. They whoosh and whizz past me in a frenzy, so much so that I can't quite recall their exact composition. The geographical setting is the clearest feature - Gladys is watching the London Marathon; she's at the end line, cheering. She's impassioned.
Gordon Ramsay is coming up: "Gordon, come on Gordon!/I'll say a little prayer for you" she sings.
And then the train comes... I'll never know who won.
This time, however, it entertains me in and of itself. It houses an exciting character, who for now, I'll moniker 'Gladys'. Gladys hesitates upon approaching the ticket barrier, but in a way I've never seen a person hesitate; she has a deep antagonism about her while at the same time, desperately trying to contain her oozing fervour.
I bypass her in my desperate quest for the train, the route out, and she escapes my headspace temporarily. Until, that is, she comes clambering up the stairs. I can hear a faint humming, unsure if there are words or merely emotions, which become increasingly lucid/fuzzy as she gets closer to me. She is dressed like a board-game detective, all conspicuously inconspicuous. A mac is wearing her.
She takes chick steps until she reaches the bench, to guide her two-minute wait for the next train. A Man is also sat on the bench, which potentially houses a total six humans. Gladys sits in Man's miniature radius, and he feigns 'unflinched'; it's not that he 'doesn't care' that she's on him, more that he 'doesn't know'.
I become a nameless spectator, watching the A Man and Gladys premiere. Gladys, the protagonist, begins a song from the movie's original score. The song is simply astounding. It's a new paradigm for songwriting - the lone melody somehow creates the feeling of counterpoint, tierce de picardie upon tierce de picardie. Of course this is all an illusion.
The lyrics are what matters. They're a tale, like a liveblog. They whoosh and whizz past me in a frenzy, so much so that I can't quite recall their exact composition. The geographical setting is the clearest feature - Gladys is watching the London Marathon; she's at the end line, cheering. She's impassioned.
Gordon Ramsay is coming up: "Gordon, come on Gordon!/I'll say a little prayer for you" she sings.
And then the train comes... I'll never know who won.
Wednesday 29 April 2009
A while ago...
Yes, it was some time ago. When I used to write blogs on MySpace, in fact, and it wasn't cool. So I wrote this thing about how looking into your own reflection whilst on a train was something like life in a freeze-frame, and I wish I hadn't deleted it.
I don't write about such ultra-observations anymore, only within another context. I instead find my days fuelled with fleeting ideas - should I write a piece about the strange concept of people raising money for charity by partaking in some sort of outlandish, sub-human enterprise versus the concept of, y'know, giving money to charity because, say, er something like "hi, I think it's a worthwhile cause"? I could write about that, couldn't I.
I think I will, actually. Because I can. And I shall. Just not quite yet...
I don't write about such ultra-observations anymore, only within another context. I instead find my days fuelled with fleeting ideas - should I write a piece about the strange concept of people raising money for charity by partaking in some sort of outlandish, sub-human enterprise versus the concept of, y'know, giving money to charity because, say, er something like "hi, I think it's a worthwhile cause"? I could write about that, couldn't I.
I think I will, actually. Because I can. And I shall. Just not quite yet...
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