A very important number that with the kind of accuracy of normal distribution can predict the spending patterns, life expectancy, political views and all sorts of other things that make us unique. For reasons like this it's as important when you come from as where you come from.
I come from the time of Bosco on afternoon TV sitting beside a fire because oil or gas heating wasn't invented or we were too poor. I hate that obnoxious little red-haired fuck. I hate the fact that the word "uafásach" is burned into my brain. I hate that while I can't consciously remember the theme tune, hearing it brings me back to that cold room and two channels of television.
Most of all I've hated the suggestion that a gift you made yourself was somehow better than one you bought ie the one made by professionals. Bosco is responsible for parents receiving poorly painted shit instead of gifts for decades. Inside that puppet was someone giving us all the middle finger.
I've been militant in this belief for years, until now. For this little arts and crafts session you'll need 1. A belt 2. A plastic bottle 3. A paper towel holder 4. A shitload of duct tape 5. Knife/scissors
Mangle these together and you have the perfect gift for a parent, a partner or even just a stranger who needs a little pick me up
Weddings always fill me with a certain joy and wonder. Also an unparalleled terror. Not the terror of commitment, the interminable nature of it all, I can handle that. I think I could do prison time. Of all things I love routine and predictability the most. Marriage is a lot like prison but the nicest parts of prison, not the random assaults and misuse of drugs unless your knee has bent in front of the wrong person.
What scares me about marriage is the idea that I might have to give my family the opportunity make speeches in a very public forum. A forum which I will have paid no small amount of money to organise and bring literally everybody whose opinion matters to me. I'm talking cold sweat terror at that idea.
The notion that I might also become emotional and possibly shed a tear in front of all these people does nothing for my commitment to the institution of marriage. I can't help but feel that it would come crashing down on me, at my lowest, that I am the architect of these misfortunes. All of this overshadowing what I'm led to believe should be a happy day.
All of this is very different to the short sharp, soon to be over and forgotten nature of a prison assault. This is more like a prison rape. With long lasting mental consequences. The side of prison I most likely wouldn't like, actually definitely wouldn't like. For the record I definitely would not like to get raped in prison but I definitely wouldn't like to let my family make speeches.
This year had the usual challenges, family, cabin fever etc mixed in with me being just a little sick and thus more irritable. New challenges made themselves known, fewer movies that I recognised were on tv. The last shreds of Christmas spirit are intrinsically tied to seeing the Back to the Future trilogy but it wasn't on. Indiana Jones was but the only thing that Indiana Jones can't save is my Christmas cheer. The kids are taking over with their pixar animated things. My nostalgia is being upgraded for theirs.
I got no presents this year. Not a bad thing, I dread getting stuck in one of those adult relationships where exchanging presents of approximately the same value is how you express your affection. The thing is that when selecting a gift I'm held to a budget and I don't know as much about this stuff as the person I'm buying for. How then could I be expected to pick up the right gift? I'll go for the cheaper one in the shinier box. I'll give you that and now that you have one of these that isn't good enough you're denied the pleasure of buying yourself the right one. I've ruined this gift and your chance of getting yourself something decent. It's supposed to be the thought that counts but in most cases that thought is "this'll do right? and it's cheaper than that other one". My brother got gifts from his girlfriend's parents and his little face sank. Poor bastard never saw it coming.
New Year's is just around the corner now. I've come to hate New Year's. I've touched on why I hate going out. The forced joviality, the way each night is a little like Groundhog Day. New Year's is the worst of these. It even has its own timetable built in. Everybody is expected to be out and celebrating. The pressure is really something. Then the night falls and worse than any other night out places are packed, people are drunker, taxis are harder to get, and someone gets glassed because the pressure has to escape somehow.
I'll be working. Cleaning up this fucking mess, invariably with people wanting me to smile in photos. "go on smile for the photo" translates as "pretend you're happy". Then when I gently try to slip away and not get into the hand shaking and pleasantry exchanging at midnight I'm the kill joy. I ruined the fantasy that this night was different and special and that this coming year will be better. I'll care about less of the Christmas films next year
I had to use my emotions the other day. Or more correctly pretend I had some and pretend to empathise with someone. The alternative was probably an official complaint, it was on a knife edge. I hate feeling like a whore after I say something meaningless like "time heals all wounds" or "the important thing is that you do what's right for you and your health". Really? Fuck, I just hope they didn't see the disingenuous smirk.
I'm not trying to pretend to be Patrick Bateman or anyone requiring police supervision before he claims another victim, I just think most people are pussies. Suck it up. It's not that bad. If you look at it from my point of view anyway.
I acutely feel all the old dinosaur emotions. Anger, jealousy, lust and if any of the other seven sins are emotions, them too. Higher order, complicated emotions don't come easily to me. Even when I think I feel them, I'm quickly proved wrong by my own impatience.
It's this that holds me back. This that has convinced me that in the event of a crisis the least useful thing a person can do for you is to empathise. A cup of water would be more helpful, fist aid skills are helpful, great bloody vengeance is helpful but empathy is not. So having to choke on this and mouth platitudes to fucking idiots complaining about nothing at all is tiresome.
Somewhere in our childhood years someone managed to convince us that being a grown up was something to aspire to. Much like in Inception, this idea took hold and grew into something that it was never meant to be, something untrue.
Somehow being an adult and having bigger toys wasn't good enough, we had to act responsibly. This became an end in itself, the joy was to come from the feeling of being older and mature and not from being old enough to get away with the stuff that kids find fun.
Think of it in terms of wine and coke. Wine is horrible, some people have forced themselves to drink it. Some more odious people to have and offer opinions on it, but at it's heart it tastes horrible. I'm sure if I had taken the time to check the wikipedia entry on wine it would in the first paragraph mention that it's disgusting.
Coke on the other hand is awesome. It's sweet and it bubbles. Whatever that chemically constructed vegetable extract flavour is it's delicious. Ice cold on a warm day - nothing better. What really brings out the flavour of a white fish meal with a light dressing? Coke! Why? 'cos it's fucking fantastic.
Now as children we knew this, but during the growing up mindfuck some of you started drinking wine. Shame on you. If you wanted to get drunk, just make some special coke with your choice of special ingredient which won't ruin that lovely coke flavour.
The same is true of conversation and sex. Somewhere in there, slipped in with the idea that wine is nice and coke is for children they told us that a healthy relationship relied on conversation and mutual respect at its heart. As a child I knew that getting what I wanted when I wanted was the important thing.
Not talking. Especially not about my feelings. I have no feelings. At least none that I want to talk about. If ever I have an issue I want to verbalise I can tell my dog.
I'd love you to believe that I'd been quietly considering what to say. How to sum up what has transpired in one elegant blogpost. Giving credit where credit is due. Admitting my own faults. Striving to seek a balance and atone for all that keeps me awake at night. Fuck that. I've had no internet.
Careful consideration and the unconditional support of my peers has convinced me I was completely in the right. No question of it. They should make me a saint or name a cathedral after me or something. Maybe a statue in the city centre.
So what have I learned from this fiasco?
1. Trying to build a relationship with a man who has "Everything Fades" tattooed on his arm is maybe not the most realistic thing to do.
2. While the allure of women and whispered nothings is undeniable, Nerf and beer is fucking awesome.
3. While I previously tried to reconcile the wisdom of sitcoms with the idea of reasonable female actions I can now conclude that women are batshit crazy given the right trigger. In this case the right trigger was me.
4. While saying "chillax" to some people will rile them up, saying "after the way I've been treated the past couple of weeks?" is my flash-phrase. I think it unlikely the average junkie accidentally happening on that one.
5. In bygone days ending a relationship via text message seemed rude or uncaring. I disagree. The depth of emotion could be seen by the indiscriminate use of umlauts.
6. Better now than after what would have been a picnic seething with repressed emotions.
7. That cats have more in common with snakes than they do with dogs.
This may seem like very little to have taken from the relationship. Biographers may someday debate the importance of this, but to date my life has yielded one original life lesson. That is, if you have a blocked nose and no tissue paper do not blow your nose while in a public restroom, you have no idea what might be there.
So lately I've been thinking alot about relationships, what they mean, how they are defined and all the big questions.
When stuff like this starts piling up inside the only thing you can do is think "what would Swayze do?".
In Dirty Dancing Swayze begins a relationship with Jennifer Grey. Swayze is serious as is Grey. Swayze is a little older and Grey's father, Jerry Orbach is against it.
Does Swayze sit him down and reason it out? Does he explain the depth of his feelings? Point out that he Swayze was born on 18/08/52 and Grey was born on 26/03/60 and compare that to Orbach who born on 20/10/35 and his wife Kelly Bishop 28/02/44. Does he point out the similar age difference?
No. He just fucking dances. When reason and even violence fail us, just fucking dance.
I love the book and film of The Princess Bride and I enjoy the soundtrack too. It's filled with pithy observations and messages. The two that spring instantly to my mind are "true love never dies" and "Life is pain, Highness". There's also a discussion about fairness in the film as Grandfather Columbo explains to Grandchild Kevin from the Wonder Years that life is not fair. A conversation that more grandfathers should have with grandchildren. It's cruel to let them figure that out on their own.
Back on track, I lost my book or gave it to someone and they haven't given it back. So I bought another copy. I got this second hand on Amazon. They have various companies that have old library books or second hand bookshops etc. Good value.
When I got the book I looked at the inside cover and read the handwriting:
Hmmm - a fairystory? Not the most obvious choice... but it's funny and wonderful, and you won't be able to put it down. Enjoy! Happy 26th. With Love, Jen xx
There is no explanation of how this book came to me that isn't filled with sadness and ultimately reminds me that we are all disposable and replaceable.
Maybe it follows the natural progression of things, maybe it doesn't. At some point you may wish to introduce your girlfriend to your parents.
This caused me to fret. I think it's usual or at least not unusual to worry about people meeting your parents. They say crazy things that I've long since stopped thinking are funny. They tell stories with at best a loose adherence to the truth featuring you as the main character. Unique to me maybe, they shout at your friends?
Then there's home. I can find my way around in the dark, I know where the light switches are and I don't walk into walls or doors. On the downside I also see every little flaw.
A day spent scrubbing the place and an hour spent gently explaining to my family that maybe they should just smile and nod.... and I was ready as I was going to be. It looked cleaner, but it still isn't clean. I'd spoken to them but fuck knows how that was going to go. A little ball of terror sat in my stomach.
Breath held. Everything was going swimmingly. The one complaint/concern/bump in the road was not their fault, it was Fred. Fred is a 500ml blue plastic water bottle, he is one third full of liquid and fungus or bacteria or both. Years ago, a Men's Health article said I could make a more effective sports drink by adding some salt to a mix of orange juice and water. I did just that, brought it to the gym and drank two thirds of it. I left it in my bag for a while and then there it was, the start of a fungus growth. Did I create this life?
Fred was left sitting on my shelf where the orange separated from the water. Floated to the top. Sank to the bottom. All the while supporting life. In my humble opinion it looks dead. Sitting at the bottom, devoid of nutrients and with no further activity but she hates Fred. She's a scientist and disagrees. She colourfully described him as "death in a bottle".
Anthropomorphising just a little, I've known Fred longer than many of my close friends. He's not much of a conversationalist but that's hardly enough of a reason to get rid of him. That didn't seem to be a reasonable explanation.
I think smoking looks cool, just for an instant. Especially if you can deliver a killer line while smoking and maybe even blow a smoke circle. Fucking awesome. Anyone who disagrees with me is obviously a filthy fucking liar, but that's just in the instant. Living for the moment, the reality stretched out past the cool line and the smoke circle is kids with asthma from second hand smoke, a respirator for you and a death not worthy of the hero you were trying to be with the, in hindsight, shitty smoke circle. Plus you taste like cigarettes and if that was a nice taste they'd probably put it in chocolates or crisps but it's not.
Tattoos are just as fucking stupid and just as awesomely cool. They are essentially a scar you opted for. Not because you were taking a bullet for the president but cos you thought a butterfly and a fairy playing together was cool.
I have a scar on my arm from when I tried to wrestle a knife away from my younger brother, this was only two years ago. I have a scar on my leg from trying to point a stick and pushing real hard against a knot in the wood. It slipped and cut nice and deep into my leg. The scar from when I was a child and pissed off that pack of dogs has all but gone. Like my tattoos, they all mark a place and time in my life. Regardless of motivation, whether it's the saccharine sweet shit on Miami Ink about remembering fallen loved ones or cos eagles rock superhard it'll remind you in ten years time of that one day.
My modest collection of tattoos is, in order: a dragon on my right shoulder blade; the word Cliché on my left shoulder (conceived moments after the dragon was finished); and just the other day - the words Everything Fades on my right inner arm.
None of it has any meaning, just shit I thought was interesting at the time. I sometimes wish I had the gall to say it had deeper meaning, but I'm pretty fucking shallow.
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So on Tuesday I went into the local tattoo shop in the village. Ostensibly I was in the village looking for orange juice and happened to wander in. I got talking to the guy there because as you might imagine in a small town they have little business and are happy to talk to anyone.
I mentioned I had been thinking of getting some text on my arm, namely Everything Fades and we started looking at fonts. The dude really wanted to Latino it up but I politely declined. I settled on one but the "v" looked like a "b" and details like that worry me. So we started trying to doctor the "v", ultimately chopping the tail off of a "y" to make what I think is the perfect "v". I smiled, just a little.
All that agreed. The dude asked did I want to do it now. Since I was already there I figured why not. I got a bit worried when he slammed three cans of red bull but his hands seemed steady enough after this, so why not? 45 minutes later and I was permanently scarred.
People keep asking what it means, I think they want me to say it's a melancholic reflection on my own mortality and in particular my soon to be fading youth. Fuck that.
So, I've mentioned that the idea of the new Karate Kid movie upsets me. In the same breath I also mentioned that I loved the original. Yesterday I watched all three in a row. Then fell asleep contemplating the lessons it had taught me.
A remake is unnecessary, as unnecessary as rewriting the bible. If anything the idea of a new kid facing challenges while dealing with a new romance in his life was adequately rehashed in Never Back Down. A much better idea than the Smith boy and Jackie Chan ruining a film I hold dear.
That seems rigid, like I don't want the studios to have a revenue stream but you're ignoring the other opportunities. This came to me last night as I pondered the words of Miyagi – a prequel.
We're given enough of a hint of Miyagi's life for us to know it was glorious and terrible all at once, from the wife he lost to his medal of valour. The matter of honour that forced him to leave his village, I'd like to see the young Sato. That movie would rock. Teacher seen in the role of student as his father imparts his knowledge of the Miyagi family Karate to him and he learns the life lessons he'll eventually teach a young Daniel. There's a new Miyagi trilogy there already.
If we got Matt Damon on board and wanted to do something on American foreign policy and the horror of war I'd watch a movie about a young Kreese and Silver in Vietnam. It'd have to have an 18's cert though, that story has some very adult themes.
Now everytime Hollywood tries to do a prequel we end up with all the main characters' paths crossing long before they should have met and the original story being damaged by it. I hate coincidental meetings years before that everyone seems to have missed or some shared ancestry bullshit (Fuck Caprica). This seems almost impossible though, if we set it before World War 2 (which Spielberg is going to make sexy again) then neither Kreese or Daniel are born. Short of some idiot writing in Kreese's father as a racist sergeant in the movie we're golden.
So now that I have had this idea, who do I write to? The internet campaign starts here, someone set up a Facebook page or whatever it is you do nowadays instead of being useful.
So, I went to the cinema last night and to my horror saw a trailer for The Karate Kid - a fucking remake. From that first sentence the discerning reader will realise I'm not happy. I'll outline the situation first then explain why.
The Karate Kid is going to be a pretty much direct remake of the 1984 film that we all hold dear. It will star in place of Ralph Macchio - Jaden Smith. It will star in place of Pat Morita - Jackie Chan and in place of Elisabeth Shue - some Asian child. The premise of the story from what I've gleaned from the trailer and some light internet research is that Smith's character is uprooted from his home and moved to China so that his mother can find work. Once there he sees a girl and meets a bully. These things don't mix a fight ensues. Chan shows up and stops the fight. Chan offers to train Smith. Culture clash followed by rousing montage and ultimate victory.
So here's the problem(s) - Fuck Will Smith. I don't appreciate being force fed his dreams for his son. Jaden Smith seems to be only capable of getting work in his daddy's pictures so no surprise that Smith Snr is producing this.
Fuck Harold Zwart, the director who comes to meddle in my childhood with credentials such as Agent Cody Banks and The Pink Panther 2 under his belt. This man is a mercenary, he does not care the shit he churns out and the damage he will do to my memories.
Other well documented issues include - China is the home of Kung Fu not Karate, Japan is the home of Karate. The title is inaccurate and may be only for Western audiences but the rot has already set in. Pat Morita would never have claimed to teach Kung Fu, may he rest in peace. Chan is A-Ok with this.
Jaden Smith will celebrate his 12th birthday on July 8th. Any sort of romantic plot is somehow muted by this. Consequently his bullying peers can only be the same age or slightly older, not that impressive for Chan to break up that fight. I'm pretty sure I could do that. Johnny Lawrence was badass, not a 12 year old. Jaden Smith also seems to bring some hip hop style sass to the role, I don't think I need to explain why that's a bad thing.
Some Asian 12 year old is not as hot as Elisabeth Shue.
Jackie Chan cannot be serious, Pat Morita brought the necessary gravitas to the role. Morita got a best supporting actor Oscar nomination for his role, back when that meant something. Chan is a clown, a lovable clown but still a clown not suitable for an iconic role like this.
All of these issues have been far better documented on far angrier blogs all across the internet, I just thought I'd recap them a little.
I have a far deeper dread. There are things that form a part of your childhood and adolescence. I never cared about Transformers, I was only peripherally aware of it as a child, so when Michael Bay pissed all over it I didn't care. I looked on amused. When knowing irony seeped into all of the remakes from Transformers to the Hulk movie where Lou Ferrigno got a small cameo, to the Star Trek Movie where it might well have been Bourne in space I didn't care I stood by and let it happen. The trailer after the Karate Kid was for the new A-Team movie and I think that might even be a good idea but stay the fuck away from the Karate Kid.
These things never mattered to me. As a 20 something with an angry blog and hobbies including martial arts and lifting weights you can guess what matters to me. I empathised with the original and being made in 1984 it was just hitting its tv movie slot when it mattered to me. These things that mould you should never be left to the evil and inept the Smiths and the Zwarts, what good can come of it?
My understanding of right and wrong is tenuous at best. It is based around the films of my childhood, those things that in an uncommon clarity explained what was expected of great men, men I could only hope to emulate not some sassy hip hop brat.
I'll preface this by saying that while unlikely to be true I believe myself to be immortal.
I have spent a lot of time in my humble blogging career talking about my wedding and plans for getting married. It has always been of an ironic bent, especially lately as it seems that some people don't consider it quite as funny as I do. Suffice it to say that while I'm loyal as a border collie I don't see it in my future anytime soon. I mention marriage once again only because I have devoted so much time to it and I have ignored my own death. Something which despite the preface seems at least twice as likely as marriage. All to my chagrin.
Well let me right this wrong.
I spend most of my waking moments bristling at something or someone and it would be a shame to die and not at least get a chance to explain to all my foes and hindrances that they are a useless pack of wankers who have held me back at every step. That I could have been great were it not for their interference and that I regard every second spent with them as a wasted second. A second that I gladly would have killed babies in the snow for the chance to relive it and do something useful with my time. There is a list of these people, it only exists in my head at the moment but if it is the last thing I do I will scrawl their names in my own blood beside where I fall.
My vanity of course would prefer a living funeral. Which as far as my meagre research has led me to understand is a gathering of all the people who would otherwise come to your funeral but yet you are alive and present and enjoying all the nice things being said about you. In my case there would also be shouting at those that have had it coming. A lot of shouting. A corpse always has the moral high ground.
It should be a secular affair because for the sake of my immortal soul I do hope I was right about the whole religion thing. It'd be embarrassing if I wasn't. Downright catastrophic for my surprised to exist immortal soul. I'd like a cremation, just because you can do such interesting things with ashes these days. My preference being that they are used in tattoo ink and all my friends get a commemorative tattoo. Maybe my smiling cherubic face on their chest. In memory of me you should be slightly embarrassed forever.
My poor mother should be comforted too. Not that I assume she is naive to the facts but in cleaning my room she is likely to find things that were hidden to spare us a moment and an explanation. Poor dear. Trying to mourn but really just ashamed. Deeply ashamed and hoping too that I was right about religion, for my sake.
My vanity is the ruling factor in these preparations. I'd like no less than three eulogies. As a change I think they should be honest. When my grandmother died the priest in summing up said she was "kind and generous of spirit", she was not. I don't think she was any of the nice things he said. Before she lost her mind and died ten years before she was finally buried, she was bitter and sharp and condescending and didn't suffer fools gladly. Commendable but not suitable for the traditional eulogy format. My eulogies will tell the people assembled for the benefit of my parents and siblings the truth. The terrible truth. The failure of a man I really was. Despite that, I'd also like it mentioned how fucking awesomely strong I was.
Not that the usual business of getting knocked around and pissed off by it hasn't been occurring, I've just been a bit numb to the effects of it all. I get to thinking that I could write a blog about it all and then I come to realise I just don't give enough of a damn to write it down. My fire is slowly burning out.
The plan here is to give a quick recap of the last while, see if anything takes my fancy and if I get to writing then all well and good. I think I'll start by topic and work from there.
Work: I've become less idealistic. Truth be told, I've been becoming less idealistic since day two when the cold started to set in. I've stopped believing that a group of like minded people prepared to fight the good fight and be the best we can be is what I want. I want to be surrounded by fuck ups. Their litany of sins and precedents set insulate me from the high standards that should be set. I may be alone in feeling safe and comforted knowing that I'm in the company of quite a few terminal fuck ups (who I might point out, do not as far as I know know of this blog). Comedy could only ensue if they did.
Love Life: It is not a train wreck. Train wrecks get media attention, they are of general interest. Mine is pretty much just an empty train track stretching off in either directions in the dying light of a long day. In an effort to resolve this I've attempted to be more social of late. I hate going out, I hate noise and I hate drunken idiots. I figure I feel about going out how most people feel about pull ups. They're not good at them, they hurt and if anyone is about they embarrass you as you hang limply from the bar trying to understand how your genetics have been thwarted by you. Conversely, while not being world class or anything I quite enjoy pull ups. I can do them with no warm up or real consideration. I do them for fun and if people are ever to be impressed by me this is the time. Also, Fuck Coppers!
Training: The war on muscular atrophy continues. It's more of a guerrilla war, with no planning and sporadic attacks with wildly different strategies and success rates. It's madness but I can feel the enemy weakening. Why can't I deadlift worth shit though? I've built a new pulling platform. Surely that will help? That's weight lifted anyway, I'm starting to get fat and I need to pay a closer eye to that. Jitz has suffered. A victim of an unforgiving working week and if I can't crush people what's the point?
Thoughts and Conjecture: As a child I used to pray, I think I did anyway. I'd lie in bed and think on the things that I wanted or was worried by and I'd drift off. I've a fairly narrative style of thinking. Nothing would change but it was reflective and sometimes cathartic. Now I just think what would make a good blog and work on the phrasing. It's more or less the same. More or less.
I've been involved in two car accidents the last three days. Neither were serious and I had at least a second or two to see each of them coming. Nothing occurred to me. I fear that in the moments before my untimely death I won't have the presence of mind to utter a laconic last sentiment. That said, laughed my ass off after each collision. Genuinely funny.
At a wedding recently. Started planning my own. The food choices will be either a fillet steak or a ribeye. Fillet for the ladies and the vegetarians. Music will be entirely made up of songs that people invited by my parents won't know and will find difficult to dance along to. It will be a viciously secular ceremony. Speeches will be uncharacteristically honest and as a result of the above the bride will most likely spend the day crying and lamenting agreeing to marry me. It will be the most memorable wedding of the year but that may not be a good thing.
I feel the dark clouds of Christmas gathering. Having to play nice with extended family galls me. It bothers me that outside of the issues of consanguinity and the propagation to the species people assume a blood tie means I have to listen to them prattle on and respond in kind. I'll just get some training in. More amusingly, we received our yearly letter from the "American relatives", they send it every year despite not once receiving a reply. It tries to cover their trials and successes with an upbeat and thankful tone. Stuff like John and Kerry's baby Jennifer starting Montessori and how even at this young age we can see she's destined for greatness. Fuck sake. My favourite is the negative shit, divorces and the loss of loved ones. Not that I take more than a normal amount of joy in the suffering of others but seeing the mental gymnastics required to phrase this dark material in a way that makes it seem like God's will for his idiot children is something very special indeed.
There's a line from Inglourious Basterds that's stuck in my head, as Col Landa tells Aldo Raine he'll be shot for killing his driver and maiming him - "Nah. I don't think so. More like chewed out. I've been chewed out before."
On the night of my recent birthday I wrote a blog which upon reading the next morning was whiny and did not sound like I had lived the 26 years I'm now touting. It focused mainly on the idea that the sum total of my efforts thus far would only amount to about 23 years for any barely competent individual and that even with a lot of resting that leaves me with 3 years which I have truly wasted. Not even in the drink and drugs way that I'd like to have wasted a couple of years.
That little paragraph above was stretched to a galling couple of hundred words and resolved nothing. As an aside I typed up a list of pros and cons of The Shane.
Pros 1. no receding of the hairline. A slight greying at the temples all rendered immaterial due to preference for shaved head. Still it should be noted. 2. as time passes steadily rising up the percentiles of what classes as being in great shape for my age. By age 40, hopes to beat ex-Olympian at something. 3. majestic shoulders, comparatively useless but majestic nonetheless. 4. Modest, has trouble making a list of positives about himself 5. does not use textspeak 6. Has seen most of the films that people talk about at parties, making him invaluable at quizzes and in identifying films based on small snippets of plot or cast credits 7. does not drink a lot either in volume per sitting or in frequency 8. Has not killed anyone. Though insists on qualifying that with "yet" 9. Not a conspiracy theorist 10. Sleeps soundly most nights and some days 11. Good at spelling, not great though. 12. Eats his steak medium to medium rare as a consideration to the animal and others who have ordered and may otherwise be delayed. In fact finds that as he grows older and fewer and fewer things matter to him, dreams of steak have become the most important thing in his life. 13. Punctual, sometimes to the point of being irritating, very frequently to the point of being irritated and then showing this irritation.
Cons 1. Occasionally, needlessly pedantic. 2. Does not play well with others. In fact thinks many people are fucking muppets and fears that this shows through his poor attempt to hide it. 3. Slips confusingly between the third and first person. 4. I sometimes over sleep which means I make the choice between a nutritious breakfast and speeding on my way to work. 5. Rarely misses breakfast even when late. 6. Does not believe in what he is doing and fears that someone might spot this 7. While is good at spelling is poor at punctuation 8. Is crippled by a deep seated fear that while I think that people would understand I refuse to put into words because of the well deserved shame that I would feel. 9. Refusing to humour more and more people 10. Blogs rather more than is necessary with a quality control mechanism that is lacking. 11. The tears won't come because I won't let them. 12. Can only satisfactorily cook five or six things. 13. Strangely angular, asymmetric head.
And so it went. I imagine there are more pros, definitely more cons.
You may have guessed that I was in a bad mood. Not angry just tetchy and generally pissed off. You may not have guessed. You may not have even cared. Maybe your worries are greater than what mood has taken Shane today. They probably are. People are generally selfish and don't care about my moods nearly as much as I think they should. After all, I'm fucking great. I'm the brightest star in a darkened sky, I'm the first flower of springtime and I don't take advantage of drunks, in the main anyway. I'm all of these things and more and I do it with a certain reserved dignity that brings to mind royalty. Not modern royalty but more like Aragorn in the Lord of the Rings.
Some of the reasons for the bad mood are pretty self evident and others are best left unsaid. Sleeping dogs and other clichés that I could trot out. You can see the depth of the mood by the dismal blog before this. Posted but mere hours ago it was written by an entirely different Shane. A broken man trying to figure out morality and justify his course of action. Fuck all that. Fuck it to the hell I'm going to spend the next month in. Cold and sore and bored and dealing with idiots. Fuck it all to that hell.
The change that has been wrought is due to Bill and Bench pressing. I know you can't really seperate the two. Bill loves the bench, and more than that loves to beat me in a semi-regular bench pressing competition. The rules - five sets with 80kgs, max reps wins. Rest periods are based on the honour system and allow for conversation. Couple o' beers and this would be the greatest way to spend a Friday night. Bill loves to bench. Tonight I got the call and despite my mood accepted the challenge. Step up. I did the mental arithmetic had a plan. Knew what I'd do each set and then completely ignored this and for the first time beat Bill. Two clear reps. I am the reigning champion. A bad mood can't withstand that kind of positive energy. Fuck right and wrong and the second guessing. Fuck the future and the corner I'll be standing on for a month. Fuck the wind, the rain and the biting cold. Fuck pretty pictures and ugly memories. All these things pass.
To top it all off I walked into the house and Highlander was on the TV. Fuck yeah.
Chalked up and happy
Bill had a bum elbow which has since healed and ruined this little ritual on me. The month that followed was as shit as I expected, but it passed and I remained. This should be instructive but I continue to bitch and moan at every little bump in the road.
I have rarely been heartbroken. So utterly crushed and defeated that I felt like crying. I don't cry because it doesn't help. What follows is the blog that was written when I was in one of those fine situations. It may not be my best, in fact it certainly isn't but it marks a moment that I should really remember. The fires have to be stoked and all those people made to pay.
I reckon me and Willie Nelson have lived pretty different lives. Not just me and Willie. I've lived an entirely different life from all the musicians that I listen to. To be honest I can't really relate to the exact situations that they sing about and in some cases while I like the songs I probably wouldn't agree, at least not enthusiastically. I'd agree a little, Trent Reznor has the look of a believer and it'd be safer to just play along.
That said though, I like the songs and some of the lyrics hit the nail on the head so fucking accurately when I think of them in relation to my own situation. Now I'm counting out the songs that just tell stories. That's what I really like about Johnny Cash; the stories. Gotta love the stories.
Yesterday I was lethargic and disinterested in people and conversation. I couldn't focus and all I wanted was a big long lasting hug. This little episode unfortunately fell at the end of the college term and I wasn't sure whether I was sad or just really hungover. Rarely do I get headaches when I'm sad and rarely do I feel like crying like some sort of whinging bitch when I'm hungover - but that was the type of day. I really just wanted a hug.
With the morning came me feeling much better, being a little lighter (what I need is a good stomach flu) and the inevitable shame. To cut to the chase though - I wasn't sad. I was happy, well happier than yesterday.
I listened to the same songs and heard the same lyrics as I heard yesterday and I could see why I might have associated them with things that may have made me sad, but it was the hangover talking for the most part.
When Willie Nelson sings "angels love bad men", I still feel a little like I need a hug.
Most of these blogs were originally posted on Bebo. There are some there that didn't make the leap and there will in theory be some here that won't be on Bebo. I feel that anyone who has ever social-networked can relate, whether that's a good or bad thing I refuse to comment.
Friends come and go and as long as they do it quietly and without making a scene we don't really notice or mind too much. I, like most normal people, will gravitate to whoever is nearest me at the time. I don't mean nearest in the "nearest and dearest" sense, just in the geographical. I will forgive many sins and ignore your shortcomings just so the lonely night doesn't swallow me up.
I've been thinking about this because I really want to hit 100 friends on Bebo. I know this means nothing, Rosanna Davison has more pages of friends than I have friends, I'm sure she's a real peach of a person, she did win Miss World, but the sheer workload of keeping in contact with that many people makes it impossible, she's not Santa Claus. Well probably not. It'd be a ridiculous double life to pull off.
I'm close to 100, real close and I wanna hit it without being anymore needy or desperate than this blog makes me seem. I want other people to ask me to be their friends. That is pretty fucking needy and desperate. It's the same feeling I get when I get near to breaking a fitness record or something. The first time I rowed a 2k in sub 7mins was cool, but it didn't make me a better person or anything, it's just an arbitrary target. Arbitrary is cool, it keeps things simple.
The "quest" for 100 friends, only recently realised, has meant that I had to look at all the friends that I have on bebo and see that some of them I don't know anymore, or never did or knew briefly and couldn't not be friends with. It's silly, very silly. Bordering on the ridiculous. Fuck it, lets not split hairs, it is ridiculous. This blog is meant then for all the people who at one time I knew and said "let's keep in touch" and didn't. Some of you I didn't mean it at the time and some it's just because I'm shit at that sort of stuff and you're better off without me. There are the unlucky few that I think I'm better off without and I would get rid of you but I really want 100 bebo friends and right now that petty little concern outweighs my disdain for you.
So if you know anyone that you think might want to be my friend or would get a kick out of the way I phrase things or the unique selection of videos that I have copied to my profile from other people, then please refer them to my page. For the next three people I will exercise virtually no discretion in claiming them as friends. It'll be a nice little microcosm.
Don't take offence, what We had was truly special.
At sometime in your life you'll lose something. People will come up to you, avoid eye contact or force the issue of eye contact too much and just make an already uncomfortable moment that little bit worse. You'll be told that they are there for you but within three weeks you won't have heard from half of them and within 10 weeks you will only be speaking to your friends anyway.
Even when you speak to your friends the prevailing attitude is "suck it up, we gave you three weeks and that's enough to get over it". People will have told you that you'll get over it and that all it takes is time. That the best tribute to their memory is to live a long and happy life and do the things that make you happy, just spare a moment for them every now and again.
At first the moments all come together, you can barely spare a moment for the other parts of life. You feel the loss, but millions of years of evolution means that you go on, just to keep breathing. Just doing the motions.
But the days are long and your mind will find a way of tricking you out of this grief, the millions of years of evolution just take care of it. Even if your mind can't help, there's always pills...
Then it happens, one day you're going through the routine and you realise that the depth of your feelings for the new skipping rope are the same as for the old one. The handle is finally a familiar piece in your hand, it feels right. The dirt and grime have worked in and it feels like it should be there. Your calves have adapted to the slightly different length and the rhythm has returned. You can do double unders, cross overs and normal skip for ages. It's not exactly the same as the other one but it feels good and today when you looked at it you weren't just reminded of your loss. That was only in the back of my mind. All I was really thinking was "I like skipping", and I do, I'm reborn.
I know people say that you can't replace a loved one and at least one other person has probably speculated the same about a skipping rope, but given time you can learn to love again. You can see that what 'ole blue rope would have wanted is for you to be happy and to sculpt those beautiful calves.
I still miss her, but I can move on now.
Appended to the end of the blog to preserve the tenderness. My favourite part of this blog is that a heartbroken sister of a friend of mine was reading it and really felt a connection. She saw parallels between her recently broken up relationship and the topic. She read on eagerly, then swore loudly when she found out it was about a skipping rope. Since then I have taken a job upon myself that has lots of walking and fucks with my tender ankles, long story short I don't skip anymore. Following the train of thought of the blog what does that say about love and loss?
I have a tendency to not really open up to people. I'll keep stuff to myself, avoid letting people actually getting to know me. In the off chance that I tell one person something, just to nullify that, I'll tell everyone. In my own mind at least it limits how deeply connected we are. It stops me starting to care. In a strange way I take a silly pride in this. I wear a certain outward stoicism, or an even more disconnected outward enthusiasm that I just don't feel.
Work is always an example of this. I have a pretty good telephone manner but it's all just the same repeated conversations with the same standard responses and reciprocal conversations thrown in. I'm not really there a lot of the time.
It always surprises me then when something actually gets to me. The big stuff not so much, but the little things.
I started going to the gym with Eoin (Eoin has not died, on rereading it sounds this way) many years ago. I think it was the summer after we left Salesians. We met Donna, Ruth and Jacqui in the hall as we were wandering in. Ruth was painting. The picture is still there.
Soon after we began regularly working out I started skipping. I couldn't do it very well. The rope was a little long and people didn't roll it up properly. I persevered, I finally got one minute uninterrupted. Then five. Now it's just one of those things, I don't think when I do it.
I was forced to think and remember when Dublin Airport Security took my skipping rope. What the fuck could I do with a skipping rope? The clumsy fucks missed the two bottles of shampoo I had in my bag.
Training has become a large part of my life, it's part of how I define myself. Since I started the methodologies that I have used have changed and been refined and changed again. I have eventually come to this point. For this entire journey I had my skipping rope. A perfect blue rope, of the Henry Cooper model. Made by the good people at Taurus. The handles were smooth with sweat and hand grease. Far from disgusted this felt like home. The loss I feel isn't epic and it isn't something I'll whisper on my deathbed but I have lost my favourite piece of workout kit and now I have to break in a new one.
Farewell my friend, you're helping Angels improve muscle tone and coordination with relatively low impact workouts now.
