I had intended to write a detailed review of the spectacle I witnessed last night but, alas, fate will not have it. At present, I am mired in marking, my ears are still ringing, and my thoughts are still gathering.
In the meantime, I offer an appetizer: it was good. Excellent, even.
Now… run along, you. These are not the droids you are looking for.
And an old woman, too. Or so I’ve been told by sources knowledgeable.
You’d think I’d have more to write about after a week’s worth of silence and my promise last week of a multi-month backlog of vitriol, but oh no, no… no. This post, this is all about me, baby; it’s all about me, and what makes me happy.
Happiness, despite what a certain Fab Four may have claimed, is not a warm gun. Rather, happiness is the guarantee of quality, even if said quality takes an additional handful of months to prepare. Now, if that quality involves the use of firearms and my being able to capitalize with impeccable aim and quick reflexes, well… that’s just dandy, isn’t it? Especially since I don’t have a lot of time at the moment, anyways. In the interim, I’m more than happy to spend the free-time I do have playing and re-playing Half-Life 2, and whiling away my hours constructing civilizations that worship and adore me.
Speaking of which, Steve Buscemi got it right… but then, dearest reader of my bosom, what has Steve Buscemi ever gotten wrong? In the classic piece of cinema known as Con Air, Buscemi defines irony as “a bunch of idiots dancing around on a plane to a song made famous by a band that died in a plane crash.” Hey, Steve, how’s this for irony? Confucian Romans grinding a Christian Saladin beneath their sandals in the name of pacificism. Yes, thanks to the miracles of crack cocaine Civilization 4, irony has never been more ironic, history more historic, nor my grammar more idiotic.
Need to put this slurpee down now…
And finally, finally… I’ve waited ten years for it, and my patience has been rewarded. At long last, …oh, the hell with it. I’m tired of typing. Those who know me already know exactly what I was going to say, and those who don’t, well, what are you doing here? Sod off!
What? Are you still here?
Oh, fine.
If you’ve read this far, I feel it only fair that I apologize–you, who hold this weblog so dear to your heart, are no doubt aware that this post, unlike the plethora that preceeded it, has a tone unique. It’s tone is not one that one would normally associate with me–if one knew what was good for one. Though it hardly passes for an excuse, I suppose the blame for this shift falls squarely on the shoulders of… oh… Blaine the Mono. Or David Bowie.
Poking from a variety of people but, more importantly, an insistent prodding from my own pudding-like consciousness has prompted me to rejuvenate this page. People to blame for damages forthcoming are my lovely wife, my darling sister, and a variety of friends (you know who you are). Alternately, there’s my puddled–or is that muddled?–mind to keep accountable. Afterall, I mean, really, who am I to refuse the internal ramblings I’m prone to? Ye gods, I’ve a multi-month backlog of shit to spew…!
Thus, without further ado…
The hell is it with people wearing t-shirts, not having the faintest clue as to the significance of the sign they sport? Do you have any idea, dear reader, how many times I’ve seen an adolescent wearing this emblazened on their chest? Far. Too. Fucking. Often.
Fortunately, I’m in a position to do something about it.
Try this one out for yourself, should you ever have the chance–begin discussing Sartre’s assertion that Che Guevara is “the most complete human being of our age”. Prompt them as to their beliefs regarding Marxist theory and whether or not Che’s attitudes were, truly, in line with Ol’ Karl’s beliefs. Ooh! Ask them to roleplay! “Hey, I’ll be Lenin, he’ll be Stalin, and you? You get to be the guy on your shirt. Let’s talk communism!” Or, ask them directly: do you know whose image it is that you are displaying for the world to see? Do you know what he stood for?
Seriously, watch ‘em squirm.
Of course, by this point, you probably all think I’m a dick–and I won’t dispute that. But let me tell you, hassling some poor sod about his shirt has, for me, paid off. I’ve had a few of the five boogers I’ve bugged come back to me within weeks, able to engage me in semi-knowledgeable conversation, saying, “I had no idea… wow.”
Hey, my pleasure… it’s what I’m here for. Now, about your taste in music…
.. again.
No, don’t get your hopes up. He’s still not writing.
However, this is for anyone trying to follow the comments on this blog — I’ve fixed the spam problem using the same solution that I use on my own site, and now there should be much less of it.
I now return you to your regularly-scheduled silence.
