BETAMAXNOMATES
'All she can do is dial and yell...'20041031
This is The Slump
Another crashingly uneventful day at work.
Sigh. If there's anyone reading this who's of the criminal persuasion: please rob me. I work well under threat and know some combinations to tills and stuff.
I've become addicted to Customers Suck, lurking there on an almost nightly basis. It's strangely cathartic, or rather it's a catharsis by proxy, since I've yet to encounter anything in my own 37 and 1/2 life that I've felt worthy of posting.
Seems wearing a shirt with a logo and clip-on tie makes you a welcome target for abuse. I wear a clip-on and truly it's a frustrating creation. Sure, pop ya collar, flip the latch, attach, and in no minutes time you're dressed for business. Think of the seconds you could save every day! It's like a tie that gives you time: a ti(m)e, if you will.
Course the downside is that since it's grip can't be loosened, by design, it's convenience slowly chokes you. Paradoxically, it's shortness relative to a normal tie precludes it's use as a noose.
Still, at least I've got my shoelaces.
Rented up a movie this evening to lift the spirits. Eternal Sunshine of the Mindless yada yada, whatever.
I really wanted this to be good. And bits of it were. Jim Carrey and Fatty Winslet give great performance; Carrey is remarkable in such an unusually restrained role but it's Katie Five-Bellies who walks away with the film: her character is everything that stupid, annoying bitch Brenda off of Six Feet Under should have been.
And she looks pretty freakin' hot - obesity and all.
No, the fault lies with French Bloke's direction. The hyperactive visual aesthetic that dominates the first two thirds of the film means that only in the final scenes do we begin to get a sense of the relationship between these characters. There's a pretty good twist though even if it is telegraphed well in advance.
Anyway, enough of the this. The television is telling me to take to the powdered soup to beat the 3 o'clock slump.
Here, for no reason, is Mark Ruffalo.
Sigh. If there's anyone reading this who's of the criminal persuasion: please rob me. I work well under threat and know some combinations to tills and stuff.
I've become addicted to Customers Suck, lurking there on an almost nightly basis. It's strangely cathartic, or rather it's a catharsis by proxy, since I've yet to encounter anything in my own 37 and 1/2 life that I've felt worthy of posting.
Seems wearing a shirt with a logo and clip-on tie makes you a welcome target for abuse. I wear a clip-on and truly it's a frustrating creation. Sure, pop ya collar, flip the latch, attach, and in no minutes time you're dressed for business. Think of the seconds you could save every day! It's like a tie that gives you time: a ti(m)e, if you will.
Course the downside is that since it's grip can't be loosened, by design, it's convenience slowly chokes you. Paradoxically, it's shortness relative to a normal tie precludes it's use as a noose.
Still, at least I've got my shoelaces.
Rented up a movie this evening to lift the spirits. Eternal Sunshine of the Mindless yada yada, whatever.
I really wanted this to be good. And bits of it were. Jim Carrey and Fatty Winslet give great performance; Carrey is remarkable in such an unusually restrained role but it's Katie Five-Bellies who walks away with the film: her character is everything that stupid, annoying bitch Brenda off of Six Feet Under should have been.
And she looks pretty freakin' hot - obesity and all.
No, the fault lies with French Bloke's direction. The hyperactive visual aesthetic that dominates the first two thirds of the film means that only in the final scenes do we begin to get a sense of the relationship between these characters. There's a pretty good twist though even if it is telegraphed well in advance.
Anyway, enough of the this. The television is telling me to take to the powdered soup to beat the 3 o'clock slump.
Here, for no reason, is Mark Ruffalo.
20041029
This is The News
Hello, and welcome to my new blog. I say new - I didn't have an old one, just a series of monologues running in my head now transferred to HTML. So welcome to the inside of my head. It's all spongy and warm in there. Take a seat.
I'm fairly certain that anyone who actually reads this will already be acquainted with me in The Real World so I'll skimp on the introductions.
I have a name, but won't be using it here for artistic distancing reasons, and because, basically, I don't trust you, or your people.
I live in a town called Celbridge which is a slum just outside Dublin. Most of my life's time is spent working, or rather attending my place of work - a department store in a chav shopping centre. It's like that concentration camp guy says: life is sweet.
In spare moments I make stuff up: lies mostly, but also music, graphics, conceptual art pieces, shit like that. I plan to use this blog thing to further inflict my art product on the world once I can procure a suitable host.
What else? I once shouted racist abuse at Chesney Hawkes in a pub toilet. I read stuff I find on the buses - working class newspapers and the like - and am wont to dispense useful psychological advice free of charge to my fellow patrons.
I'm at home today, catching up with my online persona and listening to Shakespeare's Sister. I love Siobhan Fahey and when I grow up I'm going to marry her.
I'm fairly certain that anyone who actually reads this will already be acquainted with me in The Real World so I'll skimp on the introductions.
I have a name, but won't be using it here for artistic distancing reasons, and because, basically, I don't trust you, or your people.
I live in a town called Celbridge which is a slum just outside Dublin. Most of my life's time is spent working, or rather attending my place of work - a department store in a chav shopping centre. It's like that concentration camp guy says: life is sweet.
In spare moments I make stuff up: lies mostly, but also music, graphics, conceptual art pieces, shit like that. I plan to use this blog thing to further inflict my art product on the world once I can procure a suitable host.
What else? I once shouted racist abuse at Chesney Hawkes in a pub toilet. I read stuff I find on the buses - working class newspapers and the like - and am wont to dispense useful psychological advice free of charge to my fellow patrons.
I'm at home today, catching up with my online persona and listening to Shakespeare's Sister. I love Siobhan Fahey and when I grow up I'm going to marry her.
Goodbye cruel world.
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