# 132 aka Power to control the sun

The sun setting in reverse chronological order looks a bit like this...

#131 aka Tagging me tagging you, kapow...

With the exception of MOB, who has every right to tag me - in the plutonic sense amidst the daily virtual embraces and back-pats of the blogosphere, and whom I have already forgiven in my heart of hearts although not in writing (until now) - I would like to give all other blogaholics inclined to include me in any form of future intercontinental tagging event one of two options prior to inlcuding me in any form of future intercontinental tagging events: (A) Send me a detailed account of your suicide by way of visual documentation where you've included an original thought so that I'll have something to remember you by (remember: No quotations!) or (B) Send me a list of seven reasons why seven is a number with unusually high levels of irritation in seven separate envelopes (that's seven in total, not forty-nine) sealed by red wax using seven sets of high-heeled shoes worn by seven former nude models from the Czech Republic (remember: Not from the Democratic Republic of Congo!).

The root of my concern can be found at a fellow scribe's blog HERE. But I'll cut to the chase, he writes without paraphrasing the stem of problematic text: Unless you're spreading the highest quality porn where quality = jism flying across state borders onto eager end-of-the-teenage-spectrum faces and you are inclined to believe that I would otherwise miss out on such essential global entertainment, do me the favour of tagging yourself on the head a few times with any form of blunt instrument that happens to be lying around the room at the time of your freakishly bewildering brain fade. If that fails after the first dozen blows, any sharp object should do the trick. My personal recommendation is a sharpened pencil because the resulting skin discolouration after a few days of inactivity usually promotes a form of rare artistic endeavour which, as anyone who has ever discovered someone who has suicided will tell you, is a subtle way of implying that you were willing, if not able, to leave this mortail toil with an original thought.*

PS 'ave a good weekend, ai.



* Void in select parts of Botswana.

#130 aka He was like...And I was like...and other gems

This is a rant.



MP3 players used to piss me off: The pivotal ingredient to encouraging anti-social behaviour on a global scale, thought I of these mini devices of silent cacophony displayed by humans somewhere on the human anatomy much like a wanker warning to others visible from afar. Now that my own MP3 player, the one and the same that I acquired as a gift from a relative Last Christmas (I gave you my heart, but the very next day you gave it away [gave it away]), seems to have poo-pooed itself I'm left to lament what was, for all intents and purposes, a blissful period in my life. You see, I'm not one of these arseholes who throws his bum into a car and travels to work without picking up sixteen like minded clowns between points A and B. I'm one of those arseholes who uses public transport. There I said it! Yes, I'm one of those tools who, on the surface it would seem, is doing the right thing by the environment. Yet my level of environmental-mindedness to being this pseudo Green Warrior derives from an uber dedication to keep loose change in my pocket rather than venturing on a crusade to reinstate the horse and cart as the premier mode of transport or mashing my own faeces with spuds to avoid contracting a life threatening food based ailment from the multitude of chemical they're pumping into food these days.

Where the fuck was I?

So, as I was travelling into town on a bus this morning I was reminded of one of the main benefits to owning an MP3 player: the device keeps me ignorant of the utterly bland lives other people lead, especially those who choose public transport ahead of their agony aunt to air their grievances and general state of personal decay.

There I was, sitting behind two green-eared sixteen-or-whatever-year-old femmes when my my ears encountered a brick wall of social awkwardness; the orange highlighter glided (I think 'glud' would be worth its weight in appreciation) across relevant material for me to teach as the first wave of their 'He was like...And I was like...' two-way repartee brought on the shits. It was obvious to everyone, including yours truly, that they had A) No fucken idea; B) A severe deficiency in their daily intake of past participles; C) No fucken idea about anything.

This bullshit went on for thirty minutes: 'He was like...And I was like...' mixing naturally with concerned intonation in all the right places from the other gifted orator whenever a signpost was recognised: 'O-ma God...And what did you say?'

Teeth grinded (I'd champion 'grund' as an alternative here) and I'm pretty fucken sure my blood pressure was reaching the point at which kettles become audible. My highlighter and text book had nowhere left to go but back inside my backpack; it was too late for productivity at that point. I had to extract some sort of public statement to shut these two clams up once and for all.

I got off six stops before my regular stop and walked a few blocks more than normal - without the aid of an MP3 player to propel me.

When I arrived at work and chose my favourite hot-desking location (too many teachers, not enough computers) I thought everything would be as dandy as fruitcake on a Sunday morning. Fuck me sideways if I wasn't heading for disappointment.

'Oh, I see you've beaten me to it again, Kaufman,' says the bane of my existence (let's call her Flaps for the sheer fuck of it), who just so happens to be a co-worker of the annoyus extremis sect, in reference to the desk and computer I was using.

'I didn't realise there was a contest to be had,' counters I as I log in and check the intranet for personalised electronic mail to ignore and never again have to refer to. 'And, besides, you can access anything and everything you need from any computer in the room. This technology thing is freakin' amazing! Why don't you try that one' I say, pointing to the computer next to where I've set up shop 'or better yet that one over there?' The index finger points proudly to the part of the room which my eyes have never seen.

The twat.

Meanwhile, time does what it does best. It's now 1:20pm. My schedule has been derailed by three students whose comprehension levels clash with their unparalleled urge to talk amongst themselves whenever I'm explaining the fundamentals to how the universe works. I'm left to pick up the pieces of their me-no-understand wreckage, and I'm more delighted than on the previous occasion when I couldn't think of three reasons why cannabis use at work shouldn't be compulsory. I realise my time in the gym has been compromised. I put enough pressure on my molars to flex the muscles near my jaw. I feel like Henry Rollins on a bad day. I excuse myself, citing a finite bladder and a craving to be left alone.

Returning to my desk, I find Flaps sitting in my chair, punching my keys on my keyboard.

'What's going on, Flaps?' I casually enquire. 'I could've sworn you admitted defeat this morning even before you said good morning. Did you even say good morning this morning before you began your flowery speech?'

'Oh, I just need to access some information that I can't access from any other computer,' says she.

The daft old cow was still impressed by the wheel, marvelling every now and again at its engaging charm and multi-functionality.

'I thought we had already established - the most recent time being this morning - that you can access any information from any computer in this room, no?'

She took a breath and countered, 'Well, I've been here for eighteen months.'

The red flag waving between her eighty-or-whatever-year-old hands was the last straw.

It was at this stage that I gave serious thought to my next move. I knew I was at liberty to behave like a gentleman, if behaving like a scholar was temporarily unavailable, and that others in the room would undoubtedly be privy to the hot wind escaping near warp speed 3 from my flared nostrils. My hooves were raking dirt by the proverbial ton. Where was Zac de la Rocha when I needed him?

'If I had a dollar for every time I had heard you say that, I'd be able to dip my first-born into bronze and erect her statue at the highest part of the new wing of my brand new mansion in the sky.'

It was a thought which never manifested into words. Instead, I said, 'Well, if that's the extent of your claim time and time again then how about we talk about the ten weeks you're not here out of every four-month period of the calendar. Does that make my case any stronger?'

Fearing the old biddy would lapse into a coronary or pop a fucken blood vessel in her super-sized head, I turned the only two cheeks I had and went to the gym.

Positive energy flowed through me as though I was a vessel of pure zen. It only took two hours of upper body strain while ignoring the commercial radio station in the background, but I was right as rain once more.

Bring on the weekend...Please!

Hi. My name's Andy Kaufman and I'm a compulsive MP3 user.

#129 aka The grindstone and the downpour

It's back to the grind today with a pike and two-and-a-half twists thrown in to ensure my professional development... how ought one put it?... develops into a picturesque landscape of academic awe.*

The weekend recently passed was fabulous: it rained non-stop on Saturday which enabled the wife, baby and I the time we so desperately needed to remain in our jammies until the late pm; I stayed up until 4:39am watching the first innings of the cricket World Cup final where Adam Gilchrist and Co. entertained my weary eyes. It reminded me of the battle David had with Goliath although there were more sixes and fewer sligshots armed with rocks in this demolition; we drove around the hills on Sunday and gasped with the precision of timing associated with a metronome at the resplendid colours of the autumnal leaves.

But it's Monday (again). The new course I'm teaching is the type that involves serious dedication to pre-reading. This bugs me no-end as I prefer my academic preparation to arrive in the form of a hundred-and-twenty-minute blockbuster extravaganza in celluloid (see Pearl Harbor et al).

Not to worry as it is but Week Two and the students are still pondering the significance of the tongue sharpening device at the back of the room.

Ooroo.


* Re-read this statement and if you're still debating its sense then join the Much Ado About What Exactly Club. It's free but today only.

# 128 aka False prophet

This is an update.