Join My Quest To Get Something Into The Believer!

Let’s be bitterly honest here: all things taken into consideration, I must have a pretty boring life.

If it wasn’t boring, if it was really exciting, full of wonderful, moving, heartbreaking, exciting, genius moments, then it doesn’t seem particularly likely that I would be writing this blog post right now, does it? No, I’d probably be off enjoying myself somewhere, doing something much better than talking to you. And, to the people that know me, or are friends with me, or serve me delightfully strong coffee (I rate you all equally, if nothing else): this doesn’t mean that I find you boring. Far from it, so please don’t feel insulted. You are the shining beacons of hopeful light who keep me getting up in the morning. You are the sturdy pillars of faith which keep my temple straight. You are each a reliable if inexplicably hirsute Chewbacca to my rakish Han Solo. No, you are not boring.

Talking to you, however, absolutely is. Mainly, this is because the internet, far from being the future, is a dismally arcane means of transferring information which in this case allows me to pretend to care about you while actually simultaneously spending my time doing something else. And what I'm doing today is wandering around, drinking coffee that my doctor says I shouldn’t be drinking in coffee shops full of people who, as far as I can tell, are just as bored as I am. Coffee shops are the place for people like us.

I would like to note, at this point, that I am most definitely not the kind of roll-neck-sweater-wearing-guy who sits in Starbucks po-facedly reading Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. Because that would be just awful, to be that guy. No, I’m the sort of person who wears an open-necked-sweater in Costa while po-facedly reading Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. And that’s a whole different ball game, thank you very much.

So anyway, I’ve been trying to think of ways in which I can keep myself entertained. And that’s when I thought to myself, one coffee-fuelled morning (with disturbing pains inside my body that tell me that I really, really need to stop drinking coffee before something quite bad happens), I thought to myself “well, why not write a nothing poem and then try to get it published, just so I can say Ha! I got this nothing poem published in your magazine, and seriously, it was Nothing!” I think it’s a winning idea, in all sorts of ways: in its nihilism, or its random cruelty, or its essential worthlessness. So anyway, first port of call is The Believer. I should say right now that I sort of like The Believer. Sure, they’re a bit pretentious, and on the whole are as likely to have an article on a trendy music-slash-donut-store as they are to have one about serious books; but Nick Hornby writes for them, so they can’t be all bad, right?

Right. So, I came up with a poem to send them this morning. I fixed on what I consider to be their best feature, Nick Hornby, and proceeded to mock it, in a rubbish way. And what better rubbish way than a prose poem? Prose poetry, by the way, so far as I can tell, is poetry that’s a bit prosey or, alternatively, prose that’s a bit poetic. And let me tell you, it’s not good. I append at the end of today's blog posting a fine example of the form's non-goodness, as penned by yours truly at Waspinator-for-President. I hope to have news shortly of The Believer's response.


Nick Hornby’s Formula For Penning A Good Review

In a dog-eared Believer, he says books are like stews: some are potatoes, meat or veg. Jeez, Hornby, just last month you said you hated metaphors like this, which pander predictably.

And I thought, Hornby, that’s just like you. I could cook your reviews with ingredients: generous dash of self-ironisation; a splash of books read (but more you haven’t); an impenetrable joke about football or Salinger; and drop in somewhere that you read the New Yorker,

But of course you’re funnier, of course.

The Conversation Of Education Could Possibly End Up With Me Seriously Hurting Someone

I know, I know: I’ve been away for a long time. Too long a time. I’m sorry. Really I am. Please forgive me.

People have been asking me (albeit very occasionally) who the “You” is in my blog posts. Who is it that I mean, for example, when I say “I’m going to kill you with a banana”, or “I’ve renamed Old Kent Road after your fat mom”, or “I think you should stay away from farms”? Exactly who is this ethereal you? Well, I’ve got news for you. It’s You. And frankly, you should be ashamed of yourself.

Sadly, though, this particular post is not about you. Yes, you heard right. Not everything is about you, you know. I know you’ll find that hard to accept, arrogant as you are. But this post is actually going to be all about me. So there. Look, honestly, I'm truly sorry for the dark despair my absence must surely have created in your lives. But maybe trying to cope with that absence has made you stronger. And maybe that extra strength has helped you overcome that little problem you’ve had on your mind recently. And maybe solving that little problem will also help you look at some of your really big problems. And if that’s the case, then I think we both know that you should probably be thanking me as much and as often as you possibly can.

But look, I’m afraid sometimes even I feel the pinch of having a real life. Not like some blog writers out there, I can tell you. There’s this guy somewhere in the wacky world of the internet who puts a photo a day onto his blog. A photo! Every day! For like, a long time! Maybe even since the internet was invented, over three years ago! And not only that, but it’s a photo that he’s really thought about. And he writes something to accompany the photo too. I mean, not a particularly good something. Mainly stuff about some girl who doesn’t love him or what a great night the office party was. But still, it’s something, right? And really, how on earth does he find the time? And moreover, how does he find something interesting enough that he wants to take a photo of it? Every day? I can come up with about ten things that I want to take photos of, ever. And five of those things are worrying issues on my own body to show to a doctor. So, what I'm saying is that one photo a day might very well be pushing it.

Yes, sometimes life catch you unawares, and sometimes you can see it coming and still can't do anything about it. Sometimes it even means not being able to update your social media status: really, things can get that bad. 

Random DVD Review #1

Only one line in Knocked Up, last season’s “laugh-out-loud comedy classic”, actually made me laugh out loud.

Actually, it was more of a hesitant approach towards a laugh, which then turned into a rather nasty cough. Still, it’s the closest I came to the product’s description, so I may as well make mention of it. Some way into the film, Paul Rudd, who plays one of the entirely unlikeable characters with which this movie is absolutely packed (and it doesn’t really matter exactly which one he is), says that “marriage is like an unfunny, tense version of Everybody Loves Raymond, but it doesn’t last twenty-two minutes…it lasts forever.” (note: the ellipsis is essentially Rudd’s rather than mine, as I use it in an attempt to textually approximate his very predictable comic timing.)

I found this description funny because I think it’s actually a fantastically accurate description not of marriage, but of Everybody Loves Raymond – which is frequently unfunny, almost always features people being tense and angry with one another, and feels much closer to “forever” in running length than any sitcom has any right to be. In fact, the only thing which is not accurate about this description of the show is its apparent presupposition of some kind of mythical Everybody Loves Raymond show that is funny, is delightfully breezy and good-natured, and feels like it only lasts an acceptable twenty-two minutes long. As far as I know, that show does not exist.

To be clear, Knocked Up was just awful. So awful, that I fell back on insulting Everybody Loves Raymond instead, rather than forcing myself to talk about just how queasily bad Knocked Up was. Just how bad was it? It was very bad indeed. Why was it so bad? I can’t imagine. It certainly has all the ingredients that one would look for in a comedy: frankly unappealing main character who for unfathomable reasons doesn’t use a condom, check; hilarious bunch of wacky screw-up side-kicks who can’t be bothered to have jobs, check; shot of a prosthetic vagina mid-birth, check; people screaming torturously at each other throughout, check; gratuitous trip to the Vegas for non sequitur strippers, double-check. Please don’t think, by the way, that my sarcasm here betrays a snootiness about my taste in comedy films. I’d prefer watching Van Wilder: Party Liaison to Woody Allen any day (who wouldn’t?), but really, Knocked Up is just bad. Knocked Up is so bad, in fact, that it draws other objects (such as poor Ray Romano) into its own badness like some kind of gigantic film singularity.

And why does Paul Rudd keep ending up in such ghastly movies? I rather like him, but he sure knows how to pick a turkey. In fact, I’ve been thinking about this, and I have an idea that somewhere there’s a big book, containing lists of upcoming movie titles, that actors like Rudd can read. I imagine this book looks kind of like an old Yellow Pages (do you remember them, internet?), the sort of weighty tome that you flip open with a crash before running your index finger down the page, despite the fact that you don’t do this with any other book. And next to each as-yet-unmade movie title there is an indication of just how good or bad that film will be: I imagine that for Knocked Up it was not so much an indication as a giant flashing neon sign reading “Crikey! Stay away from this stinker, Rudd!”

But for whatever self-punishing reason, perhaps some unknown horrible event in his childhood, Paul Rudd not only ignores this kind of warning, he deliberately and continually seeks them out. And then calls up the producer to ask for a part. But not the main part, because that would be silly. No, he’ll plump for “Guy who makes faces No. 2”, or something similar. Seriously, Paul, stop it already. You’re delightful, you’ve still got your looks, and you can be pretty funny given the chance. Don’t let the last season of Friends be remembered as your best comedy turn. Don’t let Clueless be your shining hour. Because that just makes me sad.


Notes:

1. I am aware that with Random DVD Review #1 I have broken my own rules about not writing about anything specific or relevant (I would argue Knocked Up is neither, but accept it might be the thinnest of thin ends of the wedge). Let’s be honest, though: I break these rules with every successive post. You know I do it, I know I do it, so let’s not trouble ourselves by worrying over it too much.

2. I really like the unmade-movie-Yellow-Pages theory; I think it has legs. And there’s actually plenty of evidence out there for this theory’s “truthiness” (can I stop using the air-quotes yet, Mr. Colbert?). For example: Will Smith, despite being at best a distinctly average actor, not only doesn’t seem to have made a really bad film, but has also somehow managed to come out looking good from even the rather dodgy ones like Wild Wild West. Matthew Broderick, on the other hand, despite being quite good at what he does, constantly appears in the most appalling rubbish ever to grace the silver screen. Twenty years ago, I bet people were saying “Wow, the kid who plays that Ferris Bueller could be, in an ironic juxtaposition to his physical stature, our Next Big Thing.” Unfortunately, the bright young Broderick then chose to spend the next twenty years appearing in stupefying tomatoes like Godzilla. Or Inspector Gadget. Or The Stepford Wives. Or Deck The Halls. Or Addicted To Love. The only possible explanation for such astounding tom-foolery is that he and Paul Rudd spend lazy afternoons together picking out ever-more ridiculous garbage to star in, from the mighty tome of movies-yet-to-be-made, while Will Smith quietly leaves them to it.

3. As an addendum, imdb’s mini-biography of Broderick begins: “A slight comic actor…”. I presume they meant “slight” as in “diminutive”, but the phrase also works pretty well as a somewhat insulting assessment of talent. Ha ha, nice one, imdb.

Yes, I Put “Jamie Lynn Spears + Naked” Into Google, What Of It?

Techno-illiterati that I am, I had no idea that people kept track of every single random search one enters into Google.

Oh, sure, I know search engines have lists of popular searches and things like that, but I kinda thought they just made it up. Like, whatever the Yahoo-guys happened to like that day would become the most popular search entry. Or that maybe it was all some kind of clever advertising ploy. I mean, how would anyone know?

But no, apparently they really keep track of things. And yes, apparently people have become much more interested in finding photographs of Britney’s younger sister now that there is strong evidence that Jamie Lynn has “matured into womanhood”. The fact that these people have become more interested in searching for such photographs is, of course, incredibly useful information that the world needs to have available. I for one needed someone to tell me that guys want to find pictures of naked pregnant celebrities. Yeah, and also, the Sun comes up in the morning. Does it Google? Thanks for letting me know.

All the same, I am pretty concerned by the revelation (well, at least to me) that somewhere there are vast banks of machines and/or people keeping track of internet searches. That someone has taken note of the world’s quest for tasteful Jamie Lynn photography is, frankly, the thin end of the wedge.

Now, my worry is this: at what volume of searches-performed does someone take note? Because, to take a purely hypothetical example (which, purely for the ease of argument, I will relate as if it were entirely true), I think I may have put a certain ex-girlfriend’s name into Google like, a million times. Not in a weird stalker way of course. Just, you know, I like to keep up with what people are doing. And Google is pretty good at helping to track people down. And restraining orders don’t exactly leave one with very many options, now do they? But here is my fear: what if that name becomes listed somewhere as a Most Popular Search? And she sees it? And it says “Most Popular Search: Waspinator’s Ex.” What am I going to do then?

Thinking about it, that’s probably the least of my worries. Really, I ought to think back over all the random searches I’ve put into Google last year. Maybe we should all do that. It’s like trying to remember the bad parts from a night out at which one drank rather too much alcohol: the brain tries to delete the memories as some kind of primeval defence mechanism. But I’m fairly sure that a list of those Google searches would make for damning reading. Why, even yesterday I distinctly remember entering both “Thundercats + DVD” and, somewhat later in the evening, “light bondage + Frank Bough”. What does that latter pairing say about me, should it ever come out (and perhaps be forgotten that there was a news story involving the two)? And does it make it better, or worse, that it was preceded by my interest in purchasing a classic animated children's television series? Worse, I’ll wager.

More evidence, as if it’s required, that Google is a Bad Thing. Well, okay, the whole Jamie-Lynn-nude business was actually the most popular search as reported by Lalate news (“America’s fastest-growing celebrity news site!”), but I think there’s still ample cause to blame Google for everything. Man, I hate Google.


Notes:

I am aware that the plus sign does not operate in Google as an “and”, but in fact prevents the web crawl from discounting a common word following the sign. But the quotes in the main body of this post just look more fun with the plus sign. Call it artistic license if it makes you feel better. Just don’t email me to say anything about how internet searches work, because I absolutely don’t care. Wow, you internet-savvy types really make me sick. Actually, physically, sick. I’m vomiting painfully while I write this, and it’s because I’m thinking about you, you freaking technocrat.

This Blog Will Be Your Light In The Dark Places When All Other Lights Go Out, Unless One Or More Of Said Lights Is Related To Your Internet Connection

Every so often, I like to make a statement of principles: not merely about this blog (although that is of course extremely important), but in my actual real daily life.

Principles are important after all, and I have plenty of them to go around. You can borrow some if you like. Goodness knows you could benefit from having one or two of them. I have a couple of particularly useful ones that I want to hang onto, like “I really don't like you”, and “please go away”, but otherwise you can take your pick. Why not keep them for a week or two, try them out? You can borrow some deodorant too, if you want.

Now, about this statement I want to make. In many ways, it is a restatement. A clarification, one might call it. What I said in my previous post, if I may trust to my memory, was that the grand and glorious mission of the Waspinator-for-President blog is quite simply the extended production of meaningless nonsense. And nothing more. I believe I made it an election promise, and I stand by that promise. Nothing is more important to the world than this grand enterprise. In so doing, we draw attention to the fact that actually nothing on the internet is about anything at all or, rather, that everything on the internet is about nothing at all, and that on the whole it should just be switched off. And if that sounds like this blog is then really 'about' something after all, I'd like to gently remind you that it really isn't.

Anyway: I have noted, and some of you may also have noticed, that we have just headed into a New Year. Yes, I can hardly believe it either. I'm grateful for your letting me know, everywhere, that there's a brand new annum heading our way. I can hardly even get my head around the very concept of 2008, let alone grasp at what this highly different time might mean for us all. But this new year is upon us nonetheless. And it is at a time like this that people like you and me ought to sit down for a moment and just think about things. We ought to think about where we’ve been, and maybe even about where we’re going. What I’m talking about is of course the grand ceremony of New Year’s Resolutions, a list of ways in which we can better ourselves, or the lives of those around us, as we head into this brave new era. Of course, if you’re one of my North American readers, then you may be thinking “hell, I don’t need a resolution to go anywhere.” But if that's the case, then it’s almost certainly because you’ve misunderstood what I’m saying. The kind of resolution I’m talking about isn’t provided by the UN, it’s provided by your heart.

What this all boils down to, of course, is the sad admission that I have decided to come up with some solid resolutions of my own. And as I think we all know, there is no information more vital to share than a list of New Year’s resolutions. So here, for your delectation, is my own short list of personal “to dos”:

5. Never watch another Michael Bay movie. Ever.

4. Feel bad for the Bayster, agree to give him some more of my hard-earned cash in return for another explosive, high octane and possibly racist cinematic offering.

3. Come out of next Bay movie feeling dirty and used; shower; return to previous stance as noted in point 5.

2. Write some really, really good poetry. I mean, really good.

1. No, really, I’m going to write that poetry. Any day now. Maybe a novel. Or a comic – now that would be cool!

Of course, the list needs some fine tuning, and I’ll be working on it in coming weeks. In the meantime, why not contact me with your own implausible life-changing decisions? I'll be sure to value your thoughts.


Notes:

1. Chances of poetry dream coming to fruition: slim.

2. Chances of Waspinator blog ever getting around to proper discussion of Waspinator (the character from the Transformers franchise, not the miracle bug spray) any time in the near future: even slimmer.

3. Am I talking to myself here? Yes. And so are all of you. 

An(other) Introduction To Waspinator-For-President (Redux)

If you're reading this years in the future, it's most likely because you clicked the 'all about this blog' link.

This means two things: firstly, that you'd like to know more about this blog; secondly, and connectedly, that you've clearly missed the point.

Waspinator, as if you needed to be told, is a character from an animated television series (do you still have television in the future, or do you just have a continuous internet beam displayed all over your wall?) called Beast Wars, a long-defunct descendant of the Transformers franchise. The cleverly named Waspinator is a wasp, who “transforms” into a robot that looks quite like a wasp. In the series, he played the role of comically ineffectual bad guy, who gets blown to pieces a good deal more times than can be proper for the average child viewer.

As interesting a topic for discussion as all that may seem, Waspinator is not the current subject of debate on this blog. Frankly, he never will be. My current mission statement is that this space should concentrate on the production (and constant reproduction) of meaningless nonsense, paying special and particular attention to nothing much. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “but hang on, why should I read something that isn't anything much?” Your internet time would surely be better spent doing some more of that wonderful scientific research, ideally via following, poking, or virtually hugging some other scientific researchers and thereby building towards the kind of impactful connectivity rating that will win big funding for even more impactful connectivity projects. And I agree, that does sound just great.

But look, don't worry, because I often mean the opposite of what I say. So when I say, hey, this blog isn't about anything much (and it isn't), then just maybe that nothing much might also be a metaphor for something that isn't nothing much but is actually something really interesting and worthwhile (but it isn't). Warning: this kind of writing might require you to think a little. And by 'think', I don't mean the latest emote meme you place next to something online, but that you will actually have to put to use your atrophied brain. I know this will be troublesome for you, and if you get tired there's probably something nice on television (or your internet wall; either way it's unlikely to be Transformers Beast Wars, I'm afraid). Second warning: this kind of writing will become quite quickly repetitive and annoying. How quickly will it become repetitive and annoying? Quite quickly indeed.

So why not stick with Waspinator-For-President throughout whatever amount of time I can keep one very obvious joke running? It’s going to be one amazing thrill-ride of partially amusing musings, endlessly multiplied out until it ends!