Hello, I Am Noam Chomsky

Boring stuff I know, but I have started a new musical project. As is customary, I’ve set up a MySpace profile before deeming to create any music.

I have named the project after my second-favourite linguistic example sentence – after this one.

Colorless green ideas sleep furiously

So, if you are on the sinister myspace (I think this is about my five milllionth attempt at a myspace page). I’ll be adding music soon.

In the meantime, lose yourself in generative grammars.

Queer (Blogging Experiment #4)

Post dedicated to she-who-is-riddled-with-filth, MJ.

The first time I listened to She Don’t Use Jelly by The Flaming Lips, I immediately tried to eat Vaseline on toast. Just to see what it was like. It wasn’t very tasty.

But as to what I attempted to do the first time I read the Naked Lunch…

well…

well…

well…

The rest is silence.

I Love Your Wide Eyes, The Way You Smile, Your Shyness, And The Way You Laugh At My Jokes

Saying goodbye to your significant other at a train station is an activity frought with danger and complications. Therefore I have produced a brief guide to make those heart-rending goodbyes run that little bit more smoothly.

The first complication you will no doubt encounter is the problem of finding a parking space. Most train station do not have a great deal of parking, and parking directly in front of the station is frowned upon as you will get in the way of taxi drivers, who are not known for their patience (and frankly, I don’t blame them)

Assuming you manage to locate a suitable parking space, or you use some form of public transport to get to the station, the next problem you will face is the ticket barriers.

These have been installed at many stations in order to minimise ticket fraud. Statistics as to how far this as reduced fraud are not available, but they do pleasantly swing open as you put your ticket in.

In this situation the traditional platform farewell isn’t available, so I would suggest either moving to a slightly smaller town and using the station there.

Or just do your farewell in the station foyer. Just don’t get in the way of anyone in a hurry. This may cause them to tut a bit.

Assuming you don’t live in a large town and you manage to get onto the platform you have completed stage one.

There are many ways to occupy yourself on the platform while you are waiting for the train.

I’ve long been a fan of slightly awkward drinking of coffee, but you may be more into ostentatious public displays of affection. Either is acceptable, but don’t go further than you feel comfortable this may cause an outbreak of self-consciousness.

Once the train arrives, if you are one of those organised people, you will already be standing lined up for the door of the train. If you are extra-organised then you’ve probably pre-booked seats. If you are super-organised you will have pre-booked seats and you will be lined up for the door of the carriage where your seats are.

Once on the train and you have taken your seat, check the platform for the non-travelling partner. Their facial expression should run through the following stages: anxious searching and then followed with a sad smile.

Mouthing something through the window is usually a good idea although be careful what you say “I love you” is probably good, but “I left the gas on” or “I have your house-key” is probably less clever.

Running alongside the train as it sets off isn’t usually a good idea, but take into account what shoes you’re wearing.

Falling over is never dignified.

Things I Forgot To Mention As I Lay Dying In Your Arms Nos. 17-23 (Blogging Experiment #3)

17. Get out! I haven’t said enough yet!

18. I’ve just realised how awful this wallpaper is.

19. Adieu, mes amis, Je vais à la gloire!

20. και συ τεκνον?

21. Don’t you dare ask God to help me…

22. I’m bored*.

23. I love you – keep the lasagne flying.**

* Though not the Chairman of the Bored.

** see also here.

I Was Raised By Goats

I woke this morning thinking about the nanny state and so spent ages scanning the internet for a story about a goat being banned from somewhere so I could use the “nanny state” joke and the post title above.

But all I could find was this story.

So much for that plan

(The Blogging Experiment will be back tomorrow, I was too tired last night. I think it is MJ’s turn next)

I Was Gavin Esler’s Fluffer (Blogging Experiment #2)

Post dedicated to Tim Footman by whom the title was suggested.

Of course it was hard not to get drunk on the power. I don’t think I can really be blamed for that. We’ve all been there… having everything we ever wanted thrown at us, and more. Who can blame us for making the most of it, trying it on?

After all, so many doors were opened for me. I had a tab going at the Hat & Feathers – the whole works, pickled eggs, pints of lager and lime, house wine.

People used to cross the street when they saw me coming. Onto my side of the road, don’t you know? Sylvia Young wasn’t a patch on this place.

Jon Snow cut me up at the traffic lights on my first week. I knew it was him as I saw the stripy socks disappearing into the distance. My friends from back home couldn’t believe it, and all the other stories I told them. Belle de Jour holding a taxi door open for me, and such like.

And the people were actually listening to some of my ideas, as soon as I’d managed to tone down my voice to acceptable levels. It was me that recommended Martha you know. Before she disappeared to the land of Radio 4.

Jeremy was so different to how he comes across in the programme. He used to tell me, there’s a part of me that sneers all the time and when I’m on the TV or complaining about underpants I just go to that place.

Of course the adulation couldn’t last and it was in the wake of John Peel’s death that I suggested getting in that “bloke from Manchester, you know, the one from that band he likes.”

We all know how THAT turned out.

Down With The Kids (Blogging Experiment #1)

Post dedicated to Rosie, from whom the title is taken. Even though the post has nothing to do with her and comprises of my usual meanderings.

I’ve never ever been down with the kids. Even when I was a kid I wasn’t down with kids.

I wasn’t an outcast or anything quite so melodramatic. Just slightly different. I had glasses for a time and got confused about football.

Once I was accosted in the playground by someone who demanded to know what football team I supported. Luckily, thanks to my ability to remember useless information I was able to go through a list of minor teams before he got irritated and demanded to know what team in Division One I supported.

It got different when I hit those teenage years.

It didn’t help that I had unkempt hair. It was never long hair but for some reason everybody just assumed it was and reacted accordingly.

In the south-west of England there is a peculiar epitath, “jitter” (I don’t really agree with the definitions listed in that link by the way) and on the odd occassion people dressed in sportswear used to shout it at me.  Small towns are like that.

Also I sometimes used to hang out with the smokers at the end of the school field even though I wasn’t a smoker (coffee is better than cigarattes – hell, twirling my hair round my finger gives me more pleasure than smoking although I do like the smell of kreteks and some pipe tobacco). Once I was stood there, most likely listening to Pavement on my knackered no-brand Walkman with red headphone lead when someone ran up to us looking rather unhappy.

Kurt Cobain has shot himself, they said.

Really? someone replied. What year was he in?

(Actually that didn’t happen, I nicked it off the Sopranos, not the TV show but the book. Someone did run over and tell me in exactly those circumstances but there wasn’t such an entertaining reply worse luck. Still it could have happened.)

Later on yearwise myself and a group of friends befriended some people from Portishead and went to a RAWK* night at a sticky-floored venue known as the Bierkeller.

The people in front of me in the queue were stopped by the bouncer: Erm, he said. You do know what kind of music they play here don’t you? They didn’t realise and sloped off.

I was disappointed he didn’t say that to me. I mean do I look like a rocker. I probably looked more like the classic Belgian (checked shirt, brown shoes) crossed with an off-duty stockbroker (horrible cords). On crack, natch.

Heavens above, I thought. Maybe I am one of these “jitters” I’ve been hearing so much about.

I didn’t like the music there much although they did play the Pixies.

I am un chein andalusia!

* the only legitimate spelling in my humble opinion. Although it should have around 5 exclaimation marks for the full effect.

Bloody Motherfucking Asshole

M*A*S*H-starring, One Man Guy mucho sardonic singer-songwriter Loudon Wainwright III once claimed it took him less time to compose his bluegrass novelty number Dead Skunk then it took to play it.

A claim echoed by Marc Bolan for the John’s Children single Desdemona.

For a long time I wondered how this would be physically possible.  But I assure you it is, having once composed an ode to the joys of canned “all-day breakfasts” in around 30 seconds flat. And it sounded like it, bearing as much resemblance to a classic song as the cans of breakfast do to food.

But would it be possible to write a blog post in less time than it takes to read it? Possibly, if the person reading is a particularly slow reader I suppose, but not very likely.

But never mind, you see I’ve been most remiss with my blogging recently. I’ve hardly done any, and when I have they’ve been short blog posts. I have a plan to make me do more, and it goes a little something like this.

1. Every day until further notice or until my brain explodes I will write one blog post.
2. The title of the blog post will come from a list of titles.
3. I will sit down, type the title in the relevant box, and follow up with a stream of words inspired by the title.
4. I will stop when I can’t think of anything more on the topic, or when Neighbours starts, or when my pizza finishes cooking or when I need the loo, or when I stub my toe, or when I get invited to the pub, or when my fingers hurt.

Join in with my stupid waste of time, sorry, brilliant way of revitalising my blogging “mojo” by suggesting titles of blog posts in the comments.

Right, I’ve got some hoovering to do.

Only Women Bleed

Of a quiet evening, I like nothing better than leafing through a study of menstruation. The Wise Wound to be exact. Apparently it’s one of Linder’s favourite reads and it’s very interesting, although I would have titled it The Blob.

Which is why I’ll never be asked to write a book about menstruation.

One of the chapters is dedicated to an interpretation of The Exorcist as a allegory for menstruation and adolescence. I’ve actually heard this metaphor before and in fact a lot of horror films can be seen in terms of sexuality and the like. About two days after someone said this to me I watched the Evil Dead which I saw in a whole new light!

With this interpretation the author state the following:

A friend of ours, who is a Greek Cypriot, took his mother on her first visit to Britain to see The Exorcist. He hoped to shock her, but she was completely unmoved. She said she couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about, since little girls growing up in Cyprus were always like that!

Brilliant.

Anyway, that’s by the by as the other day I was on the tube and a gaggle of teenage girls got on at Oxford Circus. But even though I was reading a book and had earphones on I could tell a gaggle of teenage girls had got on. Because they have a distinctive smell.

I don’t know what this smell is. The teenage boy equivalent I know well, it’s Reebok and Lynx and damp towels and asthma inhalers. But what do teenage girls smell of?

And I don’t mean it in a pervy way, so there.

Quit While You’re Ahead

A short while ago, someone wearing a hat did a blog on the Guardian webpage espousing the fact that bands should split up sooner.

Instead of hanging around to go mouldy, more bands should bow out in a blaze of glory

The article itself is fairly silly, but the author makes a good point. Don’t continue to do something… quit while you’re at the top of your game!

The problem is, that when you are on the top of your game, quitting is the last thing on your mind. You think this wonderful thing can last forever, but you know deep down that it can’t so you keep going on until you sink into mediocrity.  I’ve often considered jacking in this blog and starting again, but the problem is that I don’t feel like I’ve ever got started yet. I’m not at the top of my game yet.

In any discussion of “quitting while you’re ahead” Arthur Rimbaud has to be mentioned. Quit writing poems, at 21, got shot in the wrist, lived in Ethopia and died at 37. Apart from the being shot and the dying at 37, I can live with that.

Much worse than bands daring to release more than one album though, is sequels.

Is there ever a sequel that was worth existing?