Random Opinion on the World, the Universe, and etc

The Essence of Online Madness

2008-12-10T21:44:00.004Z

"If music be the food of love, play on..."

I am mad. Completely and utterly mad. In fact, if it were the 16th century, I would probably be in the bottom of some small basement cell in a monastary on some two acre small island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

But it's not. Today is the age of the uber-cool virtual world, where anything you say will be broadcast to the entire world, or at least, those with internet connexions, or even, those who aren't blocked by such governments and authorities that filter out words like fuck, arse, cunt and girls.

Yes, and in this uber-cool virtual world of today, I don't go to a monastary, I don't turn to religion, I don't turn to doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, brain surgeons, idiots or imbeciles. Instead, I turn to the incredibly powerful therapy of the internet to vent my complex and often strange emotions and fits.

Frenzied searches in the past led me to writing programs, pornography, YouTube, Gutenburg, more pornography, political forums threads, flame wars, the IMDb forums, more flame wars, dating websites, chatting to 67 year old men in those dating websites resulting in an incredibly hilarious log of the conversation involving sticky keyboards, rulers, floppy disks and the odd hard drive cumming all over the place, Nation States, Conservapedia, the Westboro Baptist Church, President Bush, Presidents of the World, Presidents of the Internet, BBC News and the Wikipedia.

My latest frenzied search for mental release has resulted in a site which has popped up on the grid for me before, but this time, I actually tried it out, to see what it's like. I liked it, so I downloaded the client and I happen to be using it right now.

Last.fm is an incredible resource for writers. And I consider myself a writer of sorts. Random, lyricless music helps me to write - and I've found a radio station which suits me perfectly - 'ost'. I have to skip through Marilyn Manson every so often, admittedly, however, it tends to be more than satisfactory, catering for me music which doesn't feature in my collection however does give me some good writing momentum.

The quote which opened this post is the very first line from a play called "Twelfth Night" by a reasonably famous playwright name William Shakespeare (Shakeshafte?). I love this line in a way, because although it mentions one emotion, it encompasses all that is amazing about music - it's the gateway to emotions. Many has been the time when the music more than the soppy montage in a chick flick has made shed a tear or two. Music tends to hit a certain part of the brain where emotion is confined; it breaks open the cell door that confines them and let them do what they should never be allowed to do - run riot.

Or maybe, should emotions be allowed to run riot? A moral dilemma, I would have to say. If you let all you emotions run absolute riot, you would have the most loving, caring, sympathetic, psychopathic mass murderers on this planet. Talk about creepy.

Anyhow, that's enough of my riotous madness. I'm listening to 'Jack Sparrow' by Hans Zimmer, I have to do a college assignment and until next time, good night and good luck.

Back on the train ride into the tropics

2008-09-23T16:28:00.004+01:00

Well... I haven't ventured onto this for a while. What did I tell you? I'm useless at keeping these things up to date.

Anyway, a lot has happened to me in these months, as should anybody have, unless their lives are entirely devoid of any meaningful productivity.

I got drunk, several times. It was good fun. Incredibly good fun in fact - I'd highly recommend it. Meaningful experiences and meaningless relationships are often the products of becoming intolerably drunk, but with such blurred vision, it's okay until you wake up beside a face that could make the mirror crack.

I sat some ridiculously long and tedious exams which turned out to mean absolutely nothing other than I have a qualification which won't get me a job because we're facing a recession and employers are scabby pricks who don't live up to their name and employ people. Rather, they work in their establishment and hoard all the earnings for themselves, leaving youngish students like myself devoid of work and more likely to engage in what the psychiatrists of today call the cure for extreme boredom and what policemen call a breach of the peace. Luckily, although I haven't got a job, my extremist moral background refuses to allow me to become a common thief, so instead, I lie around, bored and penniless.

I procured myself a place in college doing a course in Audio Visual Media production and it's going reasonably well, considering it's only my second week in. I've played with cameras, endured the pain of watching two of Scorseses first shorts - one, which had the interesting characteristic of having a story and the other which was fifteen minutes of mind numbing torture.

Recently, it has been my habit to visit a place called the cinema far more often, and I actually have a few reasonably recent films about which I am able to talk about.

Pineapple Express is the new baby of producer Judd Apatow and writer/actor Seth Rogan. I found Superbad tolerably super and not at all too bad, but my opinion of the lowly 40 Year Old Virgin caused me to have little respect for Judd Apatow, who managed to get me to laugh once throughout that film.

However, Pineapple Express is different. It's better than 40 Year Old Virgin (what wouldn't be) and funnier than Superbad (quite a feat). I enjoyed it thoroughly. James Franco has finally proven to mainstream audiences that, yes, he doesn't just go around with a business card with actor written on it. Seth Rogan has proved, once again, that being funny is more than relying on your fellow co-stars to be and basking in their brilliance (take that, Steve Carell). The film started well and got better, the black comedy got funnier and the performances became fatter and even more exhaustingly hilarious. Packed full of in- and out-house jokes, the film promises to give you a comedy/action filled ride. Turn off your think tank, sit back and enjoy.

The controversial comedy of the year is certainly equal to Pineapple Express and may well exceed it in laughs and quality. However, it certainly has a trailer which couldn't possibly live up to its name. Welcome to Tropic Thunder - the blockbusting, controversial comedy of the year. Forget South Park, this has brought at least three 'minority' groups out with protest signs - blacks, 'intellectually challenged' people (handicaps) and quite possibly method actors or fat people.

This film is a work of comic genius and the writer was Ben Stiller. His satire on the Oscars, Sean Penn, crap television, rap artists, black people, method actors, Australians, Platoon, handicaps, Asians, drug lords, martial arts, British directors, American producers, the government, America - pretty much everything to do with Hollywood, is damn hilarious. You may only get a quarter of the jokes, if you're lucky you'll get half of them. If you're just really sad and looked up all the jokes before watching the film, you'll probably get them all, but maybe not, because you might be just slow.

Robert Downey Jr. delivers some incredible lines and although Jack Black is possibly the biggest waste of space in cinema (I am of the belief that his performance was a satire of himself) he doesn't do too badly. Watch out for the many cameos in this film. If you're really good, you might spot the mystery cameo. If you don't, or just to confirm it, sit through until the cast list comes up at least. Your eyes might just pop out of your head (go to an ear hospital if this happens, the eye hospital was useless, they just gave me glasses).

I would highly recommend seeing both films.

On a more serious note, I watched an obscure British film called 'Boy A' today. If you liked the recent 'Somerstown', 'This Is England', and the less recent 'Kes', I would highly recommend looking for it. It's an excellently crafted film which forces you to think in a non philisophical or bullshit "deep" way. It just makes you think about stuff. No wine and cheese attached.

This is the end of my post I think as I cannot think of anything more to say. I may post my recent short story here soon if I feel like it. It was quite a nice one.

Other than that, I think I'll end with my favourite Wilde quote (as only sharp wit may be quoted):

All art is quite useless.

Random Thoughts, Exams, Billy Joel, and the next idiot president...

2008-02-06T00:58:00.000Z

We Didn't Start the Fire - Billy Joel

I am going to make an attempt in this blog, for the very first time to not talk about film. So, here goes.

All through the last two weeks I've been doing exams. Before you start fretting over the apparent suicidal stress I'm under, pray, relax. I'm not. I ate the Little Book of Calm a while ago, and am, as a result the epitome of calm. Ain't that wonderful (I'm already referencing!).

Now, these exams I'm doing are wonderful. They're known colloquially as The Mocks. And it's true. They are the mocking exams. They are the trial exams, if you will, for the exams that actually count and make any difference to my life at all, if any. And, like any self-proclaimed genius, I'm naturally doing dreadfully in these exams. Of course, if you took into account I haven't studied a jot since I was an eager first year, six years ago, then, I'm doing pretty damn well.

In any case, all I have left to do is History. A subject I happen to be relatively good in, plus the fact that I'm learning more History everyday through my interest in British history (not on the course, naturally) and more subjectively, I'm writing my latest film script on a historical event I first learned anything real about in History class. Thank God though, that European Dictatorships are on the course. My unnatural interest (I'm taking pills) of the history of the Nzi party (I misspelled so not to attract hate and love posts), and it's leaders have always fascinated me. I've always found especially the personality of the reviled leader interesting, from his strange sexual habits (golden shower) to his forward thinking anti-smoking campaigns.

Away from him however, I was tremendously disappointed in my performance in the old Maths and French Exams. Economics was pretty bad too. English, I hope, will be my forte. It had better be. Music was good considering my knowledge of the course was minimal. Irish, I happen to be fluent in, so, that shouldn't be too bad, other than a few grammar and spelling mistakes (I'm an oral fluent). So, why do I tell the internet about my thoughts on the Mocks? I don't know.

But I will award myself by going to see two films (oops!) on Saturday. I will see Juno, and I will see Sweeney Todd. I hope they're good. If they're not, I will be utterly furious and throw a post-exams tantrum. Not really though.

You know, if you ever listen to Billy Joel's lyrics, they are pretty depressing? I just stuck on an album here, and although they're reasonably good songs, they are pretty sad. The piano man is a manic depressant.

Talking about mental diseases, my shrink (yes, I have one) told me I have mild OCD (that's Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). I don't believe him though. Damn that pen! It never lines up with my ruler! Damn it! It has to be perfect!

Anyway, what was I talking about? Ah yes, OCD. It's a relatively common ailment, and almost everyone thinks they have it. And, 90% of people do have it, because everyone else is just lazy or stupid. Then again, 95% of statistics are made up. With an imagination like mine, I should be a statistician. Then again three quarters of the world's sea life live in a quarter of the world's oceans. We'd better start populating.

Sorry, I'm looking at the Encyclopaedia Britannica to find something else to talk about. 'DAMASCU TO EDUC', or 'LIBI TO MARY'? Neither I think.

Oh yes, Super Tuesday. The Americans are voting for their next idiot president. Let's hope their IQ reaches the dizzying heights of Mr. Bush's. Otherwise, we could be looking at the finale scene of Dr. Strangelove. If you haven't seen it, watch it.

So ends my post. I think. It was an excitingly pushy ride. And I hope it made you smile. Aptly though, I finish on a high point:

Captain Jack - Billy Joel

Old Men, Middle-aged senators, and westerns

2008-01-14T14:57:00.000Z

Are you looking for the ultimate propaganda piece of the year? Look no further!

Charlie Wilson's War is the American propaganda film this year. There's nothing like one of those star-studded films with uplifting music, glorifying American ideals and traditions. Except, this is ironic.

Phillip Seymour Hoffman is incredibly good in this film, and deserves whatever awards are thrown at him. Dare I say, he's better in this film than as Truman Capote?

Anyway, as I said, this film is incredibly ironic. It's about the true story 'struggle' of Charlie Wilson's to defend America from Communism by covertly providing arms and training to the Afghan resistance during the Cold War in 1980.

Throughout the stereotypical evil Russian dialogue, and the victoriously righteous montages of American-trained Afghan soldiers, blowing the Russians out of the air, one cannot help but laugh. This film is glorifying the incidents which were indirectly responsible for the lead up to the 9/11 attacks on American soil.

It's ironic, and very strange that this topic should be chosen for glorifying the American causes and ideals. And the weak postscript which tries to make out that the Americans wouldn't have been attacked if they had spent a million dollars on schooling the Afghans just doesn't work. And it kind've makes you laugh even more, when it comes to it.

It's a good, funny film, with excellent acting performances, and I have to say I'm glad I saw it, so that I could ridicule it's message somewhat.

Polarised, then, there was the No Country for Old Men. The film was dictated by silence. The Coen's ever faithful crediting of Carter Burwell as their 'Music by' credit, was no doubt a funny one in this film.

The Coens have a talent for black humour, and in a film with such a bleak outlook, it's amazing how many comedic references they managed to put in. The evil character of Chigurh was chilling and darkly comic. I have great respect for the Coens for being able to make a dark, serious first confrontation between the protagonist and the antagonist so funny.

What blew me away, was Kelly McDonald's performance as Carla Jean Moss. This Scottish actor has a talent for accents, and she excels in her chemistry with Llewellyn Moss (Josh Brolin). She really works well with her dialogue and her material, and gives a lovely feeling into whichever scene she is in.

The lack of music makes the tension in this film hang on a thread. It's full of conflict and is simply fantastically acted, directed, and scripted. I make this my favourite for the Oscars (if they ever happen) this year.

The Bus Journey

2007-11-17T20:20:00.000Z

Look good in Leather - Cody Chestnut

You've been on a bus. So have I. I take the bus rather regularly. However, the bizarre occurrences which took place on the bus on which I travelled today positively disturbed me into thinking that I might just not be alone in being the only insane person in this world.

I get onto one of those lovely double decker buses. If you've never been on one, I'd recommend it. The top deck seems to always have seats, and, as one person pointed out today, it has an emergency exit which can be opened easily via the handle. This emergency exit is followed by a ten foot drop. Not exactly my dish of the day.

Anyway, on with the story. I get on the bus, and as usual, I go upstairs. There were very few people on the top deck today. In fact, I could probably count them all with my fingers, if I had three hands. I sat down, and was immediately struck with a strangely annoying chirping sound. I presumed it was a baby, as it was coming from the vicinity of two girls.

Upon further inspection (out of the corner of my eye), it wasn't a baby, especially with the frequency and strangeness of the noise, but it was coming from the two girls. One girl was talking quite normally to the other girl, and after the first girl asked a question, there was a chirping reply. Oh, maybe the other girl had a speech disablement that for some strange reason meant that she could only communicate through chirps. Under this assumption, I cast a glance over the top deck.

In front of me, there were the majority of the population of the top deck. They consisted of a number of untalketive, and straight backed people, who were obviously embarrassed by the chirping sound emanating from the girl, and an old man, who was half asleep and didn't seem to have even heard the chirping noise.

Behind me, that population of the top deck was a mere three. A mother, and two sons, probably about 9 and 13. The mother was sitting calmly and quietly. And the two sons? The windows were fogged up, so, what were they doing? They were scribbling the words "Shut Up" with an arrow pointing at the chirper on every available fogged up window behind the two girls.

Then, one of the boys walks determinedly to the front of the top deck, and where there's the front fogged up windscreen, for all to see, he writes in huge writing "POO" on the glass. No reaction from the zombie straight backed audience. I just burst out laughing. Still no reaction to the laughing maniac who was laughing at the word "Poo" on a window.

Slowly, the bus emptied. Finally, it was just me, and the two girls. Obviously, the chirper wasn't really disabled, as they were having a perfectly intelligible conversation. Evidently, the chirper had had some sort of device in her mouth (which was now removed) which caused the bird-like sound.

The fun wasn't over. The girls were ignoring me (because they don't know me, obviously), and deep in a conversation. I was slightly annoyed because the chirper had deprived me of much needed public transport sleep. So, I started whistling jazz, loudly. Then, after receiving no reaction, I started cursing (mildly) in a talketive voice, as if I were talking to myself. Then I received a break in conversation and a stare. Excellent. I had annoyed them.

I left the bus shortly after, thanking the bus driver, and stepping out to the cold, wet winter of Ireland. Undoubtedly the strangest bus journey I have ever taken a part in. If you ever visit Ireland, go to Dublin, and use the 11 bus route. You might meet a couple of zombie like characters, chirping girls, window graffitiing boys, and a stranger who curses out loud to himself, but don't worry, it's perfectly normal. And thank the bus driver when you have finished your journey - they're nice guys.

Going Home - Dire Straits (kind've approriate, don't you think?)

The play, the players, and the films.

2007-11-10T18:38:00.000Z

I've realised the absolute necessity to proofread everything you write.

In my first post to this blog, I wrote some quite unintelligible English, and more indecipherable French. And the Spelling Checker is not AI, so I would have had trouble proofreading it. That said, I do not see any point in writing short posts. They are uninteresting, and quite short. And as every woman knows, good things come in large packages to those who wait.

So, I plan that from now on, my posts won't be quite so indecipherable, but just as random.

I did promise to my readers that I might write a review on the play I attended yesterday, and I was thinking of breaking that promise, seeing as nobody reads the Ramblings of the Random Opinion. But, I'm bored, and therefore, I might just keep that promise in this post.

I went to see a production of Philadelphia, Here I come. An Irish play, by an Irish person, and therefore, a complete genius. I'm serious, an Irishman can write anything, and be hailed as a genius around the globe. Look at James Joyce. Pure drivel, yet, pure, genuine, sterling genius.

Philadelphia is a play which every person interested in people, drama, acting, or reading should read, and watch.

The protagonist of the play is Gar. Or rather, the protagonists of the play are Gar. Gar Public, and Gar Private, nicely truncated to Public, and Private. Public is the outside character of Gar, the person with whom everybody interacts, sees, and hears. Gar Private is the real Gar, the one he wants to be, the cheeky, smart, emotive character of Gar. The one who, if exposed, Gar would be facing a couple of slaps, and a couple of well hot women.

It is Gar's last day in Ballybeg, Ireland. The next day, he's going to catch the plane to Philadelphia, America. He'll work in a Hotel, and he's never going to be coming back home, unless, of course, he becomes rich and famous, and somehow manages to find the time in his lifestyle to visit his quagmire of a village.

Fortunately, very few people seem to care if Gar goes or not. His Father is seemingly indifferent, his former Girlfriend is married, and seems like a nice girl, his friends don't seem to give a shit, and his housekeeper will miss him, but she puts a mask on to conceal the fact that she's going to miss him.

Throughout the development of the play, we find out that everyone in this town are undeveloped slobs. Isn't that wonderful? All the characters seem to have their own Private which isn't even allowed speak because they are drowned in their own perceived inadequacies. It's kind've sad, yet at the same time good that everybody living in the town are all underdeveloped swine. I think it's a good thing, then nobody is regarded as to being in anyway more special than anybody else.

So, the play, it was well acted. Private was a rather enjoyable character, and very well acted. Public who could be regarded as the secondary protagonist was acted just as well, if not better. Public is a very hard type of role to play, and it was portrayed well in this version. Of the other actors, I would have said that the one that played SB, the father, was the best. It was very excellently played by whoever it was that played it. He gave an excellent portrayal of the character, and it worked quite well.

I have to say that, I very much enjoyed the production altogether.

And so, in the last few words I have to say, I shall talk about other things. How about film? I like film, my non-existent readers like film, so I'll talk, about film.

Winter approaches. And although the WGA strikes have darkened the sky, there are films produced to be released into the Cinemas in the Winter film season of the year. So, what am I looking forward to most?

Well, Mr Magorium's Wonder Emporium is coming out, but I doubt I will pay to watch Dustin Hoffman blither on screen, and Natalie Portman (however much I might like her) smile continuously for 90 odd minutes.

No Country for Old Men. Unfortunately, I haven't seen this film yet. It's out, but I have yet to see it. As it is directed by the Brothers Coen - the greatest geniuses behind Modern Cinema, I will most certainly invest into seeing this film.

Fred Claus... Em, no. I invest in the Silver screen. I am not a millionaire, and it in not in my interests to spend money on a film at which I can laugh at home. I might actually rent this one. The trailer is well crafted.

War Dance. A Documentary. And I am very tempted to watch it.

American Gangster. Ridley Scott, Denzel Washington, Russel Crowe. There are already three good reasons to watch this film. Does one want any more?

Saw IV. Absolutely not.

Gone Baby Gone. The controversy of the Madeline case, paired with this film, and the unforgettable trailer makes me yearn to see that day this comes out where I live.

I'm Not There. This film looks interesting, however, it does not appeal to me so much as I would invest in a cinema ticket to watch it.

Alvin and the Chipmunks. I may watch this in the cinema for reminiscing sakes. I remember their songs, and they were hilarious.

And finally:

Teeth. I will be seeing this film in the cinema. It looks God damned hilarious.

And so, (finally) I end this post.

And so, the Writer's Strike rant...

2007-11-08T18:58:00.000Z

Currently, I'm listening to The Nosebleed Section, by the Hilltop Hoods.

I would like to congratulate the oldest blogger in the world, who is 95 years of age. Nice ripe age.

Tomorrow, I'll be going to see a production of Philadelphia, Here I Come, and I have to say, I'm rather excited. I might give a review of it here if I feel like it.

However, today, I wish to talk about the issue which is on every film lovers lips this week. The WGA writers strike. For those of you who don't know, WGA stands for the Writer's Guild of America. It is the union of writers.

Basically, writers get a raw deal. Some people seem to think that anybody involved in the film industry has a solid gold house, and a rocket car. No one does. A small percentage even has a Ferrari. Why? Because it's a normal job. It has hours, and wages.

Only the most ignorant of people think that the cameraman for the Dolly shot in Die Another Day is a millionaire. He's a normal, average, reasonably paid guy, who probably has a wife and kids. I didn't look him up. But that's my portrait of him.

The average writer's pretty much the same. They have to pay the mortgage, stretch their lump payments over months, maybe even years, before they make another break.

Most people go to work, 9 to 5, return home, cuddle their wife/husband, tell their kids to do their homework, go to bed, have sex, pay the bills, pay the mortgage, and work, nine to five, and get paid $25,000 a year.

Writers stay at home (sometimes), cuddle their wife/husband unless there's a bit of tension, tell their kids to do their homework, go to bed (or not), have sex (if they have time), pay the bills (if they have the money), pay the mortgage (or dream about doing so), and work, three hours some days, 24 the next, everyday, of every week, of every year. They can get paid between $0 and $200,000 a year.

In a good year, a writer might sell about four spec scripts. At a minimum price of $4,000, that's $16,000 from that. So, you might ask, how the hell can they pay the mortgage, bills, sends the kids to school, and give the partner the pleasures of the bedside?

Royalties. It's a wonderful word. It sounds so... Royal. Rich. Doesn't it? Not really. 4¢. That is the figure. As a writer of a film, you get four cents for every single DVD that is bought of your film. It's coming up to Christmas, so not a great time to be spouting statistics. Let's go with Gladiator. The film's been out for a few years, it was pretty huge, and the Units sold 23,851 approx. in the week starting October 7th. At four cents per DVD, that's $954.04. That's pretty damn good, don't you think? That's their mortgage paid. No bother. If that's what they get every month, they should be happy. Great.

But, they won't get even four cents for every single download of the Gladiator film from the Internet. What does that mean? It means that because of the digital age and everybody downloading films off the Internet, then, when they do pay for them, there isn't going to be any $900. Gone. All they'll get is a credit on the film.

So, basically, the evil movie moguls are going to cut out the writers, and grub at all the profits themselves. What they are too stupid to realise however, is that writers write films.

Writers provide coherence, style, language, humour, and structure to a film or series. Without them, we'd have Big Brother on TV all day segmented by ads for dating agencies.

Writers should be provided with the respect that they deserve, they should be driving petrol guzzling Rolls Royces. They should be sucking down pina coladas as they crouch over their typewriter. They should be accompanied by at least three paid muses and one real one. Paparazzi should be shot on sight, and they should have chauffeurs. They shouldn't have a mortgage, their bills ought to be paid by an undersecretary, they should have medical attention at the Mayo Clinic, and their condoms diamond studded.

And all they want is an extra four cents.

To conclude, I provide a link to a YouTube video (because I don't like embedding), and I wish to inform you that I'm now listening to 'Dude (looks like a lady)'.

http://ie.youtube.com/watch?v=oJ55Ir2jCxk

This Weekend...

2007-10-29T18:06:00.001Z

Wow.

I sit in front of my computer for the first time since Friday. That's two days. Call me a nerd, but computers are my drug.

I have however, found a new drug. It's called partying for two days straight. I thought I might write it down, because I really never want to forget it really. Consider that I'm crazy, but now ridiculously active at parties unless I'm drunk.

Friday:

Halloween Parties are the best. You dress up as Michael Jackson, get hammered, and win a shot for runner up best costume. The person who won was a bird who dressed up as a cheerleader, kind've expected that a girl with legs that good would win. I can hardly do the moonwalk when drunk. But, hey. T'was good fun.

Saturday:

This was meant to start off as a day where I got up from my friend's couch, had a shower, went into town, and met the girl of my dreams, and then went back home at about 7 or 8 cause she was going to an 18th.

It didn't.

I got up from my friend's couch, had a shower, went to town, met the girl of my dreams. But then it stopped. Why? Because I'm crazy when I have an unlimited travel ticket which'll bring me anywhere in this incredible city where homophobic drunks, flamboyant gays, and religious priests live in harmony. And let's not forget the Hari Krishna. They are sooo cool.

So, I went to the 18th. But in complete and utter style. I was the strange random stranger which noone actually knew. So, we formulated a plan. I was to be the guy to introduce the stripper, and then gatecrash the party. Great fun. So I did.

I gatecrashed another party.

So while I'm at this 18th, I realise I'm like one of only like, four guys at the whole party. The rest were female. So, they don't drink much do they? Now, the party, like any good Irish party, was well stocked with alcohol. So, seeing these three guys and me, the mother comes up to us and goes: "There's a few crates of everything in the back garden. Drink".

I took these words to heart. And I got blissfully drunk. That's always a good thing. Funny, but my mixing of beer, cider, and spirits didn't really have any affect on my health. Hopefully it won't for another twenty odd years or so anyway. It got me drunk though.

I realised that after six hours of straight drinking, that I had to get the last bus out of this place, and get back to my hometown which was the other side of this glorious city. So, I went to the bus stop.
Three buses passed me by. Granted, the first two had lovely big "Out of Service" signs on them. So I wasn't really to angry with those ones. Then I got really pissed. The 31 bus passes me, and I wave my phone light at him, he flashes his lights as if life is great, and passes me out. Bastard. I love him though.

The girl of my dreams texts me (let's call her Lou, as in Mary-Lou, cause I like keeping the characters of my stories anonymous). "You get the bus?", and I'm like, "No". So, I'm invited to get picked up by her brother, and stay over at her house. That's fine, I'm like "Cool". I'm waiting around for about half an hour, I'm a patient guy. But after having a drunken conversation with a guy coming back from work, I get a little bit worried. So I check my phone. Shit! I ran out of battery! Life is so shit.

I'm there standing in the middle of nowhere, being passed out by sneaky busdrivers, and taxi's I can't afford, all on my own. BOLLICKS! I shouted for about twenty seconds. Then I was embarrassed. Why? Because her brother was on the other side of the road, asking me if I was Lou's friend. That was embarrassing. But I was too drunk to go red.

Happy ending eh? Not quite yet.

So, I arrive at Lou's house. And there we are in the Kitchen discussing what to do. She's like due to leave for the airport for to go to Berlin at half-four. So, there we are, thinking. It's too short a time to sleep. So, let's go outside. It's ten past one in the morning, and we go for a walk. It was so nice.

Funny thing is, we realised that we didn't just have three hours. We had four. Why? The clocks changed that night, giving us an extra hour. It's like a weird sort of fate that I just loved. I savoured every moment. Then she left for Berlin.

So, I wake up next morning in Lou's house. I get on the bus home. It was a great night, a brilliant night, a fantastic night. I want it embedded in my memory forever. It's random enough to be a dream, but it's true. That is, if life's not a dream, it's true. It was great. I love life. I love fate.

I love that chap who thought of changing time because it would save electricity during the war, therefore it would save money, and I would have that extra hour with Lou.

And so I will always be reminded of it, I document it here, so that it may never be edited.

And so the remnants of alcohol leave my system, and I am sober again. I listen to Badly Drawn Boy, and it keeps me sane. I'm crazy, weird, and psychopathic. But I'm also human. And I think that's why God loves me so much.

Delicatessen

2007-09-24T22:00:00.000+01:00

(1991) Starring a load of random French actors.

The French have an amazing ability to make the most unusual things in this world: Facsimiles, The Eiffel Tower, Accents, Bread, Cheese, Cars, and Film.
Facsimiles: That was just random. Invented before the telephone.
The Eiffel Tower: My god.
Accents: Noone even wants to know where that came from. Though they produce hot females.
Bread: Too long to cook in a conventional oven. It's like they're trying to compensate for something.
Cheese: Mmmm.... Brie, Rochefort...
Cars: Ranault, Citroen, The Donkey Cart.
Film:

A mind blowing story. So fictional it's unbelievably true (not really, some people do believe that though). This film is a work of systematic French Art. It's random. What on earth is with the story? It's madness. It's never going to happen. People eating people? Come on. But the French make it seem so normal in a way others just can't make a post apocalyptic world look like (see my future rant on the crapness of Children of Men).

Where do they come up with these ideas? Why is it that the French are the people to come up with everything original in the Film industry? And if they don't come up with it, they make it better. Examples of these points include Delicatessen, Amelie, and Les Choristes, and their unlimited amount of so-called "French films" that exhibit an 'unhealthy' (for former day feminists that is) proportions of the female body, ie. Erotica.

The films make you stop and think. Is there a God? Cause if there is, the world wouldn't be so unfair. My god. Like, how many people notice that the French have everything, and I, on the other hand, have nothing (except this shitty Weblog on a shitty server). It's sickening.

How is it, that every woman in the world seems to fancy butt ugly French men? I can see the logic in every straight guy digging for the hot chicks, but that's from 'a chauvinistic male egotistical point of veiw'. But they're hot, right?
And there is something about their accents that just turn any real man on. You could go on an erection just listening to them. Maybe that's why they rejected me for Sex Talk operator (I don't have a French accent).

No country in the world quite gets the French. Like, who would? Can you imagine a metric week? Okay, I say the decimal in money is grand, but the working week? How can you get away with it? Let's decimalise the second, minute, hour, and day next. Then it really will be weird.

The French know how to make comfort food. They understand the requirement of a little bit of fat in everybody's lifestyle. Don't you notice, all these size zero bitches are all sad, depressed losers? Then you look at the fat French person, and see then gulping down red wine, and guzzling full fat cheeses, and you realise that you only live once, no matter what the Buddhists tell you.

Now. To the film. It was good. It was brilliant. In fact, I should be speaking in present tense, because the film hasn't been banned in any country I live in yet. It was a breath of fresh air.

Imagine sitting in a stone cold, concrete walled cell, with no door and no windows. Then imagine some ridiculously foul smelling and toxic gas entering the chamber by an unknown means, suffucating you. You struggle, bahs your hard head against the wall, and finally break a hole in the wall. Now, breath out all those toxic fumes, then breath in the cool, sweet clear rose scented air. That's the feeling I had after watching this film (metaphorically speaking, of course). After Hollywood thrash (notably Children of Men, on which I will rant... I promise....) it opened my eyes. I was told that there was hope still in the world.

I am now convinced that cinema can be used to make good films. Volountarily, of course. Not because of a cleaver wielding madman laughing manically behind me.