Stuff I’m Digging And The Hack And All That

Stuff I’m Digging And The Hack And All That

I’ve not been on here in a while. I’m not certain what counts as a legitimate ‘hack’, but some time back some jerk (YOU HEAR ME, Y’JERK? JERK SOMEPLACE ELSE, HOW ‘BOUT!) changed my email password before abusing his detective skills and making his way here to do the same before presumably getting bored (or, and this is more hopefully on my part, suffering an awful happening of some description) and giving up.

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Rambleast Reprints: Remainder, Salvaged

This is the last of old blogs I wrote on Bebo that I’ve found on my laptop (but not the last of my original original blog, which is on a hard drive somewhere and may some day be recovered). This post is a bit crap but I know Jimmy enjoyed some of the below and I hate to discard creativity, as conceited as that sounds.

1. There’s a game people used to play in which randomly selected iTunes tracks would be used to score their lives, which very occasionally (in the strictest sense of the word) would result in humour as they lied about which songs coincided with the categories listed below. I opted to tell outright lies, rather than pretending “Crazy Train” came up for ‘Mental Breakdown’ and then typing LOL.

Opening Credits:
As part of a theme in the film, the opening section of “In The Presence Of Enemies” by Dream Theater would be used, with the mid-section to be used later in the film.

Waking Up:
“Wake Up Boo!” by the Boo Radleys will initially awaken the lead, Todd, before he groans in anger (Todd hates irony) and puts on something else, probably by Cast.

First Day At School:
The mid-section of the Dream Theater song pops up here.

Falling In Love:
None of my characters fall in love, though Todd gets sex-have-y with Miss Sexy in a later scene.

Loosing Virginity:
Gotta be “Hot For Teacher” by Van Halen, the sex-est song ever written. It’d be with Miss Sexy too, the smokin’ hot PE teacher.

Fight Song:
For comic purposes, “Happy Birthday” by Stevie Wonder will underscore the fight between Todd and Chevy which disrupts Candice’s birthday shindig and also Todd’s life.

Breaking Up:
As Candice, revealed to be an extradimensional being, begins to show human emotion, the fabric of being begins to break up whilst “Crazy Horses” is played live by The Osmonds in what proves to be their and everyone’s final concert.

Prom:
Prom The Destroyer is revealed to have been posing as Principal Grotke all along, while Alice Cooper’s “No More Mr Nice Guy” wails in the background, foreground and underground.

Life:
At this stage in the picture none of the characters are alive, and Candice and Prom could be better described as existing rather than living. They listen to James Brown together in the etherealm.

Mental Breakdown:
“Feels So Good” by Chuck Mangione

Flashback:
In a flashback to before the Apocalypse scenes, Danny Elfman is revealed to have formed Oingo Boingo at Pressman High, and is shown playing “Weird Science” for the first time.

Getting Back Together:
There is no happy ending.

Wedding:
As Prom weds chaos with abject misery, Candice repents and relents, destroying him with the sheer sonic force of Steppenwolf’s “Born To Be Wild” before shitting herself out of existence.

Birth of Child:
Nope

Final Battle:
See above

Death Scene:
BORN TO BE WILD

Funeral Song:
Understandably, few mourn the passing of the omnipowerful meta-tyrant Prom, and as such no formal burial is held.

End Credits:
“Real American” by Rick Derringer.

                                                                                                     

2. What follows is a piece of prose I wrote simply to make use of some cool but ridiculous sci-fi names I concocted and which was never explained or followed up:

Finished his daily painting, W’Grarg sat up from his sunken chair and walked to the time-decayed hole in his prison wall which had of late served as a window. Outside, the offworld citadel of T’Toth Al Kra lay in ruin, all life now a memory and the scene’s once-immeasurable beauty long forgotten. The sky a curious shade of purple, day and night, was doomed to tell the story of how a hundred thousand ChemiThrone plants were obliterated in the single most devastating act of planetary terrorism since the reinstatement of the galactic Principality. For fifty-five k’thrags, W’Grarg had stayed in his domicile, somewhere to the south Al Kra’s most densely populated grave, an impersonal sanguine shell bereft of any human conceit, any sign that it was ever occupied daily scrubbed out with a maniacal precision. He was left to die here, and he would be damned if anyone who chanced upon his housing once he’d escaped figured anyone had ever lived there, nearly died there, forgotten what he looked like there, lost all hope there. With a pace almost unnoticeable in its sloth, he drew his plans for revenge.

Be back tomorrow for more real bloggage (or WILL THEY?!)

The Fuck Am I Doing?

Fuck sake. When Dr. Murty was aspiring to be a doctor Dungannon’s top doctor of medicine, did he sit around doing shit about it or did he get down the Lines and practice motherfuckin’ medicine? As a young man with dreams of (local) (semi) stardom in his some-would-say-offputtingly-interdistant eyes, did Patsy V roam the clubs watching other talents raking in rad money or did he get himself a set a decks and mix his heart out?

Here’s me, right. Writer. I. Am. Good. At. Write. And I’ve been sitting around doing so very very little of that when I could be out getting the literary crowd moving to the online blog equivalent of “Hey Baby (Uhh Ahh)” or [INSERT SECOND DR. MURTY REFERENCE].

A tube. A ganch. A gutscake. A silly person.

These are words whose meaning would, in one of those dictionaries facetious people talk about when that can’t think of their own jokes to say, be accompanied by a shot of the mug, fizzog or Pencil Case of yours truly.

I will now write about four things, one of which has already been written about (?!).

1. The previous.

2. Dieting. I am now doing this and have been for precisely 33 days. It is part of a dedicated effort on my part to be less heavy and less ‘urrrrgle’ when I wake in the mornings (which is something I like to do at least once a day). I have devised my own system not unlike that of Weight Watchers or Slimming World which costs 100% less pounds on a lifetime basis to operate and involves 100% less weekly public weighings. The system hinges on the consumption of ‘frownables’. If I imagine another me frowning as I tell him what I’ve eaten, I am less likely to eat it. There are various levels of reaction that Paulternate may exhibit:

a) The base frown. I can handle this. It is as gentle as the breeze of a passing bee.

b) The scold. Reserved for crisps and the like (of which I have consumed exactly one handful since beginning my The Odyssey).

c) It’s less a “the” type of thing and more me having to say “DMY” to him. He likes this reference to archaic teen American lingo and it smoothes the butter, so to speak.

Couple this system with actual exercise (current regimen – at least 8 miles a day of walking – by leg – incorporating 6 hills [themselves just the same three hills twice]) and you have the loss of weight. Aside from a brief Dominos blip, I have been clean living for just over a month and dropped a whole seven* dress sizes as a result. Yay clean living.

3. I have discovered an all-consuming love for trashy horror films, which I think is opening up an avenue into non-horror celluloid trash. I’ll take ’em from the 60s, 70s and 80s from England, Europe and the Americas, the nastier, terribler and funnier the better. This is something I hope to expand upon over on Four Dicks, perhaps as part of our still-gestating weekly podcast.

4. We are having something of a cat epidemic in The Willows. In addition to Willows mainstay White Cat (pictured), there have been recent sightings of a second, WHITER White Cat who operates exclusively by night and shares a rivalry, I suspect, with another recent debutante, Black Cat. What’s confusing about Black Cat is that there’s two of him. I spied him in my neighbour’s garden as I departed for my walk yesterday evening, thinking “silly cat. Karen doesn’t own you”, and upon returning discovered he had migrated to another garden, and again used my brain to think, this time mindsaying “you are shameless, Black Cat”, before indulging a cursory glimpse into Karen’s to discover… BLACK CAT! I did a genuine, not-in-a-movie-but-in-real-life double take and soon after dragged my brother outdoors to confirm that there were indeed two of the same cat occupying symmetrical Willow Drive housing positions. I don’t know these guys’ story but the one I’ve concocted is spooky and not a little sinister. I returned from Walk 1 today only to be told a THIRD Black Cat had made temporary housing in our garage while I’d been away. What’s the world coming to? Three similar cats being about the place, is what. Add to all this the machinations of Hate Dog. Hate Dog (nee Sad Dog) has, in the time I lived abroad, shed the entirety of her previous moniker-fuelling mopage and begun to bark at me from the confined of the Hughes’ garden when I walk past. All I ever wanted was to love you like your owners (now the Hughes, it seems) couldn’t, you bastard, bilious canine. Sniff.

I have now done writing and am off to do one of three things – Read Daredevil comics, start Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker or work again at getting the podcast recorded. So long, reader. I’ll see you soon.

*Estimated.

Three Points

1. I watched The Expendables last night. What a tremendous waste of time, money and least forgivably, potential. That film could have been awesome as fuck. Instead, right, it had the worst script ever (not even a decent one liner in two hours), Jet Li playing what is maybe the weirdest character ever because of either how he’s written or how Li acts, Charisma Carpenter (come on, it’s not 2003…), Stone Cold Steve Austin running away from fights, Angel from Dexter (shudder) and in general a whole lot of men scowling and looking far more serious than a project like this should have been treated with the exception of Dolph Lungdren who is totally, totally deadly in it. Shouldn’t this have been the Planet Terror of action movies? You know, a silly, knowing and ultimately affectionate rip off of a genre that’s gone stale and still has people quoting the films of its heyday? Yes? Yes. It should have. Stallone, instead, just made it into another average, average modern age actioner. It’s not without the odd thrill, but it’s not at all what any right-minded film buff would have expected. Fuck The Expendables. (Yes, I am going to see the sequel).

2. I’ve a bone to pick. See cars, right? You can’t legally drive a car until you’re qualified to do so. You need to spend a lot of money and prove that you’re able to safely operate the vehicle within the confines of the law and with the safety of others in mind. If you’re not qualified to drive a car then you don’t get to drive a car, and if you do it anyway you’re liable to end up in fucking prison.

Should be the same with dogs. Prove you’re worthy of looking after and keeping the dog. Actually have to prove it, tests and all. Leave the dog tied outside all day? License revoked. Dog left outside in the rain? 3 points, unlimited fine. Speeding? Just regular law. Badness to dogs? Punishment. Simple as that.

3. Exercise is hard yo. I ache. I love it. I love aching, I love having constant proof that I’ve done something worthwhile. But fuck if getting off this bed isn’t a bitch.

 

Man Of Words

That title is super fucking clever because, right, it refers to my general status as a trader of actual words as well as my promise (or WORD) to blog more often as soon as I finished working for O2’s bastard insurance department. I think its double entendre elevates me to some sort of Wildeian level instantly and you needn’t feel shameful about the gifts of sycophancy you now so largely wish to shower me with.

I will not bum you, though.

Read more by clicking on the more, you you.

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