What I initially said in my opening salvo within these pages about twitter was and still is partly true...
OK so I succumbed... but partly for work reasons... some agencies are on there and by following them you can keep up to date with jobs... a lot quicker and easier it must be said, than facebook if you are out and about reliant on a mobile device.
If a celebrity says something then it carries more weight than if it were the utterance of a mere mortal. Take for instance the events of yesterday (Sept 28th) - something that will have passed most people by... A somewhat well known actor and writer Simon Pegg tweeted (as I believe it is called) about his dislike for the new trend of 3D cinema - I won't go into what he said and why (you can go look that up for yourself if so inclined) however the bit that got me worried was that his comments became news on another site - who more or less copied and pasted what he had written and thus a story was born. Ultimately such dross is not going to stop the world spinning or end all the troubles across the globe, but should make people stop and think a little - once you have cast your thoughts upon the web, they are no longer yours. They are public property and can and will be used against you.
In some ways this is a good thing. News is no longer forced down the throats of the consumer. They can seek out what they want in a form of their choosing and, in cases like this, bypass the 'manipulations' of the mass media. There will always be those that believe what they are told without questioning and that is their prerogative. I'm just glad I'm not one of them.
That's it, rant over.
Move along, nothing to see here
When I decided that I was going to keep a blog and not the other way round I realised that it needed a name, to give it an identity.
I had already made up my mind that I would follow no set pattern, neither in subject matter nor in frequency – I would add things as and when either time allowed or the mood took me and thus a title presented itself. One that allows me the freedom to keep this fledgling blog untethered from anyone particular subject or category.
I had already made up my mind that I would follow no set pattern, neither in subject matter nor in frequency – I would add things as and when either time allowed or the mood took me and thus a title presented itself. One that allows me the freedom to keep this fledgling blog untethered from anyone particular subject or category.
Wednesday 29 September 2010
Friday 17 September 2010
Self expression
First off, a message to my vast army of followers. So, you are looking forward to my next post. The expectation of others is a heavy burden to bear. I mean, what if I fail to deliver and the result is disappointment (for a child to be told by a parent that they are disappointed in them cuts more deeply than all the anger in the world. Disappointment hurts) isn't it lucky that I don't care - I write this for me - for the act of writing to improve my ability to string sentences together in a mostly coherent fashion and to form some kind of narrative. Also, as at the present time my list of followers is precisely 1, it's not like I have the masses to consider, but according to the site statistics, which I think I have just about managed to decipher, there are a few more strung across the globe that have chanced upon my ramblings - please make yourself known. I won't think any the less of you.
Right then, on to the business in hand. For starters that title could probably do with some explaining. It's not about me, rather the eternally pessimistic wordsmith Will Self. OK so it's nothing more than a bad pun, but an improvement on my first thought: "I want to be Will Self". Let's get this straight from the get-go, I don't want to be him, as in to live his life and all that entails, although I would be the first to admit that it might be interesting, entertaining even, in a "Being John Malkovich" kind of way. Maybe I should have retitled this piece, I envy Will Self's writing ability, but that, let's face it is a crap title and self explanatory (pun intended - and there's more on the way) enough as not to warrant all this waffle to justify and clarify it. And besides there are more plays on his name - maybe Self Improvement would be more apt? What about Self Help? I'd better move on before I think of any more.
One evening a few weeks ago, on my way home from work, I was reading a free paper (one of many discarded by previous incumbents of that tube carriage) and having digested the article that had piqued my curiosity (namely Michael Gambon's return to the London stage following a mystery illness) I hunted around for something of sufficient length for the remainder of my journey. It was Self's visage staring forlornly up at me (he may have been smiling, but he always manages to have about him a forlorn air) that caught my eye. Any how, he has another book out, and being a writer, it's kind of what you expect of him. Now, here is a good time to point out that I had but some short while ago exited a branch of Waterstones, the possessor or the latest Terry Pratchett novel (having devoured everything he has written, apart from perhaps the odd shopping list or diary entry it seems, I have to buy them in hardback now as I can't wait till they arrive in paperback, and despite them being a pain to read on the train or bus, they do look nice on my bookshelves), so I wasn't looking for anything else to read, but Self has such a way with words (again not too high an expectation given his chosen profession) that I couldn't resist a peek at this review. I still have no idea what the book is about, nor the others of his I have read in the past but the way he, as the reviewer puts it "switch[es] from exploring the obscurest parts of the OED to wondering about "the sigmoidal flexure" of Tom Cruise's manhood" makes it hard to tear ones self away.
It was not until later in the evening when taking the dog for a walk that I wished I was endowed with his literary prowess. Only a few hundred yards from home we (the dog and I) chanced upon a fox. Not the scabby urban fox that seems to plague readers of the Daily Mail. This was a sleek and definitely most fox-like of foxes, who was not fazed by us, not even the straining, bouncing bundle of 8 month old Staff puppy, who was very pleased to see the fox and wanted to play. Fox was not so sure. Emboldened I am sure by the fact that the dog was on a lead it ventured closer. After a standoff that seemed to go on forever, but which in reality was merely a couple of seconds, I turned and headed for home, mad mutt in tow. A little further on, something, I know not what, prompted me to pause and turn round. There, sure enough about 20 paces behind, was the fox. As I turned to look it sat down and began to look nonchalantly around as if feigning innocence. On we walked. Again a little later the same routine was played out. This fox weren't no quitter, he followed at a respectful distance right up until a youngish couple coming the other way saw him. She screamed, he shouted and foxy bolted. Shame, would have liked a fox. It was then I got to thinking about how much better than I, Will Self would have described the encounter (remember that far back?) What archaic and mothballed vocabulary would he have pressed into service alongside erudite musings and profanites capable of making a squaddie blush? but then I turned the corner and was home again, I put the kettle on, and a few minutes later, tea in hand, went to sit down and picked up my most recent purchase, opened it and began to read. All thoughts of Will Self vanished as I returned happily to the Discworld once more.
The moral of this tale dear reader, if there is one (both moral and reader in this case) is that we feel that we ought to buy the high brow novel and improve ourselves, but end up with the familiar pulp fiction that we feel safe and at home with. I may yearn after the writings of Mr Self, but it was Sir Terry's book that I bought. That is not to say that Pratchett is in any way trashy, but that I know if I were to buy the other book, it would sit on the shelf for ages and when I did get round to reading it I would not enjoy it as much as the other. I read primarily for pleasure (after years in education reading all manner of stuff because I had to rather than wanted to) and while I do like to seek out new authors that will take me on journeys or literary discovery, it's like saying that you can only go on holiday to places you haven't been to before. That's plain daft.
This kind of thing or rather the reverse happens a lot. What I mean by that is that from time to time there is a book that sits atop the bestsellers list or is recommended by the well know literary scholars Madley and Finnegan, that the populous in their masses tear from the shelves of booksellers and supermarkets alike. Only to end up untouched and dusty at a car boot sale a few months later alongside numerous celebrity autobiographies.
The DaVinci code being another case in point. Without wishing to take anything away from its obvious merits, a sizeable number of its readership came to it from the cinema adaptation. Now, as a die hard Bond fan, I found at an early age that the novel and the film were two entirely different creatures. In some ways this affords you the opportunity to have your cake and eat it (ignore the mention of cake and press on) although there have been a few of the books that I would love to have been filmed as they appeared on the page, but thankfully there are several that are close enough in my opinion, if not to the text, but to the spirit of Fleming's original to placate me. On the other hand, we have Stephen King's the Shining, another favourite of mine, as is Kubric's film. Again, both very different, yet both excellent. The iconic scene where Jack Nicholson splinters the door with an axe is everything it needed to be, whereas the book has John Torrence smashing the door with a polo mallet. The description of each blow leapt off the page and has stayed with me, but it is not right for cinema (I did once catch a more recent made-for-TV adaptation which reinstated the mallet - gimme the axe any day). An author can take pages to describe something which appears on screen for mere seconds, yet there have not been many good written car chases, the only one that springs to mind is from Ian Flemming's Moonraker.
The eternal adolescent within me, has not let me forget that if I were to dislike the aforementioned Will, and embark on a rant full of scorn and disapproval, it may well have been viewed as Self abuse or perhaps I would be full of Self loathing.
If there is anyone out there reading this, I welcome your comments, feel free to criticise just so long as it is constructive.
I'm not sure where I was going with this piece, but I have ended up here. There was no purpose or agenda other than a number of thoughts were firing across my synapses and I committed them for posterity for what it is worth. I'm not sure that all of them are even fully formed or reach any kind of conclusion, but so be it.
I am now all out of ideas for the time being... I'm going back to doing what I do best - pictures... this writing malarky is not as easy as some make it look and its a long time since I last did this to any degree. Maybe one day I will write something that is fully thought out and considered, that has a beginning a middle and an end – possibly even in that order, that does not digress or wander and doesn't use ten words where one will do. Maybe, but somehow I think that day is quite a way off.
Right then, on to the business in hand. For starters that title could probably do with some explaining. It's not about me, rather the eternally pessimistic wordsmith Will Self. OK so it's nothing more than a bad pun, but an improvement on my first thought: "I want to be Will Self". Let's get this straight from the get-go, I don't want to be him, as in to live his life and all that entails, although I would be the first to admit that it might be interesting, entertaining even, in a "Being John Malkovich" kind of way. Maybe I should have retitled this piece, I envy Will Self's writing ability, but that, let's face it is a crap title and self explanatory (pun intended - and there's more on the way) enough as not to warrant all this waffle to justify and clarify it. And besides there are more plays on his name - maybe Self Improvement would be more apt? What about Self Help? I'd better move on before I think of any more.
One evening a few weeks ago, on my way home from work, I was reading a free paper (one of many discarded by previous incumbents of that tube carriage) and having digested the article that had piqued my curiosity (namely Michael Gambon's return to the London stage following a mystery illness) I hunted around for something of sufficient length for the remainder of my journey. It was Self's visage staring forlornly up at me (he may have been smiling, but he always manages to have about him a forlorn air) that caught my eye. Any how, he has another book out, and being a writer, it's kind of what you expect of him. Now, here is a good time to point out that I had but some short while ago exited a branch of Waterstones, the possessor or the latest Terry Pratchett novel (having devoured everything he has written, apart from perhaps the odd shopping list or diary entry it seems, I have to buy them in hardback now as I can't wait till they arrive in paperback, and despite them being a pain to read on the train or bus, they do look nice on my bookshelves), so I wasn't looking for anything else to read, but Self has such a way with words (again not too high an expectation given his chosen profession) that I couldn't resist a peek at this review. I still have no idea what the book is about, nor the others of his I have read in the past but the way he, as the reviewer puts it "switch[es] from exploring the obscurest parts of the OED to wondering about "the sigmoidal flexure" of Tom Cruise's manhood" makes it hard to tear ones self away.
It was not until later in the evening when taking the dog for a walk that I wished I was endowed with his literary prowess. Only a few hundred yards from home we (the dog and I) chanced upon a fox. Not the scabby urban fox that seems to plague readers of the Daily Mail. This was a sleek and definitely most fox-like of foxes, who was not fazed by us, not even the straining, bouncing bundle of 8 month old Staff puppy, who was very pleased to see the fox and wanted to play. Fox was not so sure. Emboldened I am sure by the fact that the dog was on a lead it ventured closer. After a standoff that seemed to go on forever, but which in reality was merely a couple of seconds, I turned and headed for home, mad mutt in tow. A little further on, something, I know not what, prompted me to pause and turn round. There, sure enough about 20 paces behind, was the fox. As I turned to look it sat down and began to look nonchalantly around as if feigning innocence. On we walked. Again a little later the same routine was played out. This fox weren't no quitter, he followed at a respectful distance right up until a youngish couple coming the other way saw him. She screamed, he shouted and foxy bolted. Shame, would have liked a fox. It was then I got to thinking about how much better than I, Will Self would have described the encounter (remember that far back?) What archaic and mothballed vocabulary would he have pressed into service alongside erudite musings and profanites capable of making a squaddie blush? but then I turned the corner and was home again, I put the kettle on, and a few minutes later, tea in hand, went to sit down and picked up my most recent purchase, opened it and began to read. All thoughts of Will Self vanished as I returned happily to the Discworld once more.
The moral of this tale dear reader, if there is one (both moral and reader in this case) is that we feel that we ought to buy the high brow novel and improve ourselves, but end up with the familiar pulp fiction that we feel safe and at home with. I may yearn after the writings of Mr Self, but it was Sir Terry's book that I bought. That is not to say that Pratchett is in any way trashy, but that I know if I were to buy the other book, it would sit on the shelf for ages and when I did get round to reading it I would not enjoy it as much as the other. I read primarily for pleasure (after years in education reading all manner of stuff because I had to rather than wanted to) and while I do like to seek out new authors that will take me on journeys or literary discovery, it's like saying that you can only go on holiday to places you haven't been to before. That's plain daft.
This kind of thing or rather the reverse happens a lot. What I mean by that is that from time to time there is a book that sits atop the bestsellers list or is recommended by the well know literary scholars Madley and Finnegan, that the populous in their masses tear from the shelves of booksellers and supermarkets alike. Only to end up untouched and dusty at a car boot sale a few months later alongside numerous celebrity autobiographies.
The DaVinci code being another case in point. Without wishing to take anything away from its obvious merits, a sizeable number of its readership came to it from the cinema adaptation. Now, as a die hard Bond fan, I found at an early age that the novel and the film were two entirely different creatures. In some ways this affords you the opportunity to have your cake and eat it (ignore the mention of cake and press on) although there have been a few of the books that I would love to have been filmed as they appeared on the page, but thankfully there are several that are close enough in my opinion, if not to the text, but to the spirit of Fleming's original to placate me. On the other hand, we have Stephen King's the Shining, another favourite of mine, as is Kubric's film. Again, both very different, yet both excellent. The iconic scene where Jack Nicholson splinters the door with an axe is everything it needed to be, whereas the book has John Torrence smashing the door with a polo mallet. The description of each blow leapt off the page and has stayed with me, but it is not right for cinema (I did once catch a more recent made-for-TV adaptation which reinstated the mallet - gimme the axe any day). An author can take pages to describe something which appears on screen for mere seconds, yet there have not been many good written car chases, the only one that springs to mind is from Ian Flemming's Moonraker.
The eternal adolescent within me, has not let me forget that if I were to dislike the aforementioned Will, and embark on a rant full of scorn and disapproval, it may well have been viewed as Self abuse or perhaps I would be full of Self loathing.
If there is anyone out there reading this, I welcome your comments, feel free to criticise just so long as it is constructive.
I'm not sure where I was going with this piece, but I have ended up here. There was no purpose or agenda other than a number of thoughts were firing across my synapses and I committed them for posterity for what it is worth. I'm not sure that all of them are even fully formed or reach any kind of conclusion, but so be it.
I am now all out of ideas for the time being... I'm going back to doing what I do best - pictures... this writing malarky is not as easy as some make it look and its a long time since I last did this to any degree. Maybe one day I will write something that is fully thought out and considered, that has a beginning a middle and an end – possibly even in that order, that does not digress or wander and doesn't use ten words where one will do. Maybe, but somehow I think that day is quite a way off.
Thursday 16 September 2010
On the subject of reunions
The blog of Happy Frog and I, Tales From The Lilypad has a nicely written and evocative piece about reunions. I'm not sure I can improve upon that, but that isn't the point, I merely have some additional thoughts I wish to share.
I should begin this by stating for the record that I have been to a school reunion or two. Not the organised 'American' style affair (as a fan of the film Grosse Point Blank, I value my self esteem far too much for that). There has been one such reunion to my knowledge, with tickets and the like, and it may have even taken place at the school itself, if my memory serves me correctly. No, the kind I attended was the kind held in a pub, much like the occasion of which Happy Frog and I speak about (and if you haven't read that, click here and you will be enlightened).
As if you needed telling, reunions are not always good things. Those that have done well for themselves tend to be full of it and some people at my secondary school were, and sad to say, still are terribly materialistic, as if what matters most is how much money you earn, what car you drive, where you live, the clothes you wear. Oh don't get me wrong, I was probably much like that when younger, but life's lessons have taught me that true worth lies elsewhere.
And this is not about to become a bitter tirade about all that is wrong with the world (if I started out on that one, I might never stop) but, having been made redundant and not having an obscenely paid job in the city with guaranteed bonuses several times my salary, I now freelance and while I don't do badly, if I don't work, I don't get paid. No expenses, no bonuses and no freebies over here. Is it wrong not to want to have to listen to someone that you don't really know anymore go on about how brilliant their life is? Oh don't get me wrong, my life has more ups than downs, but I don't brag about it. Of course I'd like more money, who wouldn't?, but that is not solely what drives me. I don't need to hear the woes of someone who has had to upgrade to 1st class so as to avoid a hefty excess baggage fee and then bemoans the fact that they have probably exceeded their 128 kg baggage allowance. Excuse me if my heart doesn't bleed for you, as your smile beams out at me from your Facebook profile, barely visible above all the bags and parcels from London and New York's finest stores and most exclusive boutiques all held in a perfectly manicured hand, topped off by a relatively subtle (if such a description can indeed apply to what follows) Rolex watch. Oh don't get me wrong, I am not jealous of the lady's timepiece, I have a very nice chunk of Swiss craftsmanship weighing down my left hand, but it does not look all that, I believe the term the youth of today favour is 'bling', and unless you are either into watches or James Bond, then it won't be anything of note.
How has this gone from the perils and pitfalls of reunions to my views on watches? The point I was trying to make was that while I like nice things and some of them come with a hefty price tag, I have them because I like them, not for some perceived status or what others may think of them or me for having them. If having an expensive watch or a certain kind of phone is what matters to you and that you feel it says something about you, it probably does, but what that something is is decided by others. You may be of the opinion that it portrays you as confident and successful, whereas another pair of eyes may see the same accoutrements as signs of arrogance and superficiality.
Just as I have my own tastes and likes and dislikes that are often at odds with what is deemed 'fashionable', I also have my own standards for success and failure, right and wrong etc. I therefore don't really want to give up an evening to be judged by people who I once knew more than half a lifetime away. If people haven't remained in touch then all they have is memories, and I certainly know I am not the person I was almost 20 years ago. I have had friends tell me that they are dreading a reunion because so and so will be there and they didn't get on at school. For all either of them know they might get on like a house on fire now. I have found from experience, that I have little or nothing to do with many I was closest to while at school and that is not through deliberate choice, more just a drifting apart as the years pass. Yet I have been for a drink only a couple of weeks ago with an old classmate that I barely spoke to whilst within those hallowed halls. I'm not saying we are now the best of friends or anything of the sort. We are still very different people. He was in the army, went to war and has in all probability killed for Queen and country. He now drives a tube train and runs marathons and climbs mountains in his spare time. I am the polar opposite and partake in more cerebral pastimes, yet we enjoy one another's company and find the same things funny and can sit like two grumpy old men putting the world to rights over a pint or several. I have recently got back in touch with another old school friend who it transpires lives not far from me, has a young son, is divorced and twice in the past decade has beaten cancer.
I'm not saying everyone is hedonistic and shallow, but that that is how it can seem either at reunion gatherings or on social networking sites. It is understandable that people should wish to project the best possible image of themselves. Just as when attending these events one dresses for the occasion rather than wearing what falls to hand. You want people to see you at your best. It calls to mind the words of a friend of my grandmother "I'd rather be envied than pitied"
We all have different standards, so who are we to judge others. I may not agree with the rules by which you live your life, but so long as it does not start to affect me then it is no concern of mine. Of course, human nature being what it is, comparisons will be made, one's own life, achievements, experiences and values being the yardstick.
Back to the reunion... Much as I'd like to be Martin Blank, all mystery and looking cool in black, the truth is I and no doubt many others would be cast as Paul Spericki (Jeremy Piven) "I was just trying to get a little validation for my life. I guess I came up a bit SHORT!". However I look to another cinematic outsider as something of a role model. That of Pump Up The Volume's Happy Harry Hard-on, pirate shock jock. In reality I am Mark Hunter, who despite being a geeky loner by day, is played by Christian Slater who is not what one might call a geek (at least not to his face). I am under no illusions that I am closer to his on screen persona than Slater himself, it is 'Harry's' anonymous honesty that this blog allows me to adopt. Don't fear dear reader, I am not about to unleash a stream of profanity and vulgarity (well maybe now and again), nor am I in any hurry to fall foul of the authorities for illegally broadcasting. I might rile a few people (oh I should be so lucky that anyone might even be reading this), but then any and everyone is free to exercise the only form of censorship that I endorse, that of self censorship i.e. If you don't like it, change the channel, turn the page, click the mouse or jog on.
I know I strayed from the path of reunions yet again, but hey, this is my blog and therefore my rules.
Down to business. I got my wild cherry diet Pepsi and I got my Black Jack gum here and I got that feeling, mmm yeah that familiar feeling that something rank is going down out there.
I should begin this by stating for the record that I have been to a school reunion or two. Not the organised 'American' style affair (as a fan of the film Grosse Point Blank, I value my self esteem far too much for that). There has been one such reunion to my knowledge, with tickets and the like, and it may have even taken place at the school itself, if my memory serves me correctly. No, the kind I attended was the kind held in a pub, much like the occasion of which Happy Frog and I speak about (and if you haven't read that, click here and you will be enlightened).
As if you needed telling, reunions are not always good things. Those that have done well for themselves tend to be full of it and some people at my secondary school were, and sad to say, still are terribly materialistic, as if what matters most is how much money you earn, what car you drive, where you live, the clothes you wear. Oh don't get me wrong, I was probably much like that when younger, but life's lessons have taught me that true worth lies elsewhere.
And this is not about to become a bitter tirade about all that is wrong with the world (if I started out on that one, I might never stop) but, having been made redundant and not having an obscenely paid job in the city with guaranteed bonuses several times my salary, I now freelance and while I don't do badly, if I don't work, I don't get paid. No expenses, no bonuses and no freebies over here. Is it wrong not to want to have to listen to someone that you don't really know anymore go on about how brilliant their life is? Oh don't get me wrong, my life has more ups than downs, but I don't brag about it. Of course I'd like more money, who wouldn't?, but that is not solely what drives me. I don't need to hear the woes of someone who has had to upgrade to 1st class so as to avoid a hefty excess baggage fee and then bemoans the fact that they have probably exceeded their 128 kg baggage allowance. Excuse me if my heart doesn't bleed for you, as your smile beams out at me from your Facebook profile, barely visible above all the bags and parcels from London and New York's finest stores and most exclusive boutiques all held in a perfectly manicured hand, topped off by a relatively subtle (if such a description can indeed apply to what follows) Rolex watch. Oh don't get me wrong, I am not jealous of the lady's timepiece, I have a very nice chunk of Swiss craftsmanship weighing down my left hand, but it does not look all that, I believe the term the youth of today favour is 'bling', and unless you are either into watches or James Bond, then it won't be anything of note.
How has this gone from the perils and pitfalls of reunions to my views on watches? The point I was trying to make was that while I like nice things and some of them come with a hefty price tag, I have them because I like them, not for some perceived status or what others may think of them or me for having them. If having an expensive watch or a certain kind of phone is what matters to you and that you feel it says something about you, it probably does, but what that something is is decided by others. You may be of the opinion that it portrays you as confident and successful, whereas another pair of eyes may see the same accoutrements as signs of arrogance and superficiality.
Just as I have my own tastes and likes and dislikes that are often at odds with what is deemed 'fashionable', I also have my own standards for success and failure, right and wrong etc. I therefore don't really want to give up an evening to be judged by people who I once knew more than half a lifetime away. If people haven't remained in touch then all they have is memories, and I certainly know I am not the person I was almost 20 years ago. I have had friends tell me that they are dreading a reunion because so and so will be there and they didn't get on at school. For all either of them know they might get on like a house on fire now. I have found from experience, that I have little or nothing to do with many I was closest to while at school and that is not through deliberate choice, more just a drifting apart as the years pass. Yet I have been for a drink only a couple of weeks ago with an old classmate that I barely spoke to whilst within those hallowed halls. I'm not saying we are now the best of friends or anything of the sort. We are still very different people. He was in the army, went to war and has in all probability killed for Queen and country. He now drives a tube train and runs marathons and climbs mountains in his spare time. I am the polar opposite and partake in more cerebral pastimes, yet we enjoy one another's company and find the same things funny and can sit like two grumpy old men putting the world to rights over a pint or several. I have recently got back in touch with another old school friend who it transpires lives not far from me, has a young son, is divorced and twice in the past decade has beaten cancer.
I'm not saying everyone is hedonistic and shallow, but that that is how it can seem either at reunion gatherings or on social networking sites. It is understandable that people should wish to project the best possible image of themselves. Just as when attending these events one dresses for the occasion rather than wearing what falls to hand. You want people to see you at your best. It calls to mind the words of a friend of my grandmother "I'd rather be envied than pitied"
We all have different standards, so who are we to judge others. I may not agree with the rules by which you live your life, but so long as it does not start to affect me then it is no concern of mine. Of course, human nature being what it is, comparisons will be made, one's own life, achievements, experiences and values being the yardstick.
Back to the reunion... Much as I'd like to be Martin Blank, all mystery and looking cool in black, the truth is I and no doubt many others would be cast as Paul Spericki (Jeremy Piven) "I was just trying to get a little validation for my life. I guess I came up a bit SHORT!". However I look to another cinematic outsider as something of a role model. That of Pump Up The Volume's Happy Harry Hard-on, pirate shock jock. In reality I am Mark Hunter, who despite being a geeky loner by day, is played by Christian Slater who is not what one might call a geek (at least not to his face). I am under no illusions that I am closer to his on screen persona than Slater himself, it is 'Harry's' anonymous honesty that this blog allows me to adopt. Don't fear dear reader, I am not about to unleash a stream of profanity and vulgarity (well maybe now and again), nor am I in any hurry to fall foul of the authorities for illegally broadcasting. I might rile a few people (oh I should be so lucky that anyone might even be reading this), but then any and everyone is free to exercise the only form of censorship that I endorse, that of self censorship i.e. If you don't like it, change the channel, turn the page, click the mouse or jog on.
I know I strayed from the path of reunions yet again, but hey, this is my blog and therefore my rules.
Down to business. I got my wild cherry diet Pepsi and I got my Black Jack gum here and I got that feeling, mmm yeah that familiar feeling that something rank is going down out there.
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