[insert "geek" pun here - "All Geek to Me" perhaps?] 08/05/2001
Oy, geek - yeah, you - I've got something to tell you. See this site? It was made on a Compaq. A Compaq running Windows Me. Now before you hiss and make the sign of the cross lemme explain something to you: like the vast majority of users out there, I don't actually want to use a computer. Hear me? Geeks aside, people don't want to use computers; they want to write up a CV or manage accounts or indulge their fetish for midget amputee hermaphrodite pornography - and it just so happens they're using a computer to do it.
This applies elsewhere - I have no real wish, for example, to use a toaster either - I just want toast in the morning. So what I do is I go to an appliance shop and buy something that I can bring home, take out of the box and plug in, so I can start enjoying toasty goodness straight away. What I don't do is spend weeks hunting down the best tungsten elements and thermostat components around and assemble them at home myself, nor do I worry about the need to upgrade my toaster in six months time when better elements come on the market, nor do I intend to do anything other than buy a whole new one when the current one breaks a few years down the track, or is no longer able to fulfil all my toast-related needs (if, say, I want a toaster that does muffins as well).
Right, beat that metaphor well and truly to death - are you getting my point? What I was after was a PC I could take home from the shop, unpack, plug in, switch on, and get to using, to do all manner of things (including writing what you're reading right now). And that's what I got. So don't go looking at me like a madman just 'cause I don't give a shit about upgrades and expansions and having the brightest, shiniest box on the planet. Mine's plenty shiny for me.
Disclaimer: In and of itself, there is nothing wrong with being a geek - some of my best friends etc etc. It's just when they start acting like you have no business operating a computer if you didn't build it yourself from chunks of raw silicon and write your own version of Linux to run it that I start to get irate.
If you've not done so, I recommend you read The Hippopotamus by Stephen Fry. Very well written, damn funny, and of particular appeal to me because it's all about the triumph of plain, prosaic reason over hysterical sentimentality - the sort of thinking that's easily impressed by the seven eighths of the iceberg under the water (wow, it's even big than it looks - hidden depths, ooh...) than the one eighth above, which shouldn't be there in the first place (solid water floating on liquid water?).
It's kangaroos - Science said they shouldn't be able to jump - something about the energy required to keep them bounding along being far greater than their energy intake from the food they eat. Complete arse, of course - there they go, jumping along. Ditto bumblebees - the claim that they're aerodynamically impossible has been bandied about for decades (it was on Ripley's Believe It Or Not years ago, even Doctor Who said it), and yet there they are, obstinately refusing to not generate enough lift to support their own weight.
Now there are some who'll take this as evidence that the world is a magical place that can never be fully explained by our sciences; a place in which impossibilities are commonplace. Others will take it as evidence that science is a load of arse - look at it, "proving" things impossible when any fool can see they're not only possible - and go on to tell you to embrace the magic, or kill for Jesus or whatever. But if you calm down and look at the actual facts, none of that's necessary.
See, the reason that people were lead to say the kangaroo thing was that they'd forgotten to take kangaroos' elastic leg tendons into account (which effectively store and release the energy from the first bounce) - that was just simple human error. And as far as I can discern no-one ever claimed that bumblebees can't fly. Apparently some physicist once scribbled down an equation based on a bunch of assumptions that didn't apply, and people jumped on it and turned into a bit of an urban myth. As they do.
A moral, then? Do you need one? I don't know - look for "magic" and you'll end up talking bollocks? The genuinely impressive can be found without resorting to flights of fancy? Ah, I'm bored now, I'm going to do something else.
New Years, eh? What a disappointment - where's my fucking Armageddon? No burning chariots, no rains of blood, not even a single two-headed calf born (that I'm aware of). And then there's the Y2K bug - our best chance for a secular Apocalypse, and that's a total washout, too. Now all I've got to hope for is a late action by some millennial cult, and quite frankly, if they were smart enough to organise the downfall of modern civilisation, they wouldn't have joined a cult, would they?
Honestly, you get all worked up for something and it's nothing but a big let-down. Now what am I going to do with all this radiation shielding and shotgun ammunition? Not to mention the herd of goats I invested in, banking on a post-looting barter economy...
In an unrelated turn of events (or IS it?), last night I actually managed to set fire to something while cooking dinner. Never done that before.
I feel like it's Sunday, but it's not, and not only is it not Sunday, it's not even Saturday, only it is, but Monday's a holiday, so it's basically Friday! Love that Easter.
Note for the hard of understanding: It's Saturday night. Josh has been off work for two days (due to Easter Friday), and feels as though it's the end of the "weekend", meaning he'll have to get up and go to work tomorrow (which he doesn't feel like doing). However, since it's Saturday, and since Monday is also a holiday, he actually has two more days off, which makes him feel as though it's Friday night - the start of the "weekend". Being halfway through a four-day holiday seems to be messing with him. Or perhaps it's the fact that he just saw Memento. That'd fuck anyone up...
Been sick this week - well, it's the season, innit? I had one of those colds that almost goes away, and then the little bastards regroup inside you and all the symptoms come back. But I've got them sorted now, microscopic little fuckers - I know their weakness!!
Yes, ever since the time I went to sleep one night feeling nine kinds of crappy, only to wake up in the wee hours of the morning feeling as though I'd never been sick at all, yet soaked in sweat from head to toe, I've known the way to beat a cold is with a good strong fever. Just turn up the heat on them (by way of wearing too much clothing and sleeping with your head under the blankets, no matter how uncomfortable it is) and listen to the bastards burn! I like to imagine their screams, their disbelief as their once proud armies of microbes wither and combust in the searing heat of my internal environmental warfare: "Aaaargh! All is coming to an end! The gods cast anger on us!" Damn right they do - you set up camp in my body, I'm your god, and I'm a vengeful one when I'm flu-ridden.
Such imaginings could, of course, be at least partially due to the ever-so-slightly-off-centre mental state you get along with a fever. That could explain why I suggested a friend make industrial music featuring a sample of Joan Chen saying "piggies!" (from The Hunted), and my idea for a cartoon where it's just still pictures, but you pump the audience full of LSD so they think the pictures are moving. I call it hallucinomation! Or you could do it with puppets - hallucimatronics!! You're right, probably the fever talking.
We recently got a new flatmate where I live. The selection process involved a two-minute phone call from a friend of ours, which consisted of little more than "I hear you're looking for a flatmate - can I live there?" "Yeah, OK." Now where's the fun in that? What you really want is to subject a bunch of complete strangers to an arduous and intimidating interview process. Like this one, which I present to you now in the spirit of having nothing better to write about this week:
Prospective Flatmate Interview Form (or "pfif").
Question One: Are you now or have you ever been a communist? There's no point to this question, I just think all interviews should start that way. No scoring.
Question Two: So, what do people call you?
"Well, some people call me the Space Cowboy - some people call me Maurice...", etc. 5 points.
"They call me Mellow Yellow (quite rightly)." 4 points.
"They call me MIS-ter Tibbs!" 3 points.
"Well, you see those buildings? I designed and built all of them, but do they call me Jim the Architect? No. And see that bridge? I designed and oversaw the construction of that bridge, but do they call me the Jim the Engineer? No. And I donate tens of thousands of dollars to charities every year, but do they call me Jim the Philanthropist? No. But fuck one goat..." 2 points. 4 points if you hadn't actually heard that joke before.
Their actual name. 1 point for honesty.
Question Three: What's your favourite Star Wars film?
Star Wars - Goes for cheesy sentimentalism, and what's wrong with that? 4 points. 2 points off for pedantry if they insist on calling it "A New Hope".
Empire Strikes Back - Goes for mature plot and intelligent character development. Possible wanker. 5 points.
Return of the Jedi - Two possibilities: They like to perv at Princess Leia in the slave outfit (we've all been there - 3 points); they like the Ewoks (oh deary deary me - no points). Further questioning may be required to determine which applies.
The Phantom Menace - Shoot them in the face. Now. Do it now!
Question Four: Who's the black private dick that's a sex machine with all the chicks? 5 points if they give the correct reply of "Shaft!" (Don't forget that in this case you are legally required to respond "you daaamn right!")
Question Five: Why are we here? No really, man, what's all about? Like, reeeaally? Presenting a comprehensive and consistent philosophical theory encompassing matters of ethics, metaphysics, ontology and epistemology, which at no point regresses into relativistic sophistry or solipsisistic redundancy gets 'em 5 points. Otherwise they're shit outta luck.
At this point the interview should degenerate into a morass of meaningless but revealing-sounding personality quiz bollocks. "Beavis or Butthead?", "Buzz or Woody?", "John, Paul, George or Ringo?", "who do you think would win in a fight between Jackie Chan and Jet Li?", "if you could be a well-known species of intestinal parasite, what would you be?" - that sort of shite.
The content of the questions doesn't matter - all that's important is that they think their position in your flat hinges on every answer. I recommend lots of pointed muttering of "ooh dear" and "iiinteresting", followed by even more pointed muttering if they change their mind straight away. That sort of thing. After that, rate how much fun you're having messing with them on a scale from one and ten - that can be the score for this bit.
And finally, total up:
If they answered mostly As: The perfect flatmate! They'll be paying all your rent, doing the dishes every night and dispensing sexual favours (theirs and other people's) left, right and centre within minutes of moving in, you mark my words.
If they answered mostly Bs: Yeah, they'll do. Unless you can find someone who answers mostly As - hoo boy, will you be in for some fun! Yes indeedy - get me summa that! And so on.
If they answered mostly Cs: What a twat. Probably smokes crack and tortures kittens. Makes me sick - why I oughtta...
If they answered mostly "Yes": OK now I'm overdoing it. Flat with people you know, stupid. No need for arse like this then, is there?
For me it'd have to be The Pirate of Men's Pants - the world needs more pirate porn. I can see it now - hornpipes and wocka wocka guitars, plenty of jolly rogerings, a pun or two about someone splicing someone else's mainbrace, and a decent number of good old-fashioned pirate orgasms: "Arr! Arr! Arr! AAARRRRR!!!" Magic.
Yes, I do think too much sometimes.
Disclaimer: "The Pirate of Men's Pants" as a penis euphemism I got from Roger's Profanisaurus. I'm afraid that's a level of comedic smut I can only wistfully aspire to.
They finally cornered me in the in the toiletries aisle, next to the razor blades and women's deodorant. By that time I was swearing loudly in a poorly-affected Belfast accent and flailing about me with the three foot hanbo I'd stolen from my flatmate's bedroom after he forgot to take it to his Ninjitsu class, and which I now carried on me in case of just such an eventuality.
I had been forced to resort to this, after my previous efforts of grabbing staff and fellow shoppers by their upper garments and screaming "just tell me where the FUCKING Raro is, Christ damn you!" elicited little more than whimpered prayers and involuntary bowel movements. More extreme measures were clearly required.
Even backed up against the two-in-one shampoo/conditioners, I was still able to keep them at bay with Gaelic invective and wild swings of the hanbo, until the manager showed up. A half-bright prolapse of a man (who I now suspect had always wanted to vent the frustrations of his suicide-inducing existence on a convenient madman, and who, failing to find one up until now, had been using a combination of mild stimulants pumped through the air conditioning and an aisle layout devised by Turkish prison wardens to artificially generate one), he was nevertheless on to it enough to see the funny side of a skinny hippy with a stick yelling "away wi' yez or it's me boot in the arse for the lot've yez - an' that's double fer you, yeh manky shite, yeh!", and, thus enlightened, proceeded to lead the beatings.
Finally pacified by blunt trauma and haltingly proffered Vitafresh, I made my way to the checkout and paid without further incident. I'll be back next Saturday.
Josh's Guide to Effective Trans-Atlantic Profanity. 23/03/2001
They swear differently on different sides of the Atlantic, you know, and you'll not hear me complaining - that just means there's more for we Antipodeans in the middle (and down the bottom) to absorb and use as our own. Still, when you get seemingly conflicting versions of the same item of profanity, it can be a bit tricky to decide which to go for. Let's see if I can clear the air a little...
Arse vs. Ass
Now this probably isn't a problem for Americans or Brits, they just use one or the other, but the linguistic situation in New Zealand (where we're coming from a British-based accent but becomingly increasingly influenced by the American) often has a body confused as to which one should be used. In spoken language there's no real problem - like most Kiwis I pronounce both "ahhss", but which to use when writing? A person needs to think about these things. Here's how I do it:
Rule 1: By default, use "arse", especially when it's by itself - it just looks better. Say "arsehole", not "asshole".
Rule 2: Use "ass" in American expressions - "kick ass!", "this kicks/sucks ass", etc.
Rule 3: Use "arse" in British ones - "a load of arse", "bugger off or I'll stick me boot up yer arse", etc.
Rule 4: For borderline cases e.g. "kiss my ass/arse", go with the default: "arse".
Rule 5: When quoting an American or someone British (that's English, Scottish or Irish, by the way), use the one they used.
Simple, isn't it?
Shit vs. Shite
Now this is a bit more involved. The American side of things can be dealt with easily enough - it's "shit". Always. Ditto any time the word is used in conjunction with an animal: "bullshit", "horseshit", "dogshit", etc. Always.
The introduction of "shite", however, tends to muddy the waters somewhat (innuendo intended). Like "arse", I tend to use this one as the default for aesthetic reasons, but it's more complicated than just a choice of pronunciation and spelling. If you've seen Jimmy Nail shouting "Ah, shit n' shite!" in Spender, you'll know that both words are used in Britain, and the conditions for their usage are a little unclear, even to myself.
Basically, it seems to be a mood thing - if you want to be blunt or crass or, well, American-sounding, go for "shit", to be a bit more forceful, or sophisticated, use "shite". Now don't quote me on this, but "shit" seems to be used more when we're talking about yer actual excrement (or in contexts like "you look like shit", "your boat's fulla shit" (ta, Dennis), etc.), whereas "shite"'s more a term of abuse to be applied to an actual person ("you stupid shite", and so on). To sum up:
Rule 1: When in doubt, "shite".
Rule 2: When quoting Americans, "shit".
Rule 3: When animals are involved, "shit".
Rule 4: When you feel like it, whichever you feel like.
Sorry I couldn't be more definite there, if anyone has a better idea, by all means contact me through the usual channels.
Oh, and once saw a person spell it "shyte" - as persuasive an argument for the reintroduction of capital punishment as any I've seen...
Twat (rhymes with what) vs. twat (rhymes with hat)
Easy, this one: Twat-rhymes-with-what = vulgar term for the female genitals; twat-rhymes-with-hat = general term of abuse on a par with "prick" or "wanker" - "piss off, you dopey twat" and so on. All there is to it.
And finally...
What's with this "fucken" word I'm seeing all over the place these days? There's no "fucken", it's not a different word; it's "fuckin'" - "fucking" without the "g"! Obviously, as the creator of Mr. Fuckin' Stupid I'm a little prejudiced, but still, you don't say "I was walken down the street, thinken about nothen in particular, and I kept seeen all these guys who were looken at me funny..." and so on, do you? DO YOU?!
So stop it.
Of course, as a self-confessed Linguistics hippy, I am compelled to point out that language change is an unpredictable and unpreventable natural process, and any claim that language is somehow "wrong" will invariably turn out to be incoherent. Doesn't mean it's not fucking stupid, though.
Today I saw a man walking along the street with two bicycles. Obviously he was taking them somewhere for whatever reason, and it made me think: if he'd just had one, he could've ridden it to wherever he was taking it, but having two, he couldn't ride either. Each one was no longer an option due to the other.
Godammit, that's gotta be a metaphor for something.
