Just Another Blog (R.I.P)

Question: How do you end a blog?

Answer: Like this.

The End.

Flogging my mind to death with wet straw

I played Bob at chess again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And at Smash Bros.

Damn. And. Blast.

Anyway, that was after some patient guitar mentoring courtesy of Rob. I always imagined that guitar was something you learned while on a road trip. Catching a lift across America in a cattle train, you find some long-haired drifter with a leg swinging from the open cattle-cart door and a bottle of Tennessey whiskey beside him, playing away on a grimy beaten-up guitar that's in perfect tune. Heh. If you want to ask him to teach you guitar, go to page fifty-two. If you want to shove him off the train, go to page eleven. God bless Second Person adventure stories.

I should probably co-write one of those with someone. The potential for madness is immense.

All I got was an unmade bed in Dennistoun, with a guy drinking flat cider showing the ever-ungrateful me where to grip the shaft and urging me to push down hard and strum with a regular rhythm. We made sweet music together. I could go on from there with the ennuendo of two men in a room but he'd probably stop teaching me chords. And power ballads in between his power naps.

On that note, entendre was the name of the game as I found myself stomping familiar ground with Little Ms. Riding Hood. In the children's literature class. Lots of stuff there, such as a cock-blocked wolf, the symbolic wet straw bolting a door, and the laughter of mystery man on my right, who had given me a creeped-out feeling when I first saw him come in through the door. Something about that guy...probably Norman Bates II.

Got to spend three hours with Guitar Sensei for classes today. I realise I am going backwards with events of the day. The first two hours were disastrous in Creative Writing where I managed to make the point that the message of the two stories was Fuck. I had lost my train of thought midway and swore. Said nothing for the remainder, 'cept small attempts here and there to recover lost honour. No chance. As final kick in teeth, my story got overlooked. Was promised that myself and two others would have their stories critiqued and analysed next time. Another overlooked, failed piece. Will spite them by writing 'I went to the Park. The End.' for next week; My one true masterpiece of the primary school years.

My head hurts something fierce. Probably the month-old cider me and Bob drank. Gargh. Hurts like Hell.

All in all, a good day. I had a dark Mars Bar for lunch.

Final Thought: I should stop talking.

Why WAS Kirk climbing a mountain?

Seems to be the rage, so in lieu of anything nice to say I will put up a youtube video address. My sister and I find this amusing. Challege the rock, people!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HU2ftCitvyQ

Burning the Endangered Midnight Oil

Greetings! Hellooooo! And Welcome! No point doing a blog if it's just an account of goings on. So, we shall abandon reason and delve into the macro-world of amusing dictation. Where words are used out of context purely because they sound nice.

I have been job-hunting since March now, and have been less frustrated in my efforts and more utterly ignored by the closing ranks of shopkeepers and giant retail outlets. To my shame, friends became a networked bank of coins and drinks. A frugal nature leads to dull adventures, my elite cache of readers, and so it is my intention to head-on charge the 12hr, watching the others drop-out one by one or in droves until all there's left is myself, the bottle, and Myself.

What an ungodly sight that will be.

I fear for the literary revolution and for J's next moves on the chess board of his life. So far he's playing it with a dice, not planning, not strategising, and while this life-style offers the greatest prize of all, it bears the most snakes ready to keep one playing the game, in a state of never-winning limbo, until retirement and death. Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Tibbs. Let me know when the next issue is coming out. I'll help fund it. Then we'll put a revised distribution strategy to the test. Fucking Borders. I wonder if the spas who disposed of those booklets even bothered his acne-smothered arse to read them.

Watching Withnail & I. Exemplary film set in the aftermath of the great Hippy crash of the late sixties. Fantastic music too. Look it up. The acerbic humour is great.

We all like to talk about our fears, even if it's with ourselves. Ill tell you one of mine. I'm afraid of never growing up. I'm afraid of watching everyone else move on while I try to get off the ground. But don't get me wrong. It's no-one else's responsibility but my own to haul my carcass along the Great Road. But it's never good to go it alone. Best to have back-up and the Streets of Rage policemen with the RPG's and gatling guns when facing the next level; 'Rest of My Life: Act 2. Current Score: 0000027).

The ABC recently fired some folk, presenting an employment opportunity to collect spit-infested cups and glasses swirling with the half-drunk grog of some Godless Nedite. I will, however, be passing this one by, Catherine. I value my hair and face far too much to risk meandering through the sticky crowds of the ABC's (ir)regulars with the stabby promise of fist-face retribution playing in their glazing eyes. Thank God for Free Will and full student loan & bursary benefits.

Have no fear, though. There is always the October days to secure employment. I am in no rush, now that the storm has been weathered. It'd been easier if I'd had a mast for those dilapidated months of misfortune, sure, but, as the captain of my tramp schooner soul says, 'Worse things've happened in other seas'. That's what he says. He wears a bright yellow rain-coat and chews tobacco raw.

Looking forward to the influx of First Years I am almost certain to attract the vengeance/spite of come the brand new academic year. I have a knack for making enemies at first sight. I recall the nerdy girl and her friend who came in mid-way through a year, I forget when. 'I'll do that when he says something funny,' she says, snippy. "I'll say something funny when you say something interesting,' I replied to that girl, who'd thus far sat there and said nothing. Enemies, enemies, enemies, everywhere I look. No worries. There're friends everywhere I look too, these days. And they've got my back. So I'll get their back.

Chapter One is proceeding nicely. That deadline prize of a shiny new game is in the bag. That, and I've the outcome of the Bridport to anticipate. And the Cardiff International Poetry to assault with two promising pieces still in development. I'm thinking early deployment will win the day, one day. Get the pieces in nice and early. Sod the false promises of a stepping-stone to a writing career, I'll get that on my own when I look for a publisher to take on my books, I'm just after the money and the satisfaction of finally turning professional; a title that needs earning.

Well, that's that. I'm away to study the songs of Leonard Coen and a whole bunch of Red-Neck websites that lament what they call the Lost Cause. Interesting to think that there were two Americas in 1861, isn't it?

Suit yourself. I certainly will.

Thought of Today: If the motto of the CSA was 'God will vindicate us', does that mean that, deep down, they knew that what they were fighting to maintain was wrong?

The Wily Bishop Who Looks Like Bob-Sensei

The writer's faculty met to discuss the plan for upcoming meetings and how to present our stall yesterday morning. I had to write a large part of what was said down, with times, and nary a chance for tom foolery. If only Tom were here. He makes Tom Foolery work with capital letters. God, I miss Tom.

The writer's faculty seperated after deciding that, though the Church was still available, that the lounge in the Union would be a far better candidate, containing fusball tables, shovels, lighting, leather sofas, and a Guiness helmet. There was also the big lecture hall that the Pratchett club use, like a House of Commons debating chamber.

Stalin and Jennli-puff then left, leaving myself, Andrew, and Dave. The latter had a dinner function to meet in City Hall. Probably to collect his rewards while in costume, under his alias as 'Party Khan'; the crime-fighting, move-busting, party-all-nighter hero. The former, Andy, discussed his first four chapters and prologue with me, characters and all. Every character that was described to me, I suggested that they enter buildings in some violent fashion or other, usually with obscene property damage taking place. A character with the name of Torque does not use a door code; he scoops the door out of the way. Such is the nature of his name.

Returned to Bier Hall with these two to sample the next delightful pizza on offer, a Salmon one. Verra nice. Too much sour cream sauce,but still verra nice.

Was walking home when Bob called me, so we went to his place instead to drink and play chess. I was wondering, as we went, why every encounter with Bob results in me carrying large, two-litre bottles of cheap dry cider in plain view down the street. The answer is; because I wouldn't have it any other way.

I played Robert at Chess again. It was our third game, of the last game I spectacularly managed to shoot myself in the foot by failing to capture a King that was surrounded by a bishop, queen, and horsie. Go figure.

The game started well. I trapped his queen and was ravaging the left flank with Black when the inevitable happened. My queen became distracted by a boutique window whereupon she was taken from behind by a wily bishop, bearing Bob's likeness. My king then led a valiant charge of his pawns and rooks against the White defences but fell into a hopeless situation; not even flicking the king at Rob's king in a suicide dive sufficed as it struck a pawn and rolled off the board, never to be seen again.

But it little mattered. We had bought Pina Colada mix and after realising that you have to mix it with various other elements to produce said drink, we enjoyed the creamy pineapple cocktail over the esteemed program 'Deadliest Warrior', in which there was much testosterone and cries of 'look at that budget!' whenever a splatter of blood or similar sprayed across the camera in one of it's many 'simulations'. Apache beats Gladitaor, apparently.

We took to the field of Smash Bros. where I was eager to show off my new moves. Unfortunately, Mr. Game & Watch (aka Bacon Man) was unavailable, as one of Rob's friends had deleted his save file prior declaring 'lets earn all the characters again! It'll be fun!' I imagine by the way only a handful of characters were unlocked that this friend's idea of fun had quickly soured.

We smashed our way through several bouts. Bob was still the better player but I showed a marked improvement in technique, claiming a game or two in the proceedings, coming close behind in others, and navigating the terrain in a manner now dissimilar to a blind, wingless pigeon. I tried various characters as ever, having success with Jigglypuff of all people.

Got to watching Watchmen last night, courtesy of Bob. Not a bad film. Nixon's nose was obscene.

On the writing front, things are going well. A well-timed comment from Joe and Catherine against using fourth wall has prompted a scrapping of the prologue and, in a delightfully unexpected turn of events, thus provided more material for scene no.2 of the first chapter. Self-congratulations all round. Then I start to doubt.

Bob says that I lose Chess games because I believe, implicitly, that I am going to lose, even when winning.

Well...

Generic Update #63

Ugh. This infernal blog. It's grown like a tumour in my foot, slowing me down. No matter. I am sure things will pick up here again. On that subject, I'm feeling better after another bad spell and I can resume work on the first chapter of what'll be my first book. And whether published or not, I intend to take the lessons on work ethic I recently found in a Terry Pratchett interview to heart and start work on the next one immediately after this one is finished.

I've got a target. Finish Chapter one and the short prologue before the end of September. Then give it to you guys for advice. I can't mollycoddle what I write anymore; It has to read like a finished product or there's no point. Sure, there's a dissertation to be done but I only need to show for what I've done over the holidays and that can be falsified as easy as one, two, three.

I encountered the Chuck Norris of the gaming world on GTA Online a few weeks ago. It was while pestering a group of motorheads with a moped when he appeared, careening into their sports cars with a truck. What followed was a Everybody vs Chuck Norris, in which this veritable god of gaming held off and defeated gunmen, gunships, and numerous attempts to run him down, all without being killed. Once. I kept my distance and watched in awe as this unstoppable colossus destroyed these guys, who gradually dropped out of the game in disgust with themselves one by one.

After the dust had settled, I went on to make some 'friends' in GTA-Freak 194 and Babe-666, with whom we sped up the airstrips doing trick jumps from ramps. Also managed to get involved in a race with thirteen other people in emergency vehicles, which wasn't as fun as it sounds. Between that and clearing all the trophies for Fallout 3, I have spent a largely unproductive summer, being without funds (but not for long. Not for long.)

Movie-night cuatro (?) came and went. I have now seen the original versions of what have become staples in the horror film genre, such as Hostel, Texas Massacre, and Hills have Eyes. Windows were jumped through a lot. Chainsaw mishaps common. Hostel's best moment came toward the end when the main guy burst into an occupied cubicle with a considerable amount of force, braining the occupant in the process. Otherwise shit. Also saw a number of questionable films, such as The Crow and Twilight-esque The Covenant. Much effort was spent trying to prevent myself eating my own hands. Apparently talked in my sleep. No-one will tell me what I said.

Hmm. I need a holiday.

Progress. The bar is 1% full.

I took the first tentative step toward actually writing a book yesterday.

For those of you that don't know, this is not the first time. There's a 50000 word draft sitting in pieces on my computer that marked my first foray into the world of writing, after what was supposed to keep the wolves from the door in the Writers Society turned into a feverish writing bug. I keep it there for posterity sake. And as with (most) first-time writers, it was a fantasy story that was going to rival Pratchett despite having none of the charm, poise, or intelligence of the man's books. It'll likely never see the light of day again, unless I ever have need to give someone an anyreusm.

I'm reading Christopher Brookmyre again. I was really surprised at how technically gifted he is. The man has an ability to make the ridiculous plausible and readable. His characters are real but not too real. Shame he started writing in first person and killed off his Parlabane character; that's when the sentimentality murdered him.

My back-up characters seem better than my mains. They always have a freedom that the main character can never enjoy. He's tied down by the focal point of the narrative, every move scrutinised and needing to be described. He's like a stage, on which the proper characters can play their parts and have fun doing it. That's just the way it goes, I guess. I have to get rid of this passive main character mentality. Or perhaps that would be counter-productive. I don't know but I've a feeling it's the way to go.

The path to success as a writer isn't a journey from A to B. Nope. It's more like trying to find a randomly placed oasis in a desert. You can wander forever through the burning wastes and never find it, just going round and round in circles if you're not careful. You'll see mirages as you search, that look like the goal, but turn out to be as immaterial and susbtantial as morning mist; you keep on searching.

How long before the avenue of thought I'm currently pursuing grinds to an untimely end?

I give it a month.