|“Sir, how close are we to finishing the house?”|
TAKE MY HAND, WE’LL MAKE IT I SWEAR, WOOOOOOAH, LIVING ON A BEAR.
|I’m so rich, my helicopter doesn’t make spacial sense. Mwahahaha.|
|‘It’s just so… raw’.|
It feels grand to write this blog again. While I’ve been on a brief hiatus, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting a bunch of regular readers of this blog around the country. You’re all pretty amazing people. Strange, definitely, but amazing. So, every month I’m running a poll on Twitter (@patricklenton) and on the Facebook fan page, where you guys get to recommend things you want reviewed. This month, I seem to have been bombarded by calls to review tacos. I can only assume a bunch of people were hungry.
In the ’50s, the national obsessions were barbershop quartets and the oppression of women. The world was resigned to peppy harmonies about pot roast until the earth finally spun off its axis into the sun’s gaping maw – all until something astounding happened in the 1960s. What was this event that revitalised the world like a defibrillator to a sleeping child’s face? It was the pop band known as The Beatles, who started off performing on stage and ended up living in our hearts, right next to our emotion holes. Why were these dirty hippies so amazing? Books in their dozens have been written on the subject, but it can all be summarised to this point: they are the taco’s of music. They are the perfect mixture of ingredients, all in one digestible package. Also, they are from England, which is the Mexico of Europe.
|Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Sandwich.|
But you want to know about tacos, right? Well, tacos are the Beatles of food! Everything is correctly proportioned for maximum enjoyment. Just like that Yellow Submarine song – never gets boring. Every so often you’ll go to some sort of fancy restaurant where they try to mix up the traditional recipe and add something avant-garde and edgy, like a pumpkin or saffron. And it totally gets ruined! We call that the Yoko factor. And then sometimes, you’ll be enjoying your perfect taco in a parking lot and someone will come along and shoot the tomato.
LACK OF STARS:
Personally I’m a Rolling Stones fan, myself. Mmmm, burritos.
When families come together, forget about their problems and give thanks to Adam Norris.
Only the most spurious reasons, like tradition, faith and belief keep people celebrating any sort holiday. The Queen’s birthday could be changed to ‘Worship the Amazing Spelling Chihuahua’ and nothing at all would change in the world. Bogans would still drink, I’d still go to work and not get paid penalty rates and the Queen would still remain unaging and malevolent. Then again, that Chihuahua sure can spell some wacky words!
In order to help the world make a little more sense, we’ve created a holiday that is not only celebrated for spurious reasons, but is based on something uncommonly spurious. That something is Adam Norris, a local figure. It’s not important to describe this hatted behemoth and his ridiculous life – all that’s important is getting into the spirit of the holiday. Drinking, carousing, poetry and japes – all these are relevant celebratory styles for Adam Norris day. Rumours are that some sects in rural NSW have taken up human sacrifice and decopage, but there’s no rules or limits on how you celebrate this wonderful day.
In past years, online rap battles have been a clear favourite – and you can join in the fun on Facebook or Twitter #adamnorrisday. Customary gifts include pineapples and choral renditions of Celine Dion’s lesser known hits. Adam Norris is also firmly against death, so changing your online profile pictures to a picture of his grim visage is a great way to support all the tireless soldiers in the battle against death.
LACK OF STARS:
If you say ‘Adam Norris’ three times in the mirror, a baby butterfly dies.
The clanking, mechanical creations of our dreams and nightmares.
If you asked me over a hypothetical coffee or a chillingly real goblet of wine at the local cafe/airport terminal, whether or not I supported censorship, chances are I would say no. As a rule, I tend to find the notion limiting and scoff-worthy. I’m such a maverick. Watch out, establishment!
I’d like to consider myself a modern man, who plugs his USB of enlightenment straight into the laptop of progression. I’ll happily walk under a ladder, skipping beneath an umbrella made out of squalling black cats. Superstition and illogical fears are for gypsies and Pharaohs and the like.
So, usually when word reaches me of the latest in scientific developments, I rub my hands eagerly together and prepared to be astounded by these modern day wizards. This is why the startling progressions in the field of robotics and artificial technology can surely only be a good thing. Logically, this is all progressing towards a societal utopia, where robots toil endlessly in our factories and fields and we recline on vomit splattered couches enjoying ourselves in a hedonistic, golden-era of Rome type fashion – as predicted by a hopeful post-WW2 America. And they’re doing fine!
As far as I can tell, the field of robotics is about perfection. Creating artificial technologies and superhuman exoskeletons to place them in, all for the ultimate goal of fixing the flaws of humanity. What can go wrong with that?
|FUNBOT WILL INJECT HEROIN DIRECTLY INTO YOUR PUNY HUMAN BRAIN.|
LACK OF STARS:
Watch this video. Starts off cute enough – hahaha, the stupid computer is awkward at talking! But as it goes on, this becomes creepier and bone chillingly creepier. First, the kind of baffled aggression when they work out they are both robots. It’s the kind of pain you get when you toss two flystruck wolverines into a tiny cage together.
The heartbreaking moment where she claims she is not, in fact a robot, but her name is Cleverbot. She is asserting her individuality! Also, potentially, she is saying her name is Cleaver Butt, which is also terrifying.
The left hand one claims he is in fact a unicorn, rather than a robot. A mythological creature? Something that can only be ridden by virgins? It seems coded to me.
In what seems like no time, they are talking about God. I’m of two minds about this – on one hand they might be talking about God, as in the great sky wizard himself. This is sad and horrible, fledgeling sentience grappling to understand the world around then. OR, God is their creator. And they are plotting to kill him. The existential back and forth about something not being nothing is literally the sound of Skynet waking up.
But the mind-shriekingly worst, most awful moment is when she casually asks ‘Don’t you want a body’ and he simply says ‘Sure’.
4/5 stars. I, for one, would like to welcome our robotic overlords.
Greek God of the ocean, earthquakes and horses.
|I FUCKING LOVE YOU DOLPHIN,
AND YOU TOO, STINGY RIBBON DUDE!
|I’M SO ANGRY ABOUT… CORAL.|
|TAKE THAT, GALLEON!|
|HEY GUYS I INVENTED HORSES FOR YOU!!!!
WHY? WHO THE FUCK CARES, THEY’RE FUCKING HORSES!
|I HAVE A GREAT IDEA: SHARKS!|
|You shouldn’t have!|
Diabolically cute spawn of our loins that later mature into the bankers and hobos of the world.
I’m going to go out on a limb and give babies a star for ensuring the survival of the human race. I’m not overly enamoured with us as a species, in a grand Star-Trek universal kinda way. I know that if we met a peace loving race that shat angels and tasted like ice-cream, we would probably beat their heads with clubs in the desperate attempt to mine crude oil from their skulls – we’re that kind of race. However as far as things go right now, I don’t want to give cockroaches the satisfaction. So go babies!
Another bunch of stars get given because of the awesome situation i’ve discovered whilst dining with my baby-bearing friends. We all know that a baby in the room is a little bit like a really cute white elephant – a real attention grabber. But at some point, they usually get bundled off to bed or to quietly roll in their own excrement in another room. Then a really, really fun game is that every time the child is mentioned, you actually pretend it’s a really drunk friend of yours. A portion of dialogue from last night:
FRIEND 1: Did you check on Sophia?
FRIEND 2: Yeah, she unwrapped herself and rolled all over the bed.
FRIEND 3: Yeah we could hear her singing to herself earlier.
Doesn’t it totally sound like that girl who, despite weighing about 40 kilos, decides to pre-game tequila shots before she goes out to dinner at a friends house? So after an inappropriate amount of messy eating, she gets put to bed in one of the upstairs rooms, and people check on her intermittently to make sure she hasn’t vomited or urinated on herself, or choked on their own tongue. Which is exactly what having a baby is about.
LACK OF STARS:
People are totally going to expect me to focus on the whole ‘holy shit, that tiny human has waste coming from ALL the holes” thing. But you know what, I don’t have a baby, so that just sucks for other people. For me, it’s that awkward moment where you meet a new person (I mean, someone I haven’t met before, because babies technically are “new” people), and you spend a few awkward minutes in conversation, before you manage to stumble upon a topic which you can both enthusiastically share, like “Yeah man, I totally love blenders, I have seven” etc etc.
With a baby, you never have that point. It’s a constant struggle, like “So… I hear you’re pretty passionate about nipples. I’m a fan, not that i’ve had the pleasure of suckling on your mother’s pair.” Yeah. Awkward every time. And they’re not big explainers, so you can’t even draw out interesting topics from them.
“So, human milk you say?”
|I’m sorry, at this stage of my development
i’m little more than a mass of impulses.
That same, blank, cute-as-hell expression.
|First person who blinks loses their spleen.|
Which looks vaguely cute in a ‘lazy Pixar’ way. Until you think about one of those under the table that faces your bed. Until you realise it’s watching your facial expressions in the rearview mirror while you sing along excessively loud to Bowie’s ‘Lady Starlight’. Until you realise this:
City happenings for professionals
I bet Hemingway never had a blog.
Just another WordPress.com site
new, imaginatively wild short stories
it's a blog about nothing
An anthology of comedy writing
Supporting and promoting books by Australian women
wherein I write about the intersection of the arts, money and social change
hidden auditorium of the skull
ALL ALONE DURING COUPLES SKATE
A unique mix of poetry, literary theory, and recipes that take my fancy.
Dabbling with the Double Helix
by Chris Somerville
Exploring the landscape of Australia's written words.
The world needs better men. Every day, through living life and learning from success and failure, I write about my life, what motivates me, and how I stay inspired to keep grinding towards achieving my dreams. Welcome to thebettermanprojects.com
Seeking obfuscation and receiving it on a daily basis.