While I do occasionally write in my own blog, I seldom ever get the chance to read other people's. Most of my time is spent undertaking two activities; reading and writing. Right now I am reading the hundred or so in-game stories from The Elder Scrolls series, excited as I am about TES: Skyrim coming out at the end of the year. I made a point of comparing how excited I was with how I would react if Jesus' second coming occurred on 11/11/11, and decided that I would probably hang around at the Second Coming for a few hours before running off to find a copy of Skyrim to play for the next day while civilisation dissolved around me.
So between that and a J. Lennon biography, I'm booked up on the reading side.
Writing, is more complicated. While there are a limited amount of books in the world, there are limitless possibilities for topics and story ideas. After being incorrectly informed that 'jazz' was an onomatopoeia (I spelled it RIGHT!) in the early 20th century, I attempted to make a 'jazz' noise for several minutes and found it to be impossible. Keyboards click, strings twang, drums 'doof' and saxophones 'blah'.
Resorting to Wikipedia, the font of human knowledge, I found that no identifiable etymology exists. Jazz is just jazz until someone invents time travel.
THAT got me thinking about all the things I'd do with a time machine, in numerical order (because chronological order would be way too confusing) and it had me writing for a full day, which when all is said and done will amount to very little because I plan to find a way to stop aging sometime around 2300 AD.
I've also been writing a story about a man who travels through a series of paintings and ends up witnessing the murder of a high priest in an inquisitorial regime which hunts magickers. Wow. Most people will probably understand that synopsis. There's a first.
Erm, where was I? I think the point I was trying to make is that amidst all this AND the terra-forming of a new continent I've actually taken the time to read another blog. You know what? It's nothing like this one!
For one thing, people actually read it and leave little comments every now and then. It has regular posts, jokes, insight into the life of the writer and it's Hilarious with a capital 'haitch'. There are pictures, videos, diagrams and doodads -- and I swear it's given me a case of severe blog envy.
Now I've never considered myself the funniest person. Funny people tend to be popular, and as I am not, I fall into the 'tragically serious' category. Sarcasm and pranks are lost on me as I tend to take things literally and end up feeling hurt or worried about the outcome of the events surrounding the joke. I am, in addition, wildly inappropriate. I once compared refusing prisoners their right to anti-retroviral drugs with death camps during the holocaust - which in and of itself may have passed, if I hadn't been standing in a room full of Jewish students at King David's High School.
Needless to say, aside from these grave matters of personality are the memories that caused them. I have very few amusing anecdotes from my childhood, and was just short of being followed around everywhere by a string quartet waiting excitedly to eulogise the next tragedy that befell me.
In the face of my comic dejection, and thus, social alienation, I used not other than Wikipedia, from which the inner light of the universe shines, to define 'Humour'. Aside from several interesting comments on Greek fluid philosophies I found this:
"Rowan Atkinson explains in his lecture in the documentary "Funny Business"[14] that an object or a person can become funny in three different ways. They are:
I thought to myself, "...Thats perfect I like R.A hes funny that mr bean stuff all makes sense now... but hang on a sec I AM funny nobody else would think of bringing toast to an open band session or showing up at a club with a copy of War & Peace or feel so out of place on Earth that they have declared a long standing war against gravity..."
So finally, after spending my whole life as a reject loser outcast I found out the reason I had done so: I'm just too God damned hilarious. By being the only one to take life 100% seriously I have become the quintessential abstract.
Think about it. If most people spend their time goofing off by behaving in an unusual way at an unusual place while wearing really tight clothes, then the UNUSUAL behaviour becomes USUAL behaviour for everyone but the slim few serious people who can't get a joke. It's Paulo Coelho's "Veronika Decides to Die" all over again. If madness rules the planet, the mad are sane and the sane are declared mad.
Simply by being my sad and dejected self I am in fact the definition of funny. Oh yes.
The question of what to do with this awesome responsibility is answered by public demand: I am to debase myself for the masses, taking a feather or twelve out of the communal hat and doing something a bit more... bloggy. I'll still have long rants about the structure of the universe and creation and stuff like that, but I'll also include a touch of personal experience in the mix to make you feel welcome on my site. You are. Just keep your coffee mug far away from the keyboard.
Oh, and the blog I'm reading is http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com.
So between that and a J. Lennon biography, I'm booked up on the reading side.
Writing, is more complicated. While there are a limited amount of books in the world, there are limitless possibilities for topics and story ideas. After being incorrectly informed that 'jazz' was an onomatopoeia (I spelled it RIGHT!) in the early 20th century, I attempted to make a 'jazz' noise for several minutes and found it to be impossible. Keyboards click, strings twang, drums 'doof' and saxophones 'blah'.
Resorting to Wikipedia, the font of human knowledge, I found that no identifiable etymology exists. Jazz is just jazz until someone invents time travel.
THAT got me thinking about all the things I'd do with a time machine, in numerical order (because chronological order would be way too confusing) and it had me writing for a full day, which when all is said and done will amount to very little because I plan to find a way to stop aging sometime around 2300 AD.
I've also been writing a story about a man who travels through a series of paintings and ends up witnessing the murder of a high priest in an inquisitorial regime which hunts magickers. Wow. Most people will probably understand that synopsis. There's a first.
Erm, where was I? I think the point I was trying to make is that amidst all this AND the terra-forming of a new continent I've actually taken the time to read another blog. You know what? It's nothing like this one!
For one thing, people actually read it and leave little comments every now and then. It has regular posts, jokes, insight into the life of the writer and it's Hilarious with a capital 'haitch'. There are pictures, videos, diagrams and doodads -- and I swear it's given me a case of severe blog envy.
Now I've never considered myself the funniest person. Funny people tend to be popular, and as I am not, I fall into the 'tragically serious' category. Sarcasm and pranks are lost on me as I tend to take things literally and end up feeling hurt or worried about the outcome of the events surrounding the joke. I am, in addition, wildly inappropriate. I once compared refusing prisoners their right to anti-retroviral drugs with death camps during the holocaust - which in and of itself may have passed, if I hadn't been standing in a room full of Jewish students at King David's High School.
Needless to say, aside from these grave matters of personality are the memories that caused them. I have very few amusing anecdotes from my childhood, and was just short of being followed around everywhere by a string quartet waiting excitedly to eulogise the next tragedy that befell me.
In the face of my comic dejection, and thus, social alienation, I used not other than Wikipedia, from which the inner light of the universe shines, to define 'Humour'. Aside from several interesting comments on Greek fluid philosophies I found this:
"Rowan Atkinson explains in his lecture in the documentary "Funny Business"[14] that an object or a person can become funny in three different ways. They are:
- By behaving in an unusual way
- By being in an unusual place
- By being the wrong size"
I thought to myself, "...Thats perfect I like R.A hes funny that mr bean stuff all makes sense now... but hang on a sec I AM funny nobody else would think of bringing toast to an open band session or showing up at a club with a copy of War & Peace or feel so out of place on Earth that they have declared a long standing war against gravity..."
So finally, after spending my whole life as a reject loser outcast I found out the reason I had done so: I'm just too God damned hilarious. By being the only one to take life 100% seriously I have become the quintessential abstract.
Think about it. If most people spend their time goofing off by behaving in an unusual way at an unusual place while wearing really tight clothes, then the UNUSUAL behaviour becomes USUAL behaviour for everyone but the slim few serious people who can't get a joke. It's Paulo Coelho's "Veronika Decides to Die" all over again. If madness rules the planet, the mad are sane and the sane are declared mad.
Simply by being my sad and dejected self I am in fact the definition of funny. Oh yes.
The question of what to do with this awesome responsibility is answered by public demand: I am to debase myself for the masses, taking a feather or twelve out of the communal hat and doing something a bit more... bloggy. I'll still have long rants about the structure of the universe and creation and stuff like that, but I'll also include a touch of personal experience in the mix to make you feel welcome on my site. You are. Just keep your coffee mug far away from the keyboard.
Oh, and the blog I'm reading is http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com.
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