Sunday, August 02, 2015

Pups and stuff

Memories... weird things, especially for me. It lead me to believe that something, on the surface, as happy and life-changing as getting a puppy dog, is actually utter madness and a complete drain on resources and a massive stress bringer - it has to be, otherwise you'd remember all the fantastic days you had playing with your new dog.

That said, Doug is fantastic. Doug is also a puppy and therefore it is like juggling jelly - literally. But he is an absolute darling and I cannot believe that in six or seven years time we won't remember half of these days. Did I say 'half'? I meant most. Both of us have been struggling to remember just what Murray had been like when we first got him. He was much younger than Doug (by about 6 weeks) and we seem to recall he was a very chilled and laid back little man (who whinged a lot). Memories of Ness when we got her seem to consist of a black ball of hate picking on everything with four legs - but in reality she wasn't really like that.

Do real parents of actual children have this problem?


If it arrives on terrestrial TV then I have to recommend Mr Robot. Don't ask me what it's actually about because I have no idea, it's just excellently made, reminds me of Repo Man crossed with something contemporary and the closer you figure you get to coming to some understanding, the further away it takes you.

It's by Sam Esmail, who I believe is possibly the luckiest git on the planet, for completely unrelated reasons.


Anarchist moment: social media apologies. I find racists, wankers and antisocial quite abhorrent, but I have always argued that anyone who is a citizen of this freedom-of-speech preaching country is entitled to their opinions and equally entitled to voice them and in the event of this should accept any criticism as long as it constructive. Equally, if someone wants to show their misogyny on their Twitter, or display some kind of ism on whatever social media network they use, I find it offensive on two fronts to demand public apologies.

The apology appears to have become some kind of throwaway and pointless hairshirt, especially if someone offends someone else, or, heaven forbid, an entire section of society. I wonder if the woman who got her tits out on top of a volcano in the far east was really sorry for doing it? Was she really upset because a bunch of savages thought she was responsible for a natural disaster? I reckon she can sleep at night.

This Palmer guy, currently being hounded on social networks and proper media for killing the lion in Zimbabwe (which, incidentally, is the only country in the world not showing outrage at this hunting catastrophe,) he's issued an apology, but he's also got a photo album with him holding the carcasses of everything from a snail to a fucking blue whale, so he's really sorry, isn't he? But he's apologised and the outrage has decreased by 30% since that apology (although he'll still end up killed by a nutter, you watch).

I have always been of the impression that the decline of Tiger Woods as the world's best golfer had nothing to do with the fact he liked shagging anything with a hole and everything to do with having to apologise to a load of people who had absolutely fuck all to do with anything. If Woods' sponsors didn't like his dick antics, surely that's for the boardroom and not for the media?

This is just an extension of 'being offended' and a bi-product of the madness that is the social network system.


Tomorrow I enter the hospital to have my shoulder fixed (again). The timing is odd as it will be exactly five years since the last op on the same shoulder and I've been suffering from anxiety/stress headaches because of the possibility of having to stay in overnight. I hate being away from home, simple as that.


Next week I will be a one armed man and it is time to do the 3rd rewrite of The Imagination Station. I've been gearing myself up for it by doing nothing at all. My writing output for the last few weeks has been pathetic and there hasn't really been much excuse for it apart from the last week of having Doug the dog.

I feel confident about it; so much so that when this version is finished I'm handing it to the wife to read and critique.


I realised a few minutes ago that the weather has been so meh for the last month this is the first time in July I have sat outside and done anything apart from gardening. We shouldn't be surprised this has pretty much been the pattern for years now; it's like Mother Nature is vindictive and wants school kids to get damp and moldy and be stuck inside with exasperated parents.

Summers are often disappointing, especially if one is old enough to remember 1976, but because I have a lot of time on my hands I do lots of reading and I've been looking at weather history (thanks to a book that RnB bought me and dozens of useful and nerdy websites.


(this was written before my shoulder operation)

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