Twenty a day?

It’s weird how every generation has a laughable, almost unbelievable, trait when you look back on it; usually a fashion faux pas, like haircuts or what are now uncool clothes. I just realised that my generation will go down in the history books as the ‘camera’ generation: which is going to such Camel balls when I have to describe it to my grandchildren. No matter where you go just now you always see people taking pictures, posing and flashing away completely oblivious to how stupid they look. Even in town, at night you can’t dance without people taking pictures of each other in the dance floor; fools.

This week’s quest is to find out what the timer in a toaster is made from. My hypothesis being that it has to be a very hard metal that doesn’t expand or contract under heat changes, but even then… a completely metal timer in a red-hot toaster sounds pretty crazy.

Being a DJ has now risen to 2^nd place as being my preferred post-university career after a gynaecologist (obviously), if only because it’s so damn enjoyable. Even the shit banter is still banter and people really do buy you drinks if you play well.

Found this article - one of the more interesting things I’ve read recently. According to it we first lie when we are 3 years old, attractive people are the biggest fibbers of all, and even animals do it. I love telling white lies, things like my ‘unborn foetus brother’ that is inside my ribcage and so on, but there’s no way I’m ever trusting a 3 year old, cute animal ever again.

Humbug.

This week I’ve been mostly clocking in some serious overtime for my massive essay on the Latin American drugs tarade but the only thing I can only compare it to the method of shitting at a music festival. You spend much longer than usual taking in and digesting heaps of stuff without letting any go, then (probably in some shady pub toilet) you have to unleash a massive log. I just hope that the mood upon finishing this essay will somehow match the euphoric, godly post-shit feeling.

The library’s a quaint place. So many familiar faces from freshers week, nights out and old lectures that it’s impossible to walk around without giving out several gratuitous nods and smiles. Still, there’s nothing quite like seeing people who were previously blixed and talking crap to you in town, give you ‘that’ look of discomfiture when they remember seeing you. Better hope the wind doesn’t change or I’ll be stuck looking like a fanny for the rest of my life.

Completely unrelated: Pablo Escobar (so famous that his name registers in microsoft word) is one of my new anti-heroes. Talk about a successful entrepreneur! The guy wrote off $40 Million in notes because he had to store them in a basement where they decomposed because he forgot about them. He had enough money to pay Columbia’s national debt, and died in a gunfight. His multi-hectare ‘jail cell’ had a jacuzzi, fax machine and hookers amongst other things. Not bad for a fat guy with a ‘tash.

On the note of money, or lack of, I can’t believe it’s only about five weeks ‘til Christmas. One pay left and I haven’t bought a single thing. I envy those kids in Africa where they only gift they get (and have to buy) is life. I guess that the only thing I actually enjoy about Christmas is playing the annual novelty gig for Fudge. This will be the first ‘terror gig since summer and boy can’t I wait to get back to the stage and do the whole rock n roll thing again.

The Bad Touch

Why is it that humans are infatuated with negative things? Not just ‘playa hating’ like intentionally hurting people and all that jazz but when something bad happens people always have to get a good nosey. Like a murder, an accident, or a fight; if they arise in a public place there’s always a flood of people that have to see what’s going on. Probably boils down to the fact that they’re relieved that it’s someone else going through the ordeal.

Also, why is it that infamous people or rebels are always noticed and remembered more? Case Study: since my decrepit work shirts started falling to pieces, can’t wear a tie. In two weeks more managers and supervisors have spoken to me than in the previous four years of employment. I also have no doubt that on a larger scale, someone like Hitler’s ‘legacy’ will prevail over almost any of the good people in history like Mother Teresa and so on.

Sounds like a pessimistic viewpoint, but it’s true. Like how you can only remember the arseholes from school. It’s just sad that in a few more years down the line we’re all going to remember the people that pissed us off and hurt us more than most of our friends who sat on the sideline and contributed to the good times.

Dog's Dinner.

Vomit’s a funny thing, and until the other night I didn’t realise how much it can be used and abused to your advantage. Strategic vomiting can stop you from getting to the point where you can’t see, or stand. It can also save you from wrekin’ your mattress or hitting an unsuspecting innocent.

However, sporadic vomiting can be the scourge of the earth. When something undoubtedly ace is about to happen and you just have to blow the chunks, subsequently ruining the moment. Or when you’re sampling some popular wine and your stomach just rejects it (along with a butter chicken / rice combo). I guess it’s one of those ‘natural’ things that can be tampered with.

Drunk dreams however seem to be one of the more appealing features of a night in town. For some reason they’re easier to remember and they’re always ultra-realistic and full of decent subject matter. The only bad facet is that they never last as long as they should because – due to the sensitivity of a hungover body – something small always manages to waken you.

Example: upon finishing work I went to the old JJB store, which was now a secret underground cinema. Met a foxy tutor then stole a Ferrari and took it for a spin on our way back to hers for a ‘party’. Upon losing her friend, running over people I hate and arriving it turns out that there’s no party; just neds smashing up her house. So I get in a fight whilst waiting for the police to arrive and just as the coast is clear for some alone time my phone goes off and I awake to a nice, slavery pillow. SEXY!

Paulifly Effect.

The best things are supposed to come in the strangest packages, and I’m starting see where the creator of that phrase came from. Who’d have thought that spending 5 hours in a tiny DJ booth, relatively sober, with one person and a thousand songs for company would have been so much fun? The task of filling the dance floor was much easier than anticipated, and the banter was great. Halloween was pretty much the same as exodus on Saturday, but the feel of crisp bank notes for my 3 hours of ‘work’ made the job ever so satisfying.

Note for anyone who might read this regarding requests.
1) Don’t request songs that get played every week.
2) Don’t request the same song more than once.
3) Getting 30 randoms to request your song is stupid.
4) Flirtation makes you look skanky and lowers the chance of hearing your song.
5) The DJ has the final say, not you.

Who’d have also thought that something as scientific as Chaos Theory could actually be very interesting? The idea being that the flap of a butterfly’s wing can change the course of weather forever. Which is apparently why it’s near impossible to accurately predict the weather for over a week in advance. The best thing is that it can be applied to heaps of things from maths and physics to social interactions, like lies.

Granted, this is probably what makes our everyday lives so interesting, by reducing the predictability of events, but it could possibly be just as fascinating to see how different our lives could be if the ‘chaos’ was removed from our lives. Would we all have different friends, jobs, houses… who knows? Kinda like that shite Ashton Kutcher film, but about me instead. That would – probably – kick ass.