If in doubt - and I have been having a lot of doubts about things this week - go and twaddle around an art gallery, which is what I did with my sister last night. We went to see the massive Gilbert And George show at Tate Modern, which was...well either you like GnG or not.
I remember them in the 1970s with their graffiti and their swear words and their overt sexuality. It all seemed to fit into the whole 1970s punky/fuck you ethos. And when I moved to London at about the same time, they still had their names and telephone numbers in the phone book, so you could drink lots of cider and then call them and giggle at their clipped voices on the other end of the phone. (In retrospect, a little later in life, I felt guilty about these prank calls. But then I read that they were drinking mammoth amounts of gin at the time, so I like to assume my calls were all just part of a gin haze they were in.)
Later on, in the late 1980s, when I was hanging around the East End a lot with my new post university London friends, you would often see GnG walking around together in their tweed suits. It was kind of exciting seeing real artists being normal, and not hiding in their studios like Bacon and Freud. They (GnG) were part of the East End scenery, and seemed quite happy to be stared at by my me and my mates.
In the 1990s, they became these massive massive art stars, and it also turned out that they had been buying up real estate throughout east London, carefully planning and saving and investing the - presumably equally massive - money they were getting for huge pictures of their bodily fluids and waste. Again, it seemed rather appropriate to the time. While bankers and advertisers were making millions out of nothing, GnG were selling pictures of shit to them. Someone gave me a GnG puzzle for my birthday in 1995. I still keep meaning to get it framed or made into a coffee table or something.
The show at Tate Modern is huge. I'm not sure how good lots of their pictures look together in one room, but - for me anyway - it was a real retrospective: of moving to London; of coming back to London after university; seeing the us and them in the wealth around this city in the 1990s; and with a nice recent GnG moment when I bought mrs househusbandnot a signed GnG poster for Valentine's Day this year. Is introspection the same as retrospection? Having said the other day that I dwell on the past too much, I am conscious that me wandering around reminiscing about my life in London should be watched carefully. But I loved it...
...although the GnG experience was somewhat mugged by my sister suggesting we go on the Carsten Holler slides all the way from the fifth floor of the gallery down to the ground. Brutal or what?
Brian Sewell is on holiday.
Mar 30, 2007
Mar 29, 2007
Tired Thoughts
I slept about an hour last night, waking up all the time worrying about stuff, and eventually realising that there was not much point trying to sleep when I heard the first birds calling to each other. (One in particular appeared - or sounded like it anyway - to have nested inside one of my pillows. As mentioned to a drowsy mrs househusbandnot: " When did birds get so fucking noisy".) Consolation was a Waunch-recommended book about a gentle English eccentric who decided to swim around Britain, which killed a few dead sleepless hours.
Have not heard back from those people who interviewed me last week, which seems rather a long time to make up their minds. I am thinking 1) they are really disorganised 2) they are not going to go with the piece of work I was interviewing for. It was that comment from the bloke on the interview panel about fees (my fees) which got me thinking that they were looking to try and get something done on the cheap or for free. It was an interesting piece of work too. We shall see, but I'm thinking having not heard back from them in a week suggests they are not going to go for it/with me for the work.
You will be more amused to hear that - after a similarly - long winded process, I have been asked to write a twice monthly blog about another agenda that I am involved in. Basically, it is an American health promotion website, and they need someone to be writing about what is going on in Europe. (Enter hhn stage right dressed as Sherlock Holmes.) This should be fun, although, being Americans, they have sent me through a too long and pompous contract which I am now required to triple sign in my own blood. All very official and organised, except they spelt my name wrong on the contract. (And the person I was dealing with on this work has some completely made up American name which I was quadruple checking every time I sent him an email.)
Website going well I think, despite continuing difficulties of sending out newsletters to subscribers. Does anyone out there use Aweber for this process? Does anyone out there know where the people who wrote to software for Aweber live so I can go and kill them? Traffic is slowly, slowly building on the site, so hopefully in approx 30 years I will be able to sell my share of the site, and buy a small piece of furniture with my web fortunes.
And an old friend has asked me to pitch for a part time post at an organisation she now runs. (This is how you really get work. Not through headhunters or adverts or websites, but through people you know - although I was a little chuffed, in my sleepless state this morning, to be told by the American with the funny name that they had chosen me to write their blog from 100 odd people - as in roughly 100, rather than 100 odd people.)
So, yeah. Bits and pieces, but getting there I think. Somewhere along the way I am hoping that a few of the dots will join up, and I will have enough work to keep me fully out of trouble, and more importantly in £ that mrs hhn and I can spend on stuff that we need to sort out. We've spent a year with not much money, which sure as hell makes you realise what you want, then really need. I'm not complaining. I am just still a bit introspective from staring at the ceiling for six hours last night.
Have not heard back from those people who interviewed me last week, which seems rather a long time to make up their minds. I am thinking 1) they are really disorganised 2) they are not going to go with the piece of work I was interviewing for. It was that comment from the bloke on the interview panel about fees (my fees) which got me thinking that they were looking to try and get something done on the cheap or for free. It was an interesting piece of work too. We shall see, but I'm thinking having not heard back from them in a week suggests they are not going to go for it/with me for the work.
You will be more amused to hear that - after a similarly - long winded process, I have been asked to write a twice monthly blog about another agenda that I am involved in. Basically, it is an American health promotion website, and they need someone to be writing about what is going on in Europe. (Enter hhn stage right dressed as Sherlock Holmes.) This should be fun, although, being Americans, they have sent me through a too long and pompous contract which I am now required to triple sign in my own blood. All very official and organised, except they spelt my name wrong on the contract. (And the person I was dealing with on this work has some completely made up American name which I was quadruple checking every time I sent him an email.)
Website going well I think, despite continuing difficulties of sending out newsletters to subscribers. Does anyone out there use Aweber for this process? Does anyone out there know where the people who wrote to software for Aweber live so I can go and kill them? Traffic is slowly, slowly building on the site, so hopefully in approx 30 years I will be able to sell my share of the site, and buy a small piece of furniture with my web fortunes.
And an old friend has asked me to pitch for a part time post at an organisation she now runs. (This is how you really get work. Not through headhunters or adverts or websites, but through people you know - although I was a little chuffed, in my sleepless state this morning, to be told by the American with the funny name that they had chosen me to write their blog from 100 odd people - as in roughly 100, rather than 100 odd people.)
So, yeah. Bits and pieces, but getting there I think. Somewhere along the way I am hoping that a few of the dots will join up, and I will have enough work to keep me fully out of trouble, and more importantly in £ that mrs hhn and I can spend on stuff that we need to sort out. We've spent a year with not much money, which sure as hell makes you realise what you want, then really need. I'm not complaining. I am just still a bit introspective from staring at the ceiling for six hours last night.
Mar 27, 2007
Learning Stuff
Sorry not to have been in touch over the last few days people. Not sure what really happened. But somewhere along the way hhn got forgotten - well not forgotten but certainly not written. Must be the change over to summer time here in the UK. I was used to lurking around in my dark cellar tapping away at hhn, and then someone threw the shutters open and I was exposed to light and life and anti self-absorptions like blogging.
Now we are officially in summer, I guess I should be full of the joys of it. But truth is I really hate the summer (as I probably mentioned last summer). I hate the heat and the light and the ugly people in shorts and the sweating (which is mostly by me once the temperature gets anywhere above zero).
Having said all that, the last few days have been quite a learning curve here at hhn HQ. I have learned many many things, including:
1) Sometimes not blogging is as therapeutic as blogging.
2) Lamb shanks rock (but only if you cook them yourself).
3) mrs househusbandnot does actually get a little itchy if I don't write hhn - which was interesting on many many (many) levels.
4) Telling your wife that you are really glad that they are your best friend translates into wife language as 'Don't you fancy me any more?'
5) You can buy a palace in Herne Bay for approx 78 pence.
6) Real househusband, who lives in Herne Bay and we were visiting this weekend, is a deeply cool and interesting individual. He has come across a very very big test in his life, and I asked if he could respond to it. He said "I hope so". You kind of had to be there, but I think he rocks.
7) Right up there with most annoying things in life - bottles that don't open, bad ploughman's lunches, paper cuts, stubbing your toe, pharmacists, Indian call centres, bottles rolling around on the bus, two pence pieces - is people who listen to their music so loud on their ipods that you get to hear it. mrs hhn had to stop me citizen arresting some complete ^%$£ on the train down to Herne Bay who had his Classical Music Morse Might Have Listened To compilation on full blast in our train compartment.
8) Whisky does strange things to some people.
9) Headhunters never do what they have told you they are/were going to do.
10) You should keep in touch with your friends. I called *&^ last night and he said he had pretty much given up on me.
11) Boxing is fun.
12) And I spend too much time dwelling on the past.
Now we are officially in summer, I guess I should be full of the joys of it. But truth is I really hate the summer (as I probably mentioned last summer). I hate the heat and the light and the ugly people in shorts and the sweating (which is mostly by me once the temperature gets anywhere above zero).
Having said all that, the last few days have been quite a learning curve here at hhn HQ. I have learned many many things, including:
1) Sometimes not blogging is as therapeutic as blogging.
2) Lamb shanks rock (but only if you cook them yourself).
3) mrs househusbandnot does actually get a little itchy if I don't write hhn - which was interesting on many many (many) levels.
4) Telling your wife that you are really glad that they are your best friend translates into wife language as 'Don't you fancy me any more?'
5) You can buy a palace in Herne Bay for approx 78 pence.
6) Real househusband, who lives in Herne Bay and we were visiting this weekend, is a deeply cool and interesting individual. He has come across a very very big test in his life, and I asked if he could respond to it. He said "I hope so". You kind of had to be there, but I think he rocks.
7) Right up there with most annoying things in life - bottles that don't open, bad ploughman's lunches, paper cuts, stubbing your toe, pharmacists, Indian call centres, bottles rolling around on the bus, two pence pieces - is people who listen to their music so loud on their ipods that you get to hear it. mrs hhn had to stop me citizen arresting some complete ^%$£ on the train down to Herne Bay who had his Classical Music Morse Might Have Listened To compilation on full blast in our train compartment.
8) Whisky does strange things to some people.
9) Headhunters never do what they have told you they are/were going to do.
10) You should keep in touch with your friends. I called *&^ last night and he said he had pretty much given up on me.
11) Boxing is fun.
12) And I spend too much time dwelling on the past.
Mar 23, 2007
The Wrong Information (Continued)
Was on the way out for supper with Styx and Mrs Styx last night - incidentally, a journey that took in me catching up with a taxi driver I interviewed this time last year for an idea about a book, which was a bit bizarre - when the headhunter called. You know. The one I mentioned yesterday:
"DON'T freak out when you talk to the headhunter the night before the interview and she tells you that it is a completely different job from the one you have been preparing for."
I assumed she wanted to talk about how the interview had gone. But no. Wrong. She wanted to complain to me that one of the other candidates had complained to her that she too thought she had been badly briefed on the actual job she was interviewing for.
And while the headhunter was banging on down the phone at me, I was thinking 1) this is good news because the competition were as unprepared as I was 2) why are you calling me about this? - and finally - 3) oh, you are calling me to complain that we (the interviewees) were stuffed by you (the headhunter).
Hey, no-one died. There are more important things going on in the world. But I was really surprised that this headhunter had such a capacity to turn it all around in her own head and make it about her (poor old me) rather than her (I'm really sorry. I fucked up). I wish I could be as thick skinned and as selfish and misguided as that. I really do. I think I told her not to worry about it, and that it was not her fault, which is blatantly was, but I don't think she has a culpability button - well I know she doesn't after the call. It must be great to be like that, so misguided, so deeply about yourself and what you are worth in a vacuum, and quite so incapable of dealing with criticism and or your own incompetence. Mrs Styx assessed the call in a slightly more direct way: "You need another headhunter".
Which I guess I do. But I also hope I am not trying to blame this headhunter in case I don't get the job. I do care, and I do know it is about me. But in a different way, as in being responsible for my actions rather than accepting some higher fate whereby I can float around without responsibility for anything that is going on around me...
...Bollox, F8ck, Sh&t, W%nk, C*ck. As predicted by mrs househusbandnot recently, I'm turning into bolloxing life coach.
In unrelated news, (Mr) Styx made me listen to the new Yoko Ono album last night. It was quite good.
"DON'T freak out when you talk to the headhunter the night before the interview and she tells you that it is a completely different job from the one you have been preparing for."
I assumed she wanted to talk about how the interview had gone. But no. Wrong. She wanted to complain to me that one of the other candidates had complained to her that she too thought she had been badly briefed on the actual job she was interviewing for.
And while the headhunter was banging on down the phone at me, I was thinking 1) this is good news because the competition were as unprepared as I was 2) why are you calling me about this? - and finally - 3) oh, you are calling me to complain that we (the interviewees) were stuffed by you (the headhunter).
Hey, no-one died. There are more important things going on in the world. But I was really surprised that this headhunter had such a capacity to turn it all around in her own head and make it about her (poor old me) rather than her (I'm really sorry. I fucked up). I wish I could be as thick skinned and as selfish and misguided as that. I really do. I think I told her not to worry about it, and that it was not her fault, which is blatantly was, but I don't think she has a culpability button - well I know she doesn't after the call. It must be great to be like that, so misguided, so deeply about yourself and what you are worth in a vacuum, and quite so incapable of dealing with criticism and or your own incompetence. Mrs Styx assessed the call in a slightly more direct way: "You need another headhunter".
Which I guess I do. But I also hope I am not trying to blame this headhunter in case I don't get the job. I do care, and I do know it is about me. But in a different way, as in being responsible for my actions rather than accepting some higher fate whereby I can float around without responsibility for anything that is going on around me...
...Bollox, F8ck, Sh&t, W%nk, C*ck. As predicted by mrs househusbandnot recently, I'm turning into bolloxing life coach.
In unrelated news, (Mr) Styx made me listen to the new Yoko Ono album last night. It was quite good.
Mar 21, 2007
The Wrong Information
Based on my interview experience this morning, I offer another hhn list, this time on the Does and Don'ts of interviews (well my interview anyway):
1) DON'T freak out when you talk to the headhunter the night before the interview and she tells you that it is a completely different job from the one you have been preparing for.
2) DO go for a swim before the interview.
3) DON'T try a citizens arrest on the obvious sex offender in the lift down to the interview room, because he might just end up being on the interview panel.
4) DO smile sweetly when the PA who is taking you down in the lift introduces you to the sex offender/panellist as John. (This is so deeply removed from my actual name it is not true.)
5) DON'T be put off when the actual person who you would be working directly to leaves the interview room in her overcoat just as you arrive. (Turns out she had an emergency meeting with a diplomat, so I guess it was fair enough.)
6) DO try not to just focus on the only normal person on the interview panel, and try and engage with the sex offender and the other panellist aka Yoko Ono's mum.
7) DON'T make any jokes, not even one about them constantly looking at their watches because they are running late.
8) DO sip your cup of water delicately, rather than gulping it down like you drank a bottle of tequila last night.
9) DON'T try and catch Mrs Ono's eye, especially if you think one - or both of them - may be glass.
10) DO try not to be sarcastic when the sex offender says; "I suppose you charge for your work?" (I was a bit stuck on this one. The temptation to say "No. I do it for charity, and here's another bit of free advice. Shave off your moustache. It makes you look like a paedo." was mighty.
11) DON'T feel too pleased with yourself when the normal person on the panel says "That was a perfect answer", when you know he is just being nice because he knows that you have figured out that the other two people on the panel are nuts.
12) DO take some consolation in the fact that the next interview candidate looked like a grey haired version of that female singer from The B52s.
Needless to say, I have absolutely no idea how the interview went. Second guessing insanity and all that. But the normal guy was really nice, and does actually work in the field that I was being interviewed about, which kinda helped the whole discussion. One of the other distractions during the interview was that the headhunter had told me some very personal information about this guy, and I spent quite a lot of the interview thinking "Wow. He does that? But he seems so normal." Too much of the wrong information - again.
1) DON'T freak out when you talk to the headhunter the night before the interview and she tells you that it is a completely different job from the one you have been preparing for.
2) DO go for a swim before the interview.
3) DON'T try a citizens arrest on the obvious sex offender in the lift down to the interview room, because he might just end up being on the interview panel.
4) DO smile sweetly when the PA who is taking you down in the lift introduces you to the sex offender/panellist as John. (This is so deeply removed from my actual name it is not true.)
5) DON'T be put off when the actual person who you would be working directly to leaves the interview room in her overcoat just as you arrive. (Turns out she had an emergency meeting with a diplomat, so I guess it was fair enough.)
6) DO try not to just focus on the only normal person on the interview panel, and try and engage with the sex offender and the other panellist aka Yoko Ono's mum.
7) DON'T make any jokes, not even one about them constantly looking at their watches because they are running late.
8) DO sip your cup of water delicately, rather than gulping it down like you drank a bottle of tequila last night.
9) DON'T try and catch Mrs Ono's eye, especially if you think one - or both of them - may be glass.
10) DO try not to be sarcastic when the sex offender says; "I suppose you charge for your work?" (I was a bit stuck on this one. The temptation to say "No. I do it for charity, and here's another bit of free advice. Shave off your moustache. It makes you look like a paedo." was mighty.
11) DON'T feel too pleased with yourself when the normal person on the panel says "That was a perfect answer", when you know he is just being nice because he knows that you have figured out that the other two people on the panel are nuts.
12) DO take some consolation in the fact that the next interview candidate looked like a grey haired version of that female singer from The B52s.
Needless to say, I have absolutely no idea how the interview went. Second guessing insanity and all that. But the normal guy was really nice, and does actually work in the field that I was being interviewed about, which kinda helped the whole discussion. One of the other distractions during the interview was that the headhunter had told me some very personal information about this guy, and I spent quite a lot of the interview thinking "Wow. He does that? But he seems so normal." Too much of the wrong information - again.
Mar 20, 2007
Inside Out
Much as I would like to spend a lot more time discussing the casting of hhn The Movie, I have to spend today preparing for an interview tomorrow morning. (Considering that this interview - or prospect of it - has been hanging around since December, and I am being given precisely half an hour - no more, no less - at 8.00am tomorrow, I am not sure what I should be preparing other than a thermos of decent coffee and a stop watch. But we will see.)
Actually, I think it is better having a short interview. It leaves less time to chance, and for me to get nervous - which I do in interviews. And the trouble with when I get nervous is that I end up looking really really pissed off. Which is unfortunate. I'm freaking out inside, and people are running for the fire exits because I look like I'm going to cut their ears off. I'm working on it, trying to look less scary and trying to be my own cheery self in interviews. (The cheery persona quite often also translates into serial killer lookey-likey mode.) So spare a thought for me trying to be normal with strangers at 8.00am tomorrow, if you are not still asleep and dreaming about hhn lists.
Gotta get on with the interview prep now. Will let you know how it goes/went.
Actually, I think it is better having a short interview. It leaves less time to chance, and for me to get nervous - which I do in interviews. And the trouble with when I get nervous is that I end up looking really really pissed off. Which is unfortunate. I'm freaking out inside, and people are running for the fire exits because I look like I'm going to cut their ears off. I'm working on it, trying to look less scary and trying to be my own cheery self in interviews. (The cheery persona quite often also translates into serial killer lookey-likey mode.) So spare a thought for me trying to be normal with strangers at 8.00am tomorrow, if you are not still asleep and dreaming about hhn lists.
Gotta get on with the interview prep now. Will let you know how it goes/went.
Mar 19, 2007
hhn The Movie
If and when househusbandnot gets snatched up by Hollywood (or Bollywood more like), I'd say the casting should be as follows (this is only going make about four people laugh who know the actual real people involved):
househusbandnot: a young William Hurt or an equal age Alexi Sayle
mrs househusbandnot: a young Sigourney Weaver
blokewho: Leslie Phillips
Styx: a really tall Frankie Detorri
Mrs Styx: Danni Minogue
The Waunch: an old (with a comb over) Colin Farrell, or maybe Axel Rose who - I assume - has had that hairstyle to hide his baldness
Mrs The Waunch: Julianne Moore
Madame B: that bird who played Bubble in Absolutely Fabulous, and her gardener partner could be played by that twat from the BT ads who is on stage with Billie Piper in London at the moment
Bad: Matt Lucas
My friend (*&: that bloke who plays the interior designer in Beatle Juice
Rem: a gay short Steven Seagal
Y.O.U?: any of the female cast of Skins
Eel Man: Lou Reed or maybe Piers Morgan (Had a quick cup of tea with Eel Man yesterday, and caught myself thinking the Eel Man/Piers Morgan thang. [Although Eel Man was - typically -being v funny about life, describing a recent University get together where he was stuck talking to some bloke he was in the same year as at university who was an accountant and had married the girl he was dating since before he went to university who was saying "Strange, I don't remember you at university". And Eel Man was thinking "Hmm. Might have been because I was wandering around the campus in a reflective white policeman's jacket with dyed blonde hair and a lime green mohair jumper. Wonder why you and I never crossed paths socially?"])
Interesting how few real actors came out of that one. (And I had me as the drummer from Zwan at one point.) But hope Styx and Waunch and (*& and mrs hhn had a laugh at this, since - I think - they are the only people who know all the real people cast above...
...which is where it shall remain. Sorry I can't make this blog more inclusive and popularist.
Hope I don't dream about hhn lists AGAIN tonight.
William Hurt xx
househusbandnot: a young William Hurt or an equal age Alexi Sayle
mrs househusbandnot: a young Sigourney Weaver
blokewho: Leslie Phillips
Styx: a really tall Frankie Detorri
Mrs Styx: Danni Minogue
The Waunch: an old (with a comb over) Colin Farrell, or maybe Axel Rose who - I assume - has had that hairstyle to hide his baldness
Mrs The Waunch: Julianne Moore
Madame B: that bird who played Bubble in Absolutely Fabulous, and her gardener partner could be played by that twat from the BT ads who is on stage with Billie Piper in London at the moment
Bad: Matt Lucas
My friend (*&: that bloke who plays the interior designer in Beatle Juice
Rem: a gay short Steven Seagal
Y.O.U?: any of the female cast of Skins
Eel Man: Lou Reed or maybe Piers Morgan (Had a quick cup of tea with Eel Man yesterday, and caught myself thinking the Eel Man/Piers Morgan thang. [Although Eel Man was - typically -being v funny about life, describing a recent University get together where he was stuck talking to some bloke he was in the same year as at university who was an accountant and had married the girl he was dating since before he went to university who was saying "Strange, I don't remember you at university". And Eel Man was thinking "Hmm. Might have been because I was wandering around the campus in a reflective white policeman's jacket with dyed blonde hair and a lime green mohair jumper. Wonder why you and I never crossed paths socially?"])
Interesting how few real actors came out of that one. (And I had me as the drummer from Zwan at one point.) But hope Styx and Waunch and (*& and mrs hhn had a laugh at this, since - I think - they are the only people who know all the real people cast above...
...which is where it shall remain. Sorry I can't make this blog more inclusive and popularist.
Hope I don't dream about hhn lists AGAIN tonight.
William Hurt xx
Publish And Be Dull
I was reading over the weekend about the (newish) trend in turning blogs into books (Blooker Prize etc.) Trouble is - and I've written about this before - those bloggers who are being asked to do this are pretty much exclusively anonymous young women who are writing about shagging their way around offices, or moving to Northumberland, and I don't feel I could fool you that I was engaged in either of these agendas. They call it a revolution in publishing. I call it sexism, or just another form of porn on the web.
I guess I will stick to what I do know, which is my househusbandnot lists etc. On which, respect to the anonymous commenter who reported on his/her dream about me writing a list on what to do with jump leads. Welcome dear friend to that extremely small club of those of us who dream about hhn. There's me. And you. And...well, like I said. It is an exclusive membership to the hhn Dream Academy. If anyone else out there has joined up, let me know, and I will send you the mrs househusbandnot guide on how to get a life.
Jump leads? I was always terrified of them as a child. They lay dormant in the boot of my parents' various cars, ready to be charged into action at the first sign of a whining battery. Do people still use them? Are they just as snappy and vice-like as they were when I was young? I was always worried that I was going to get my finger caught in one of the jaws, or that I would put the wrong lead against the wrong connection and blow the car up. I remember then being used a lot. I guess my parents bought a lot of dud second hand cars, or often forgot to change the batteries in those cars. Or...fuck, this isn't going to be turned into a novel of any sort is it?
Anyway off to Oxshott this morning to do some work on the website. Styx told me recently that he and I were almost killed in Oxshott on the way back from a road trip to Portugal. He was driving, and said that of all those hundreds of miles down to Porto and back again, the near miss collision in Oxshott was as close as it got to an accident. It would have been a bit crap to die in Oxshott. Far more glamorous "just south of Madrid" or "on the Spanish border". Thankfully, it didn't happen anywhere, and we live and breathe to blog. (Styx doesn't blog. He should, but he doesn't. Actually mrs styx should too. Will hassle them about it when I see them later in the week.)
It's funny isn't it. The minute you think about trying to get your blog to read like something that someone might want to publish, you get all self conscious and write the dullest hhn post ever. I'm not sure the Blooker prize etc are a good idea. It's just publishers beign lazy isn't it? Or bloggers being hopeful? Both should be avoided.
I guess I will stick to what I do know, which is my househusbandnot lists etc. On which, respect to the anonymous commenter who reported on his/her dream about me writing a list on what to do with jump leads. Welcome dear friend to that extremely small club of those of us who dream about hhn. There's me. And you. And...well, like I said. It is an exclusive membership to the hhn Dream Academy. If anyone else out there has joined up, let me know, and I will send you the mrs househusbandnot guide on how to get a life.
Jump leads? I was always terrified of them as a child. They lay dormant in the boot of my parents' various cars, ready to be charged into action at the first sign of a whining battery. Do people still use them? Are they just as snappy and vice-like as they were when I was young? I was always worried that I was going to get my finger caught in one of the jaws, or that I would put the wrong lead against the wrong connection and blow the car up. I remember then being used a lot. I guess my parents bought a lot of dud second hand cars, or often forgot to change the batteries in those cars. Or...fuck, this isn't going to be turned into a novel of any sort is it?
Anyway off to Oxshott this morning to do some work on the website. Styx told me recently that he and I were almost killed in Oxshott on the way back from a road trip to Portugal. He was driving, and said that of all those hundreds of miles down to Porto and back again, the near miss collision in Oxshott was as close as it got to an accident. It would have been a bit crap to die in Oxshott. Far more glamorous "just south of Madrid" or "on the Spanish border". Thankfully, it didn't happen anywhere, and we live and breathe to blog. (Styx doesn't blog. He should, but he doesn't. Actually mrs styx should too. Will hassle them about it when I see them later in the week.)
It's funny isn't it. The minute you think about trying to get your blog to read like something that someone might want to publish, you get all self conscious and write the dullest hhn post ever. I'm not sure the Blooker prize etc are a good idea. It's just publishers beign lazy isn't it? Or bloggers being hopeful? Both should be avoided.
Mar 15, 2007
Layzee Dude
Having got rather more hits than usual with my meaningless list of bands yesterday, I am tempted to continue on this winning streak - based on my theory that the only way you get real traffic on the net is by appealing to stoned 17 year old American boys - with further househusbandnot lists of:
- the most stoned I have ever been
- bongs I have loved, and made
- reasons why chicks are dull when I am stoned
- my favourite guitar solos of all time, and you can include bass solos and other stuff if you want dude
- great sentences that start with "Duuuuude"
- 53 of my favourite chocolate bars
- 47 reasons why Pearl Jam rock
- why my mom is a downer when I am wrecked
- 50 Cent or Shakespeare: discuss
- Hot tubs v global warming
etc. etc.etc.
But I won't, because we are off for a weekend with my in laws, which - for all its goods and bads - involves very little use of bongs or listening to The Smashing Pumpkins backwards. (Just to tease on the theme though, am very interested in hhn list proposals aka you tell me what you want lists of, and I will provide them.) Instead, we will go for long walks, and pretend that my father in law is not itching to get back home and watch the football, and I will continue my (continual) quest to convince my mother in law that I am normal.
Which is going okay I think, he says hopefully - deeply, graspingly, cramp-inducingly. Actually, I am looking forward to a bit of rnr chez in laws, where bacon sandwiches are produced with pleasing regularity, and where the only real tests are to try and see if I can turn the central heating down a notch or five when no-one is looking, and to see how long I can sit in my father in law's Layzee Boy before he pulls rank on me.
Having said all this, am now going to manic around for a few hours making sure I pack ALL the clothes my mother in law bought me for Xmas, and buying The Daily Mail to read on the journey down so that I can - at least vaguely - see where my father in law is coming from with his current theory that global warming is a leftie conspiracy theory which is seeking to hunt down his wife's three dish washers and two ovens.
Have a good weekend. Next week we have: hhn has massive job interview for 30 minutes at 8.00am on Thursday, supper with mr and mrs styx, and then a weekend with real househusband (remember him from way back?) Laugh? I nearly didn't have time to have a *&^£.
A Meaningless List
Stuck for much of interest to say today, I just checked the site meter on hhn and it looks like the regular 2,300 of you have already been in to check the blog today. Which makes - I'm thinking anyway - whatever I say today fairly meaningless.
So, to continue that theme:
An hhn A-Z of some cracking bands/musicians
a) Augustus Pablo (He should be under P, but then the gag in b would not work so well.)
b) Beta Band (Greatest stoner music of all time, except for maybe Augustus Pablo.)
c) The Clash (Sandinista one of the most underrated and patchy albums of all time?)
d) Dylan (Yeah, yeah. I know. But it was him or De La Soul. Hey, I'm white.)
e) Eno (I can safely say I have listened to Here Come The Warm Jets more than any other album I've ever owned. Clock in at least 500 listenings each of Music For Films, Before And After Science and Taking Tiger Mountain and he's got to be on the list, even if he can pseud for Europe.)
f) Fat Man
g) Gang Of Four
h) blokewho's eponymous and - as yet - unsigned band
i) Ian Dury (Because that first album was the first album I fell in love it. She was three years older than me, and didn't look at me once all afternoon...oh bugger. I've turned into Billy Bragg.)
j) The Jam (They are the only band I have ever written a fan letter to, reminding ourselves that Bid was an official member of the Japan Fan Club.)
k) King Tubby (or should he be under T?)
l) Low
m) Van Morrison (When he was good, which was a mighty long time ago now.)
n) No Doubt. (Only kidding. Just couldn't face the tirade of comments if I put in Nirvana.)
o) Orange Juice
p) Prince
q) Queen (For that guitar solo on Brighton Rock. If you don't know the solo, don't judge me until you've heard it. Also I only know one other band that begins with Q, and I only know that one single they did.)
r) Ride (Even though the guitarist plats for Oasis now.)
s) Smashing Pumpkins
t) Tricky (Best gig I've ever been to by approx x50.)
u) Underworld (I know they are crap, but I think they known that too. That 12 minute version of Light In gets me going every time I listen to it.)
v) Can't think of one.
w) Tom Waits (Oh, no. He really sucks.) Bunny Wailer
x) XTC (But only for Drums And Wires. The rest was rubbish. I was at school with the Nigel in Making Plans For Nigel btw.)
y) Neil Young
z) Er, The Zutons? (I've never heard them, but could not face putting in ZZ Top or Frank Zappa both of which/whom I think really suck. Oh, no. I've thought of one: Zwan.)
Pointful, huh?
So, to continue that theme:
An hhn A-Z of some cracking bands/musicians
a) Augustus Pablo (He should be under P, but then the gag in b would not work so well.)
b) Beta Band (Greatest stoner music of all time, except for maybe Augustus Pablo.)
c) The Clash (Sandinista one of the most underrated and patchy albums of all time?)
d) Dylan (Yeah, yeah. I know. But it was him or De La Soul. Hey, I'm white.)
e) Eno (I can safely say I have listened to Here Come The Warm Jets more than any other album I've ever owned. Clock in at least 500 listenings each of Music For Films, Before And After Science and Taking Tiger Mountain and he's got to be on the list, even if he can pseud for Europe.)
f) Fat Man
g) Gang Of Four
h) blokewho's eponymous and - as yet - unsigned band
i) Ian Dury (Because that first album was the first album I fell in love it. She was three years older than me, and didn't look at me once all afternoon...oh bugger. I've turned into Billy Bragg.)
j) The Jam (They are the only band I have ever written a fan letter to, reminding ourselves that Bid was an official member of the Japan Fan Club.)
k) King Tubby (or should he be under T?)
l) Low
m) Van Morrison (When he was good, which was a mighty long time ago now.)
n) No Doubt. (Only kidding. Just couldn't face the tirade of comments if I put in Nirvana.)
o) Orange Juice
p) Prince
q) Queen (For that guitar solo on Brighton Rock. If you don't know the solo, don't judge me until you've heard it. Also I only know one other band that begins with Q, and I only know that one single they did.)
r) Ride (Even though the guitarist plats for Oasis now.)
s) Smashing Pumpkins
t) Tricky (Best gig I've ever been to by approx x50.)
u) Underworld (I know they are crap, but I think they known that too. That 12 minute version of Light In gets me going every time I listen to it.)
v) Can't think of one.
w) Tom Waits (Oh, no. He really sucks.) Bunny Wailer
x) XTC (But only for Drums And Wires. The rest was rubbish. I was at school with the Nigel in Making Plans For Nigel btw.)
y) Neil Young
z) Er, The Zutons? (I've never heard them, but could not face putting in ZZ Top or Frank Zappa both of which/whom I think really suck. Oh, no. I've thought of one: Zwan.)
Pointful, huh?
Mar 14, 2007
Technology Hell: Number Berzillion
The eagle-eyed of you out there will have seen that I double posted the blog entry a couple of days ago. This is just the beginning - or the end - of a long list of technical stuff that is not happening for me at the moment:
- Our TV is *&^%ed
- I can't find the charger for an old phone I wanted to give to my god daughter
- mrs househusbandnot has decided it it my fault that the TV is *&^%ed
- My new phone seems to only want to work in silent mode
- I have managed to download my itunes library onto mrs hhn's ipod, and visa versa. So she is wandering around town being forced to listen to Tricky, Joy Division and Zwan, while I am gaying around listening to Scissor Sisters, George Michael and Sugar Babes.
- And I just got an anonymous text message on my silent phone suggesting I am too stupid to deserve a new phone. They are probably right about that.
It just ain't happening with me and technology at the moment. I'm just waiting around for someone to come and install a chip in my forehead that will get me to better places where things do what they are supposed to do, and technology works for me, rather than making me all defensive with mrs hhn because it makes me feel that I am not a real man because I can't get a TV to work. I will be surprised if any of you get this post today such is my current siege with technology. (And it is winning. It has so many weapons.) And why am I taking it all so personally?
In other news, had a chat with a gay friend of mine over the weekend. He agrees with me that I am not a homophobe. So that one - at least - is settled.
Mar 12, 2007
Critics And Cult Leaders
Saw that Hot Fuzz movie over the weekend. Having been lauded by most critics as the funniest film in the world, I thought it was too long and..er, not that funny. This resulted in a discussion over supper with mrs househusbandnot and one of my sisters after the movie as to whether or not we should bother taking any notice of what critics recommend since they seem mostly to be looking for ways of being either 100% into or 100% not into whatever movie - or film or book or crafts fair - they are reviewing. I guess if they just said "Yeah, it was okay" they'd not last long.
I am also interested at the moment in the crossover in specialities that journalists seem to have, having read a review of Crufts by someone who usually writes the TV pages for The Guardian. Is it just a promotion thing? You do the obituaries, and then the travel, and then the TV pages, and then Crufts, and then international security? I think AA Gill - who I hate for lots of reasons, not least of all because he wears hats the whole time - writes approx two thirds of The Sunday Times nowadays, sharing his oily thoughts on subjects as varied as TV and restaurants. At least Jeremy Clarkson sticks to his own particular areas of interest, which is being rude about anyone who is not like him. (Maybe we can expect some articles on international security from him in the near future since that particular agenda seems to be discussed mostly in those terms.)
It would be kind of cool if you were part of a cult, because then there would just be someone telling you what do to and go and see the whole time. ("I was thinking of going to see Hot Fuzz this evening." "Oh, don't bother with that. You've only watched The Reason Our Leader Is Omnipotent thirty times. Why don't you give that another go?" "How about the new Gilbert and George exhibition?" "But you've not worshipped at our Leader's shrine for at least ninety minutes. His 23rd wife sculpted it you know." )
Actually, I think being in a cult would be rubbish, unless you were the cult leader. But I do quite like the idea of finite choices in your film-going or whatever. It would make things easier. (Although one of the many nice things about being married is that you can stop pretending to like non-English language films to try and impress women.)
Speaking of things foreign, there is this really ropey old bird who hangs around near where we live. On various occasions, she has felt the need to talk to me in the street - well mouth off her opinions more like. I was avoiding her on the bus yesterday, but she was asking this girl with a suitcase where she had been. The girl was all polite, and said "I've just been to Paris for the weekend actually." Ropey bird thought about this for a moment, and said "France. I've heard it's a fucking shit hole". Happy with this affirmation of her deep bigotry, she gathered up her daughter (who looked deeply interbred) and waddled off the bus.
My point? As usual, I don't really have one.
I am also interested at the moment in the crossover in specialities that journalists seem to have, having read a review of Crufts by someone who usually writes the TV pages for The Guardian. Is it just a promotion thing? You do the obituaries, and then the travel, and then the TV pages, and then Crufts, and then international security? I think AA Gill - who I hate for lots of reasons, not least of all because he wears hats the whole time - writes approx two thirds of The Sunday Times nowadays, sharing his oily thoughts on subjects as varied as TV and restaurants. At least Jeremy Clarkson sticks to his own particular areas of interest, which is being rude about anyone who is not like him. (Maybe we can expect some articles on international security from him in the near future since that particular agenda seems to be discussed mostly in those terms.)
It would be kind of cool if you were part of a cult, because then there would just be someone telling you what do to and go and see the whole time. ("I was thinking of going to see Hot Fuzz this evening." "Oh, don't bother with that. You've only watched The Reason Our Leader Is Omnipotent thirty times. Why don't you give that another go?" "How about the new Gilbert and George exhibition?" "But you've not worshipped at our Leader's shrine for at least ninety minutes. His 23rd wife sculpted it you know." )
Actually, I think being in a cult would be rubbish, unless you were the cult leader. But I do quite like the idea of finite choices in your film-going or whatever. It would make things easier. (Although one of the many nice things about being married is that you can stop pretending to like non-English language films to try and impress women.)
Speaking of things foreign, there is this really ropey old bird who hangs around near where we live. On various occasions, she has felt the need to talk to me in the street - well mouth off her opinions more like. I was avoiding her on the bus yesterday, but she was asking this girl with a suitcase where she had been. The girl was all polite, and said "I've just been to Paris for the weekend actually." Ropey bird thought about this for a moment, and said "France. I've heard it's a fucking shit hole". Happy with this affirmation of her deep bigotry, she gathered up her daughter (who looked deeply interbred) and waddled off the bus.
My point? As usual, I don't really have one.
Critics And Cult Leaders
Saw that Hot Fuzz movies over the weekend. Having been lauded by most critics as the funniest film in the world, I thought it was too long and..er, not that funny. This resulted in a discussion over supper after the movie as to whether or not we should bother taking any notice of what critics recommend since they seem mostly to be looking for ways of being either 100% into or 100% not into whatever movie - or film or book or crafts fair - they are reviewing. I guess if they just said "Yeah, it was okay" they'd not last long.
I am also interested at the moment in the crossover in specialities that journalists seem to have, having read a review of Crufts by someone who usually writes the TV pages for The Guardian. Is it just a promotion thing? You do the obituaries, and then the travel, and then the TV pages, and then Crufts, and then international security? I think AA Gill - who I hate for lots of reasons, not least of all because he wears hats the whole time - writes approx two thirds of The Sunday Times nowadays, sharing his oily thoughts on subjects as varied as TV and restaurants. At least Jeremy Clarkson sticks to his own particular areas of interest, which is being rude about anyone who is not like him. (Maybe we can expect some articles on international security from him in the near future since that particular agenda seems to be discussed mostly in those terms.)
It would be kind of cool if you were part of a cult, because then there would just be someone telling you what do to and go and see the whole time. ("I was thinking of going to see Hot Fuzz this evening." "Oh, don't bother with that. You've only watched The Reason Our Leader Is Omnipotent thirty times. Why don't you give that another go?" "How about the new Gilbert and George exhibition?" "But you've not worshipped at our Leader's shrine for at least ninety minutes. His 23rd wife sculpted it you know." )
Actually, I think being in a cult would be rubbish, unless you were the cult leader. But I do quite like the idea of finite choices in your film-going or whatever. It would make things easier. (Although one of the many nice things about being married is that you can stop pretending to like non-English language films to try and impress women.)
Speaking of things foreign, there is this really ropey old bird who hangs around near where we live. On various occasions, she has felt the need to accost me in the street to ask my opinion - well mouth off her opinions more like. I was avoiding her on the bus yesterday, but she was asking this girl with a suitcase where she had been. The girl was all polite, and said "I've just been to Paris for the weekend actually." Ropey bird thought about this for a moment, and said "France. I've heard it's a fucking shit hole". Happy with this affirmation of her deep bigotry, she gathered up her daughter (who looked deeply interbred) and waddled off the bus.
My point? As usual, I don't really have one.
I am also interested at the moment in the crossover in specialities that journalists seem to have, having read a review of Crufts by someone who usually writes the TV pages for The Guardian. Is it just a promotion thing? You do the obituaries, and then the travel, and then the TV pages, and then Crufts, and then international security? I think AA Gill - who I hate for lots of reasons, not least of all because he wears hats the whole time - writes approx two thirds of The Sunday Times nowadays, sharing his oily thoughts on subjects as varied as TV and restaurants. At least Jeremy Clarkson sticks to his own particular areas of interest, which is being rude about anyone who is not like him. (Maybe we can expect some articles on international security from him in the near future since that particular agenda seems to be discussed mostly in those terms.)
It would be kind of cool if you were part of a cult, because then there would just be someone telling you what do to and go and see the whole time. ("I was thinking of going to see Hot Fuzz this evening." "Oh, don't bother with that. You've only watched The Reason Our Leader Is Omnipotent thirty times. Why don't you give that another go?" "How about the new Gilbert and George exhibition?" "But you've not worshipped at our Leader's shrine for at least ninety minutes. His 23rd wife sculpted it you know." )
Actually, I think being in a cult would be rubbish, unless you were the cult leader. But I do quite like the idea of finite choices in your film-going or whatever. It would make things easier. (Although one of the many nice things about being married is that you can stop pretending to like non-English language films to try and impress women.)
Speaking of things foreign, there is this really ropey old bird who hangs around near where we live. On various occasions, she has felt the need to accost me in the street to ask my opinion - well mouth off her opinions more like. I was avoiding her on the bus yesterday, but she was asking this girl with a suitcase where she had been. The girl was all polite, and said "I've just been to Paris for the weekend actually." Ropey bird thought about this for a moment, and said "France. I've heard it's a fucking shit hole". Happy with this affirmation of her deep bigotry, she gathered up her daughter (who looked deeply interbred) and waddled off the bus.
My point? As usual, I don't really have one.
Mar 9, 2007
Awaiting Proofing
So my little exercise worked yesterday. If you put nasty words in your blog, you get nasty advertising. (Incidentally, I disagree with blokewho's problem with me associating christian evangelism with right wing politics, but I may be a little biased having spent quite a lot of time researching the pro-life movement in a different life - mine, not theirs. [I also wasted five minutes of my life yesterday reading about how much this current Pope disapproved of his predecessor's decision to go on stage with Bob Dylan a while ago. Don't Popes have more important things to be worrying about? Maybe not. And I guess they think they are infallible, so whatever they say goes. I wonder if the Pope blogs. He should. He'd be good on the self-validation side of things. ])
Yesterday also saw Styx trundling back into househusbandnot comment land with his dictates about commas. He and W'aunch should set up a course called 'Punctuation For Chuffers'. I think blokewho has already offered his (full) colon services in the first coffee break after Waunch's three hour presentation on why we should love semi-colons.
Actually, Waunch was over here for supper the other night, and he confessed to me that he feels that his public image on hhn is not what it ought to be. He has asked me to share the following about him: he is capable of drinking a bottle of Venezuelan whisky, and then playing a Led Zeppelin song of your choice on the guitar. This is actually true. I saw him do it the very first time I met him. It kind of made me want to be his friend.
Not a vast amount going on here today - well there is, but it is mostly about the real world and me trying to get a whole load of writing done for that publishing company I may have mentioned I was doing some work for this month. And fighting - very hard -to figure out how to send automated newsletters out to people from that website I work on. And waiting for someone to deliver a report that they want me to proof. (Waunch falls off rocking chair in shock that anyone would want me to proof anything.)
mrs hhn is on a three day course on how people believe stuff, or something like that. She says she can't really tell me too much about it until she finishes the course on Saturday afternoon. So I guess I can look forward to a weekend of her trying out her new spooky skills on me. It is one of the entertainments of being married to a restless self-improver. I particularly enjoyed the weekend a while back when I was used as a target for her new found skill of shooting bolts of energy at people. It worked too, although my reciprocal jumping out of a cupboard at mrs hhn didn't go down too well. (Hey, you work with the tools you've got I guess.)
Incidentally, Crufts on BBC2 was great last night. Random fact: one of my mother's first ever jobs was to hunt down the winner of Crufts the day after the event and try and convince them to say their dog ate a certain dog food. Her boss never spoke to anyone because he was too busy writing a first draft of what eventually became The New Avengers. My dad looked a bit like Steed...
....blah, blah, blah. I could go on for ages today. But won't. I know it is just a distraction from the work I need to be getting on with.
Have a nice weekend hhn x
Yesterday also saw Styx trundling back into househusbandnot comment land with his dictates about commas. He and W'aunch should set up a course called 'Punctuation For Chuffers'. I think blokewho has already offered his (full) colon services in the first coffee break after Waunch's three hour presentation on why we should love semi-colons.
Actually, Waunch was over here for supper the other night, and he confessed to me that he feels that his public image on hhn is not what it ought to be. He has asked me to share the following about him: he is capable of drinking a bottle of Venezuelan whisky, and then playing a Led Zeppelin song of your choice on the guitar. This is actually true. I saw him do it the very first time I met him. It kind of made me want to be his friend.
Not a vast amount going on here today - well there is, but it is mostly about the real world and me trying to get a whole load of writing done for that publishing company I may have mentioned I was doing some work for this month. And fighting - very hard -to figure out how to send automated newsletters out to people from that website I work on. And waiting for someone to deliver a report that they want me to proof. (Waunch falls off rocking chair in shock that anyone would want me to proof anything.)
mrs hhn is on a three day course on how people believe stuff, or something like that. She says she can't really tell me too much about it until she finishes the course on Saturday afternoon. So I guess I can look forward to a weekend of her trying out her new spooky skills on me. It is one of the entertainments of being married to a restless self-improver. I particularly enjoyed the weekend a while back when I was used as a target for her new found skill of shooting bolts of energy at people. It worked too, although my reciprocal jumping out of a cupboard at mrs hhn didn't go down too well. (Hey, you work with the tools you've got I guess.)
Incidentally, Crufts on BBC2 was great last night. Random fact: one of my mother's first ever jobs was to hunt down the winner of Crufts the day after the event and try and convince them to say their dog ate a certain dog food. Her boss never spoke to anyone because he was too busy writing a first draft of what eventually became The New Avengers. My dad looked a bit like Steed...
....blah, blah, blah. I could go on for ages today. But won't. I know it is just a distraction from the work I need to be getting on with.
Have a nice weekend hhn x
Mar 7, 2007
Advertising On HHN
Since yesterday's blog (self) realisation that I am not a homophobe because I blogged about the fact I am not a homophobe, I have been trying to think up other good (therapeutic) reasons for blogging. But I can't think of any, other than the fact that my blog quite often makes me laugh...oh bugger. I'm breaking another of my blogging rules about writing about blogging on a blog, which is kinda up there with wanting to stand on the pin head with the angel, or googling yourself more than once every three months.
Speaking of Google, a friend pointed out that they (Google) had allowed some mad right wing church to advertise on my blog yesterday, presumably because I had the word homophobe in it and they have some sort of cross check for anti-gay sites so that they (the advertisers) can seek out new recruits to their 'godly' evangelical mission. Hey, traffic's traffic, but I object to this sort of match-making. It doesn't allow for irony...duh. Google is American. As was the church. But let's not revisit the irony/USA thing again just now.
Anyway, let's try it out again. (If at this point you never hear from me again, it will be because I have been openly trying to work out how Google thinks, which is apparently not only a 24 occupation for many many people, but also anti-Google = probable banishment from using their blog sites. So if I type in things like homosexual, mixed marriage, Judas Priest, pre-marital sex, and I hate rodeo, we will see what sort of match-make Google makes with the advertisers. Check it out. It will be both random and connected.
Which is kid of where the whole search and match and web 2.0 seems to be going at the moment. Neither one thing, nor the other, until we are told what is was going on later down the line. Which is not sufficiently web 2.0y for me. I do genuinely want to connect with people who are interested in the stuff I am interested in. I do genuinely want to hear from advertisers who have stuff they want to sell that match my interests - well not really. But I do genuinely want to be able to write about homophobia without effectively being coerced into advertising some nutszo right wing church in Utah.
I am actually interested to see what happens next. Do I get a Google black mark? Do they start advertising penis enlargement products on my blog? Do they start tracking you in case you have read Catcher In The Rye?
But of course I will never find out. although I do ultimately blame myself for signing up to the adverts in the first place. Way back when I started househusbandnot, I did actually think I would make some money out of the advertising. (Although I hasten to add that this was not the primary reason for doing the blog. That was so I could self-validate on stuff.) But having earned approx 10 bucks in advertising - half of which the Wauch claims I owe him because he proofs my blog every day - I now just see the adverts as a distraction rather than an opportunity. And a distraction that I hope does not distract you from the fact that I am not a homophobe. Honest. I read about the fact that I'm not on my blog yesterday.
Speaking of Google, a friend pointed out that they (Google) had allowed some mad right wing church to advertise on my blog yesterday, presumably because I had the word homophobe in it and they have some sort of cross check for anti-gay sites so that they (the advertisers) can seek out new recruits to their 'godly' evangelical mission. Hey, traffic's traffic, but I object to this sort of match-making. It doesn't allow for irony...duh. Google is American. As was the church. But let's not revisit the irony/USA thing again just now.
Anyway, let's try it out again. (If at this point you never hear from me again, it will be because I have been openly trying to work out how Google thinks, which is apparently not only a 24 occupation for many many people, but also anti-Google = probable banishment from using their blog sites. So if I type in things like homosexual, mixed marriage, Judas Priest, pre-marital sex, and I hate rodeo, we will see what sort of match-make Google makes with the advertisers. Check it out. It will be both random and connected.
Which is kid of where the whole search and match and web 2.0 seems to be going at the moment. Neither one thing, nor the other, until we are told what is was going on later down the line. Which is not sufficiently web 2.0y for me. I do genuinely want to connect with people who are interested in the stuff I am interested in. I do genuinely want to hear from advertisers who have stuff they want to sell that match my interests - well not really. But I do genuinely want to be able to write about homophobia without effectively being coerced into advertising some nutszo right wing church in Utah.
I am actually interested to see what happens next. Do I get a Google black mark? Do they start advertising penis enlargement products on my blog? Do they start tracking you in case you have read Catcher In The Rye?
But of course I will never find out. although I do ultimately blame myself for signing up to the adverts in the first place. Way back when I started househusbandnot, I did actually think I would make some money out of the advertising. (Although I hasten to add that this was not the primary reason for doing the blog. That was so I could self-validate on stuff.) But having earned approx 10 bucks in advertising - half of which the Wauch claims I owe him because he proofs my blog every day - I now just see the adverts as a distraction rather than an opportunity. And a distraction that I hope does not distract you from the fact that I am not a homophobe. Honest. I read about the fact that I'm not on my blog yesterday.
Me? Homophobic?
Someone was asking yesterday if I had a problem with gays or lesbians? No, of course not. One of my best friends is gay (he says rather weakly).
I was just dissing gay men and women yesterday because of the whole swimming pool thing. (Actually, I have no evidence that the women I am dissing at the swimming pool are gay. They are merely: better swimmers than me, have an attitude, and hike their swimming costumes around their bodies with a little less grace than..er, other women. And they are quite often quite hairy under the arms.) With the gay men, it is again some jealousy that they are better swimmers than I am. But I do also find the whole cruising thing at pools a bit intrusive. Does that make me homophobic? I really don't know. The other day I was caught in the cross fire of two geezers trying to eye each other up in the pool changing rooms. It didn't make me not like gay people. It was just something going on that I thought should be going on somewhere else. (Does being uptight automatically qualify me for a homophobe card?)
I guess more liberal people than me would argue that homosexuals have fewer places than breeders to meet and get it on. So they use what places they can to do their thing. I guess the fact that I also happen to frequent those places (swimming pools and swimming pool changing rooms) should make me more tolerant of the whole cruising deal. But it doesn't. I go to swimming pools to swim, not to try and get off with people.
I'm thinking aloud here, and wondering if I find it as annoying when straight people flirt with each other at pools? Yes, I do. So, I'm not homophobic. Just uptight. I love blogging. It can really sort out those important issues of the day.
In other news, having the Waunch over for supper tonight. Have had cowboy gear dry cleaned.
I was just dissing gay men and women yesterday because of the whole swimming pool thing. (Actually, I have no evidence that the women I am dissing at the swimming pool are gay. They are merely: better swimmers than me, have an attitude, and hike their swimming costumes around their bodies with a little less grace than..er, other women. And they are quite often quite hairy under the arms.) With the gay men, it is again some jealousy that they are better swimmers than I am. But I do also find the whole cruising thing at pools a bit intrusive. Does that make me homophobic? I really don't know. The other day I was caught in the cross fire of two geezers trying to eye each other up in the pool changing rooms. It didn't make me not like gay people. It was just something going on that I thought should be going on somewhere else. (Does being uptight automatically qualify me for a homophobe card?)
I guess more liberal people than me would argue that homosexuals have fewer places than breeders to meet and get it on. So they use what places they can to do their thing. I guess the fact that I also happen to frequent those places (swimming pools and swimming pool changing rooms) should make me more tolerant of the whole cruising deal. But it doesn't. I go to swimming pools to swim, not to try and get off with people.
I'm thinking aloud here, and wondering if I find it as annoying when straight people flirt with each other at pools? Yes, I do. So, I'm not homophobic. Just uptight. I love blogging. It can really sort out those important issues of the day.
In other news, having the Waunch over for supper tonight. Have had cowboy gear dry cleaned.
Mar 6, 2007
(Some Of The) Things I Think About When I Am Swimming
NUMBERS
...as in I've done five lengths, which is half of 10, which is a tenth of 100, which is two more than a mile and a half, which is 98, which halved is 49, which is almost five x 10, which is...oh, I've done six lengths, which doubled is 12, which is four less than a quarter of a mile, which is a quarter of 64, which is three more than my locker number at prep school, which was 61, which doubled would be six less than two miles, which is...oh, I've done seven lengths, which is a third of 21, which is when I was 21 and had long hair, which was longer than it is now, which costs £10 to get cut, which is maybe 100 quid a year (my hair grows quickly), which is five quid less than my gym membership, which is..oh, I've done eight lengths, which is a third of 24, which is two large boxes of eggs, which would make eight omlettes, which are nice, which...oh, I've done nine lengths, which is half of eighteen, can you get married at 18 or 16, 16 is how old I was when I first went to Greece, which was with my mum, who I first remember as being 41, which tripled is five lengths less than two miles, oh..I've done 10 lengths which is half of 20, which is usually when I stop to adjust my goggles, but today I'm going to do it at 32 lengths, which is half a mile, which is 64, which is how old that guitarist from The Police is, or is he 62, which is in 52 lengths time, oh, I've done eleven lengths so in 51 lengths time, which is...well you get the numbers idea. And my maths is terrible, so I keep having to double check these figures as I plough up and down the pool. But it kills time, and puts me into a sort of numbers trance not thinking about the actual swimming, which makes it easier to swim.
AND LETTERS
...as in counting out a stroke to each letter of Smiths lyrics, or to the spelling out of the names of bands I have seen live, or the titles of songs I can honestly say I can play from the beginning to the end on the guitar (which takes about half a length), or the names of old girlfriends, or animals, which can evolve into a good groove trying to think of an animal whose name starts with the last letter of the last one (elephant, tiger, rhino, ostrich, hen etc.), which in turn can take me onto countries that I have even visited - spelling them out again per stroke, which usually takes me back to Smiths lyrics, or trying to remember numbers in French, which can get me back to the numbers (in English) thing.
This whole - deeply relaxing - process is much helped by the fact that I have just re-joined my swanky gym, and no longer - well not just now anyway - have to swim in a public pool, where most of one's thoughts are on whether or not there is actually sufficient room to get a full length in without being kicked in the chin by the person in front of you or being slapped on the ankle by the person behind you, or whether or not that small child in the shallow end is looking quite so pleased in its mother's arms because it is having a piss, or being asked by the pool attendants to hurry up because the over 60s aquatic club are joining you in the the 'Getting There' lane. (Other lanes at public pools are called things like 'Fast And Furious' (for which read male homosexuals), and 'Slow Lane' (for which read *&^%ing losers who technically are swimming so slowly that they are not moving at all). I'm not a great swimmer, so I usually went for the 'Getting There' lane, which is usually populated by overweight middle aged men (aka me), bull dykes who are really frustrated that they can't swim as fast as male homosexuals so can't join them in the gay swimathon in 'Fast And Furious', the odd fading blond woman who should be in the Slow Lane but is in denial about how old she is, French or Italian men, and middle aged business men whose wives have left them and who are trying to get fit to impress their PAs. This final population can be easily spotted by the brevity of their swimming trunks, and the fact that they usually have their swimming goggles on upside down. (Actually, I guess there is quite a close correlation between the business men and us fatties, although we at least have the decency to wear big shorts rather than speedo ball grippers.)
But the swimming lane politics is all currently a thing of the past*. Back at my swanky gym, if I time it right, I can be the only person in the pool, and can trudge up and down without a care in the world, except for what a third of 32 is, and whether or not it was cheating swimming three lengths to T.H.E A.R.T.I.S.T F.O.R.M.E.R.L.Y K.N.O.W.N A.S P.R.I.N.C.E when technically I don't think I ever saw him live when he was using that name. Swimming karmic heaven.
*This isn't by any means true, and I will come back to the people who swim at Swanky Gym another time soon.
Mar 5, 2007
Being Grown Up (An Occasional Series)
With his parents having moved to Nairobi recently, I may have mentioned that I have been feeling the need to step up my godfatherly duties for my eleven year old godson who is at a very posh boarding school in Oxford. So this weekend, mrs househusbandnot and I organised to down to Oxford for the day on Sunday to hang out with my godson and to attend an open evening for parents - or parent substitutes - whose kids are being taught musical instruments at the school. (My godson is being taught electric guitar.)
Me having spent much of Friday manicking around London trying to buy suitably respectable clothes for this parents evening, mrs hhn and I headed off to stay at a bnb in a village outside Oxford on the Saturday evening, and have supper with some mrs hhn work contacts who live locally. This was one of the strangest evenings I have ever had, mostly - well entirely - because the couple we had supper with are BOTH life coaches, a dynamic which I just couldn't get my head around really, mostly because I spent the whole evening being asked open-ended questions by both of them, and not getting a single straight answer out of either of them. How long it gets them to both get round a supermarket I dread to think. ("Should we get some apples?" "Hmm, Apples? What do you think of apples?" "Apples? Look there are some over there. Do you really like apples?" "NLP has a p in it. So do apples? Do you like words with ps in them?" "Why do you mention that?" "I didn't you did. Go on?" etc etc etc etc.) At one point during supper, I got into such a lather about what I was supposed to be being and saying and trying to work out about myself that I had to go outside and bay at the half-eclipsed pink moon - which was kind of satisfying since it gave me a reminder of primordial life before life coaching was invented.
Anyway, thanks to me and some fantastically crap map reading, we arrived late to take my godson out the next day. He didn't seem to mind, and was happy wandering around Oxford for the day, which we did as the rain gradually turned our parent-evening-friendly smart clothes into sodden shadows of their former respectable selves. (mrs hhn also has hair that turns all Slash from Guns And Roses when it gets wet, which gave an added edge to the whole trying not to look too dishevelled/rained upon for the parents evening thing later.)
I think the day went okay. Over lunch, I tried asking my godson what he wanted me to ask his music teacher about his guitar playing. He wasn't that interested in making things that easy for me, but later did confess that he can play Hey Joe with his guitar behind his back, so I figured his guitar teacher was probably a pretty cool guy. By the time we needed to return him to school, we had filled my godson up with bagels and ice cream and bought him HMV vouchers and a new game for his PS2, so I think we got away with it.
Having dropped Jim Hendrix back at his school house, mrs hhn and I went to The Morse Bar at The Randolph Hotel to try and smooth out our wet clothes and wait - as I have often done in wonder - to see what effect the rain would take on mrs hhn's hair. Providentially, mrs hhn was spared an 80s perm attack, and we sat and drank tea in the bar, marvelling at a series of completely bewildered locals milling around like stoned sheep trying to work out how the hotel worked - where they should sit to have a drink or eat, where to put their coats, whether or not to talk ot the attentive hotel staff etc. I think it must be an Oxford intellectuals thing, and all the people who came into the bar had spent the afternoon in deep conversation about Greek poetry, and then thought it would be fun to try and interact with the real world again. I have never seen such gentle inability to deal with that real world and its related accessories like arm chairs and menus and waiters and doors and gravity. mrs hhn and I and the three Russian mobsters in the bar enjoyed this evolving balletic display of incompetence for an hour, before she and I headed back to the school and the music evening. (I considered inviting the Russians, but got a look from mrs hhn.)
Early, we sat in the car outside the music schools, with me eating crisps and trying to figure out how to be grown up, having just forced mrs hhn to have a game of which animal's tail would you have if you had a choice. While we were waiting, I was accosted by some nutter - who turned out to be a teacher at the school - who told me his life story in four seconds [this happens to me a lot btw] about a recent six months he had had on a camper van in Italy. Deciding that he had been checking up on us to see if we had a legitimate reason for loitering around the school grounds in a car at 5.30 in the evening, we steeled ourselves and went into the parents evening.
Much confusion at the registration desk where a small man who looked like Captain Manwaring from Dad's Army barked at me in some sort of welcome, and mrs hhn staring at me to calm me down. (We'd had a long conversation earlier about me not being allowed to be frightened of teachers anymore.) And we were pointed to the room where 20 or so music teachers were huddled behind desks, nervously awaiting parents.
There are many of mrs hhn's skills and qualities I take for granted, not least of all her capacity to stop me from bolting for the nearest exit any time I am expected to be normal. While I was desperately trying to avoid eye contact with any teachers in case it showed on my face that I got a D at Maths O level and own a Stone Roses album, mrs hhns dragged me over to where my godson's guitar teacher was waiting and sat us down and had a normal conversation with him about...well normal stuff like how my godson is getting on and if he is turning up for lessons and if he needed a new guitar etc. (At one point, I think I made a rather feeble remark about Suede or something.) I guess we were there for 15 minutes. We got away with it too, thanks to mrs hhn (who has already sent a two page email report on the meeting back to my godson's parents in Nairobi).
It may be an occasional series, but I do try and thank God regularly that mrs hhn is there to make me appear vaguely grown up to the outside world. And with that thanks in mind, I am prepared to go on socialising with life coaches - as long as there is a moon I can howl at occasionally.
Me having spent much of Friday manicking around London trying to buy suitably respectable clothes for this parents evening, mrs hhn and I headed off to stay at a bnb in a village outside Oxford on the Saturday evening, and have supper with some mrs hhn work contacts who live locally. This was one of the strangest evenings I have ever had, mostly - well entirely - because the couple we had supper with are BOTH life coaches, a dynamic which I just couldn't get my head around really, mostly because I spent the whole evening being asked open-ended questions by both of them, and not getting a single straight answer out of either of them. How long it gets them to both get round a supermarket I dread to think. ("Should we get some apples?" "Hmm, Apples? What do you think of apples?" "Apples? Look there are some over there. Do you really like apples?" "NLP has a p in it. So do apples? Do you like words with ps in them?" "Why do you mention that?" "I didn't you did. Go on?" etc etc etc etc.) At one point during supper, I got into such a lather about what I was supposed to be being and saying and trying to work out about myself that I had to go outside and bay at the half-eclipsed pink moon - which was kind of satisfying since it gave me a reminder of primordial life before life coaching was invented.
Anyway, thanks to me and some fantastically crap map reading, we arrived late to take my godson out the next day. He didn't seem to mind, and was happy wandering around Oxford for the day, which we did as the rain gradually turned our parent-evening-friendly smart clothes into sodden shadows of their former respectable selves. (mrs hhn also has hair that turns all Slash from Guns And Roses when it gets wet, which gave an added edge to the whole trying not to look too dishevelled/rained upon for the parents evening thing later.)
I think the day went okay. Over lunch, I tried asking my godson what he wanted me to ask his music teacher about his guitar playing. He wasn't that interested in making things that easy for me, but later did confess that he can play Hey Joe with his guitar behind his back, so I figured his guitar teacher was probably a pretty cool guy. By the time we needed to return him to school, we had filled my godson up with bagels and ice cream and bought him HMV vouchers and a new game for his PS2, so I think we got away with it.
Having dropped Jim Hendrix back at his school house, mrs hhn and I went to The Morse Bar at The Randolph Hotel to try and smooth out our wet clothes and wait - as I have often done in wonder - to see what effect the rain would take on mrs hhn's hair. Providentially, mrs hhn was spared an 80s perm attack, and we sat and drank tea in the bar, marvelling at a series of completely bewildered locals milling around like stoned sheep trying to work out how the hotel worked - where they should sit to have a drink or eat, where to put their coats, whether or not to talk ot the attentive hotel staff etc. I think it must be an Oxford intellectuals thing, and all the people who came into the bar had spent the afternoon in deep conversation about Greek poetry, and then thought it would be fun to try and interact with the real world again. I have never seen such gentle inability to deal with that real world and its related accessories like arm chairs and menus and waiters and doors and gravity. mrs hhn and I and the three Russian mobsters in the bar enjoyed this evolving balletic display of incompetence for an hour, before she and I headed back to the school and the music evening. (I considered inviting the Russians, but got a look from mrs hhn.)
Early, we sat in the car outside the music schools, with me eating crisps and trying to figure out how to be grown up, having just forced mrs hhn to have a game of which animal's tail would you have if you had a choice. While we were waiting, I was accosted by some nutter - who turned out to be a teacher at the school - who told me his life story in four seconds [this happens to me a lot btw] about a recent six months he had had on a camper van in Italy. Deciding that he had been checking up on us to see if we had a legitimate reason for loitering around the school grounds in a car at 5.30 in the evening, we steeled ourselves and went into the parents evening.
Much confusion at the registration desk where a small man who looked like Captain Manwaring from Dad's Army barked at me in some sort of welcome, and mrs hhn staring at me to calm me down. (We'd had a long conversation earlier about me not being allowed to be frightened of teachers anymore.) And we were pointed to the room where 20 or so music teachers were huddled behind desks, nervously awaiting parents.
There are many of mrs hhn's skills and qualities I take for granted, not least of all her capacity to stop me from bolting for the nearest exit any time I am expected to be normal. While I was desperately trying to avoid eye contact with any teachers in case it showed on my face that I got a D at Maths O level and own a Stone Roses album, mrs hhns dragged me over to where my godson's guitar teacher was waiting and sat us down and had a normal conversation with him about...well normal stuff like how my godson is getting on and if he is turning up for lessons and if he needed a new guitar etc. (At one point, I think I made a rather feeble remark about Suede or something.) I guess we were there for 15 minutes. We got away with it too, thanks to mrs hhn (who has already sent a two page email report on the meeting back to my godson's parents in Nairobi).
It may be an occasional series, but I do try and thank God regularly that mrs hhn is there to make me appear vaguely grown up to the outside world. And with that thanks in mind, I am prepared to go on socialising with life coaches - as long as there is a moon I can howl at occasionally.
Mar 1, 2007
hhn Don't Surf
"Glad as we are to have you back, hhn, its dismaying to see you trot out that tired old canard about Americans having no sense of irony. Of all the lazy cliches that dog Anglo-American relations, that one's probably the most tedious. In fact, there isn't a Readers Digest Street in the Hamptons, yet dozens of Brits at dinner parties across the land choose to believe there is. Now surely that's ironic? "
To whatever sad (*&% it was who sent me this comment yesterday, go be dismayed. I'm glad you are dismayed. Go and vacate in The Hamptons. Americans STILL do not get irony...oh another househusbandnot list...because:
1) Paula Abdul is still famous there
2) They (the white ones anyway) think that racial integration is about giving the black shoe shine boy a generous tip (see also http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070224/ap_on_re_us/racial_slur_conference_1 from this morning's yahoo news)
3) They never understood The Clash (What is there not to understand about a song called I'm So Bored Of The U.S.A?)
4) They thought Boy George was a girl
5) The arch non-ironist of all time Victoria Beckham has just moved there (so she can fit in)
6) They have manged to convince themselves that Condoleezza Rice is still just waiting for the right man
7) They have names like Condoleezza
8) They think Gore Vidal is more dangerous that George Bush
10) They freak out if anyone ever touches the Stars And Stripes but spend just about all of all of their own time trying to destroy/ignore other countries
11) About 89% of them go to some sort of church
12) I once met an American who could not understand why I was laughing so much when I asked if Crunch was his real name
13) They think abroad is a woman
14) They think wearing a blazer is acceptable
15) They think that putting some grapes and a peach slice on the side of a plate of burgers and chips makes it healthy
16) They really did try and ban the use of the term 'french fries'
17) They were surprised when Mike Tyson turned out to be nuts
18) They believe they are free
19) Right after you have tried to explain to them that Europe is not the capital of London, they look genuinely surprised that you have not heard of their local basketball team
20) And they think Aerosmith rock
And please, please, please, if anyone wants to say that I am like Alanis Morissette and don't understand the true meaning of irony, please don't. Or I will have to come round to your place and insert an amphetamine-injected rattlesnake up your blazer sleeve as an ironic Friday gift.
Have a good weekend (y'all) x
To whatever sad (*&% it was who sent me this comment yesterday, go be dismayed. I'm glad you are dismayed. Go and vacate in The Hamptons. Americans STILL do not get irony...oh another househusbandnot list...because:
1) Paula Abdul is still famous there
2) They (the white ones anyway) think that racial integration is about giving the black shoe shine boy a generous tip (see also http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070224/ap_on_re_us/racial_slur_conference_1 from this morning's yahoo news)
3) They never understood The Clash (What is there not to understand about a song called I'm So Bored Of The U.S.A?)
4) They thought Boy George was a girl
5) The arch non-ironist of all time Victoria Beckham has just moved there (so she can fit in)
6) They have manged to convince themselves that Condoleezza Rice is still just waiting for the right man
7) They have names like Condoleezza
8) They think Gore Vidal is more dangerous that George Bush
10) They freak out if anyone ever touches the Stars And Stripes but spend just about all of all of their own time trying to destroy/ignore other countries
11) About 89% of them go to some sort of church
12) I once met an American who could not understand why I was laughing so much when I asked if Crunch was his real name
13) They think abroad is a woman
14) They think wearing a blazer is acceptable
15) They think that putting some grapes and a peach slice on the side of a plate of burgers and chips makes it healthy
16) They really did try and ban the use of the term 'french fries'
17) They were surprised when Mike Tyson turned out to be nuts
18) They believe they are free
19) Right after you have tried to explain to them that Europe is not the capital of London, they look genuinely surprised that you have not heard of their local basketball team
20) And they think Aerosmith rock
And please, please, please, if anyone wants to say that I am like Alanis Morissette and don't understand the true meaning of irony, please don't. Or I will have to come round to your place and insert an amphetamine-injected rattlesnake up your blazer sleeve as an ironic Friday gift.
Have a good weekend (y'all) x
Fair Enough
...on your various dissing of me flaking out re daily posts, for which I apologise. While I was mourning my decline with some Thunderbird wine and a black handkerchief, others of you were out there doing important research http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_oYlJnTXtvA for which many thanks from Bad in Suffolk.
If the blues ain't nothing but a bad man feeling down, then blogging ain't nothing unless you actually have anything to say.
All I am doing is having these really weird dreams about cutting and pasting texts and moving them around a huge board, which is sometimes my body and other times a massive presentation that I am giving to some sort of entirely pointless old-fashioned organisation like NATO or something. It is kind of Dr Strangelove meets War Games meets Space Invaders with words. I blame the website I am working on, which has now reached a massive 200 pages with my daily populating.
In other news, had supper with my sister last night, who was complaining about Americans and what a lack of irony they have. I asked for an example, and she said one of the most desirable streets in The Hamptons is called Readers Digest Street. She wins.
Today, off to help a mate out with some marketing problems he is having with his publishing company. I assume this will involve a lot of sitting around complaining about how people are too stupid to understand us. Men, huh?
If the blues ain't nothing but a bad man feeling down, then blogging ain't nothing unless you actually have anything to say.
All I am doing is having these really weird dreams about cutting and pasting texts and moving them around a huge board, which is sometimes my body and other times a massive presentation that I am giving to some sort of entirely pointless old-fashioned organisation like NATO or something. It is kind of Dr Strangelove meets War Games meets Space Invaders with words. I blame the website I am working on, which has now reached a massive 200 pages with my daily populating.
In other news, had supper with my sister last night, who was complaining about Americans and what a lack of irony they have. I asked for an example, and she said one of the most desirable streets in The Hamptons is called Readers Digest Street. She wins.
Today, off to help a mate out with some marketing problems he is having with his publishing company. I assume this will involve a lot of sitting around complaining about how people are too stupid to understand us. Men, huh?
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