At the height of my fever yesterday, I finished my first full length sci-fi story, called Wyrmhole, which I thought was quite impressive given that I could barely remember my own name for most of the day.
And in the cold light of the following afternoon, it feels like death has smeared itself all over me, and isn’t going away anytime soon.
Enjoy your dinner folks!
I write.
And invariably, when I tell people this, I’m (at the very least) regarded with suspicion. I don’t really know why – it’s not contagious.
Oh wait, you write too? Oh, you want to… I see… uh-huh… Wow, yeah. Interesting. You should really go for it.
But you know what? It’s not interesting. And it’s actually not an amazing idea at all. You know, the one you’ve been sitting on all these years; the one about the aliens coming here with their advanced farming practices, and the twin brothers with diametrically opposed personalities, and how the whole thing’s really just a social commentary on how we are killing our planet, and that if we don’t learn how to get along, that soon it will all be too late? Yeah, that one.
Sure, I’m nodding and looking kind of interested, but every man past the age of eighteen knows how to fake that. Women do it with orgasms: men do it with conversation.
No, your story idea doesn’t sound all that entertaining or even vaguely marketable these days. But if you’d like to step inside my time machine and head for the early 1950s – when your plot wasn’t a thinly-veiled cliche; your protagonist wasn’t a cut-and-paste job from every sci-fi story ever written; and your political/ecological resolution didn’t depend on the reader missing a plot-hole you could pilot the Millenium Falcon through – then I’m sure you’ll make millions. But, quite frankly, the only thing that would make the idea any less enticing to prospective publishers is if you told me the whole thing was a dream…
Oh right, so he wakes up at the end? Uh-huh, I understand.
Yeah. Good luck with that. It sounds awesome.
Whenever I have the audacity to question what a woman is wearing – and I appreciate I am on shaky ground by doing so – the reply is usually: “it’s the fashion”, as it was earlier this afternoon. I think women like to fool themselves, and use that as a standard response whenever a man raises an eyebrow at their attire.
However I can assure you, it is not the fashion, nor does it do anything for you; and even if it is the fashion – and you know because you saw Adriana Lima rock it on the catwalk in Milan – it doesn’t therefore mean it looks fantastic on your outsized frame. Yes, heads will turn to look, but trust me, it’s not because they think you look good. The women do not envy you and the men do not want to get with you. It’s like people slowing down to look at an accident by the roadside.
Wear something appropriate… please.
For some reason, my eight year old, 800 word flash fiction, My Wife Glows in the Dark – which has been published legitimately on multiple occasions, both in print and online – has now found its way over here without my prior knowledge.
My Spanish does not go much beyond the song that Freddie Mercury did with that fat woman for the Olympics a while ago, so I will have to (grudgingly) accept the validity of the translation. Below this is what I initially thought was my original English language version, however it’s not quite… right. It’s like it has been re-translated from Spanish, rather than just pasted in as it was written: a copy of a copy, if you will. I would ask, in future, if anyone insists on lifting my work and putting it on their website, at least have the decency to use it, and not some bastardised version you have fed through Google Translator.
Unfortunately, it’s not the first time I have discovered someone replicating this story, although at least this time an attempt has been made to attribute it to me with the (rather lengthy) biography at the bottom of the page, which begins:
“Brian Ross is one of the most honored and respected journalists in the country.”
The problem is, of course, this ain’t me, although he does sound like a good guy.
The (judging by her picture) teenage girl to whom this website belongs, goes on to talk about my noted undercover investigation of nuclear smuggling; and how I was the first reporter to reveal new details on the existence of secret CIA prisons in Eastern Europe; neither of which I can recall, and both of which I am fairly sure would have involved some extensive time away from my regular office job and a higher clearance level than that which I currently possess.
I wonder if anyone ever asks him what other stories he has written.
You can read My Wife Glows in the Dark in its native version, if you care to, over here.
All right: you only get one superpower. Which one would it be?
Most guys – and I know this even without asking them – will tell you that, of course, it would have to be the old standard, x-ray vision. But I don’t know. Is this really such a great superpower? I mean, it isn’t like in those old movies: where you are miraculously able to see through the outermost layer of clothing of whichever person you are looking at, but somehow your powers do not allow you to penetrate even the thinnest of undergarment fabrics. If Hollywood is to be believed, you are then invariably presented with (hopefully) a woman in her (unfortunately) not so sexy underwear. No, true x-ray vision would not be in the slightest bit exciting. I don’t know any people who get overly aroused by a particularly long femur, or a lovely curvature to the clavicle.
Now, the power of invisibility is a marginally better choice. I can – initially, at least – get on board with that. But, apart from the (admittedly childish) thrill of being in the women’s changing rooms when you shouldn’t be, what else can you really do with it? Sure, you could hang about after you leave a room to find out what your friends really think of you (or your boss, if you’re at work), but trust me – that will never work out well for you. You’re probably an asshole, and even if you’re not, you’re never as well liked as you think you are. Andrew from Sales thinks you talk too much; Wendy from Accounting doesn’t like the clothes you wear; and Sandra the canteen lady only laughs at your sexist jokes because she’s too nice not to.
I think the power of flight has to be the one to go for. Although it has the added value of serving to impress the ladies (even with the underwear on the outside), the crucial point is that it has actual potential beyond those schoolyard fantasies that x-ray vision and invisibility offers. You wouldn’t have to battle the morning rush hour, so you would never be late for work. You’d have no more worries about where to park your car, and as a result of that, there would be no more paying for parking your car. Awesome, eh? If that isn’t good enough, you’re up with the fresh air, above all that inner-city pollution, getting the exercise you’re probably otherwise avoiding.
I appreciate that every silver lining has a cloud, and it’s probably no good for those of you who don’t deal with heights very well… but just fly a little closer to the ground. Simple. You’ll still get to where you’re going. You’ll maybe annoy a few people, because you’ll be knocking off hats and distracting the drivers (who don’t have the power of flight), but they’d never catch you, right?
It would be fantastic for holidays as well. Just think how good it would be not to have to spend two hours before you even board a plane; wrestling with your luggage because you think you’re over the allowance; buying magazines you don’t really want to read, and chocolate bars you really shouldn’t be eating; watching the departure screens to see exactly how long you’re going to have to wait before you eventually take off; and joking with the check-in girl that yes, you packed everything yourself – how else could you be confident the bomb was secured in the false bottom?
Just put on your cape, grab your suitcase, and away you go.
Of course, if your bags really are that heavy, perhaps you’ll want a touch of super-strength too.
No, that’s not me. Well, I don’t think it is…
Anyway, today I had my first hot towel shave – you know, that dubious homo-erotic tradition, masquerading as male grooming (not the grisly concept of befriending young boys) in a world where most of the pampering belongs to the women.
It’s a strange institution: a relic of a more innocent time. It comes from an era when a man spending an hour in the bathroom was exclusively down to last night’s curry, and not because he is moisturising, exfoliating, flossing, brushing, spraying, smoothing, and applying both pre-shave and after-shave lotions.
People say the hot towel shave is one of those things you have to experience once in your life. You know, like it’s a rite of passage or something. Well – although I certainly have more pressing concerns than the three millimetres of facial hair I occasionally sport – I’m a sucker for anything that increases my testosterone levels, so I thought I’d give it a try.
It was quite humbling to sit there while another man – whom I had only met three minutes earlier – held a blade to my throat, smiling (and occasionally whistling) while he did so. Thankfully he didn’t make the obvious gag of telling me that this was his first time; nor did he pretend to suffer from a nervous tic or muscular deficiency, which forced his bladed hand to spasm in a mildly comic fashion across my jugular – both of which I had half-expected upon making the appointment.
After the shave, he gave me a seated massage (I was, not him); rubbed my face until I thought he was going to remove the top layer of my skin; cracked my back (and what sounded like a rib); then held my hand in what I thought was a street-style handshake variation I had not seen, but was more likely some kind of reflexology thing. After all that, I momentarily thought I was going to be offered a happy ending as well, but fortunately things didn’t go that far.
I’m not sure it’s something I would do again. There’s only so long I can feel comfortable with a man touching my face, before I start to ponder the softness of his touch, and how precisely manicured his nails are; and I’m not entirely convinced I am more of a man for having put my life in those (admittedly, rather tender) Turkish hands, but it was certainly an experience I won’t forget anytime soon.
Now, if you don’t mind I’m going to shelve the masculinity for forty-three minutes: Glee is about to start…
Yes, I know: my nose is substantially larger.
I lost my sense of smell a couple of months ago, which I thought was symptomatic of a larger issue, but it came back – without warning – this morning. It’s quite handy for milk, socks, toast, and knowing which bathroom cubicle to avoid, so I’m pleased it’s finally returned.
However it has brought to my attention that most of the smells in this world are negative ones, and not only that, but the nice smells – deodorants, perfumes, toothpaste, mouthwash – are invariably created in order to conceal the fact that (in the morning, at least) we really don’t smell that good.
When I go to work it’s pollution, poor drainage and pigeon shit, and maybe – if the wind is just right – I drive past a bakery and catch a whiff of freshly-baked bread… not that I really notice it over the stench of the overflowing bins that the council have yet to collect.
The office is no better, especially on warm days. Every sweaty odour is trapped. As good a concept as it is, recycled air is actually just a nice way of saying that if Fred farts at his desk in the morning, I will probably smell it a few hours later; along with Jerry’s morning workout, Laura’s broccoli breakfast, and that cheese in the fridge that nobody seems to want.
My coat smells of smoke – not because I do, but because Steven hangs his coat next to mine and he does. Like the proverbial chimney. The smell then migrates to me. In an attempt to mask his aroma, he chews strawberry flavoured gum, which doesn’t work, because that’s like jumping into the Pacific and taking a towel.
It’s nice to get out of the office at the end of the day to breathe some fresh, clean air… only, the overriding smell upon exiting the building is the homeless guy across the road who seems to believe that because he doesn’t have a fixed address, it is acceptable not to have had a wash since 2006, despite the fact that there is a perfectly serviceable (and mildly lemon-scented) fountain nearby.
So it’s back home past the pollution, poor drainage, and pigeon shit, in a car that – because it has been sitting in the car park for ten hours – now smells like my office, only this time the air being recycled is my own. Fortunately, I have a Magic Tree hanging from my rear view mirror to combat this… except, it’s coconut, which seems odd as coconuts are not particularly renowned for having a strong smell. I could fill my car with actual coconuts and I would still smell that homeless guy across the street.
But now I’m home, and… either:
As disgusting as options 1 and 2 are, only option 3 has the potential to kill me so, careful not to switch on any lights, I tiptoe to the kitchen… and find the lovely bunch of flowers on the worktop for which I have not yet found a vase. As sweet-smelling as they are (carnations, daffodils, and roses), their scent is completely masked by:
4. The power has short-circuited, and the food in my fridge has spoiled.
Oh well…
Nine years ago today, my dad died. He was fifty-one years old.
Now, I’m not going to pretend he was the greatest father in the world: those who know me and those who knew him know that simply was not the case. He drank too much; he cheated on my mother more times than I care to remember; he smacked me too hard too often; and for a lot of the time he was with us, he didn’t seem to give a shit about my dreams, my aspirations, or anything that really mattered to me at all. A couple of weeks after he died I even wrote a story about him, the emotions of which were as raw as the draft itself. But – for better or worse – writing is the way I have always expressed these things.
Strangely, I miss my dad more often these days than I used to. Not every day, but more often than I ever thought I would. Back then – towards the end – we didn’t speak much, and we hadn’t done for years. He was on to his second wife and lived a couple of hundred miles away, so I rarely spoke to him and I saw him even less, and that was just the way I liked it. There were a lot of bridges that had crumbled since he left the family he had created, and there was a lot of work that needed to be done to fix them.
I’m not sure what it is I miss about him or feel that I have lost now that he is not here because, as I am sure you have gathered, nobody was knocking on his door and awarding him Daddy of the Year. I suppose I like the idea of that… figure in my life, and I know I wanted to tell him what I thought about how he treated us over the years. So maybe I am just a little pissed off I never got the chance to say these things when he was alive to hear them, or perhaps I just wish he was more like all of those sitcom fathers I see on TV.
But the vitriol has mellowed somewhat over the years, and I guess – although neither of us ever said it – we were working towards becoming friends when he died. Because, in a way, you have to. I think now, if things had carried on the way they were, I may even have forgiven him for most of what he had done over the years. Most.
He never saw me pass my driving test; wasn’t there when I got married; never saw me hold down a proper job; and wasn’t around when I had my first professional publication. I guess you could say – even though I was twenty-seven when he died – that my dad never saw me become a man.
Of course, he never saw me mess things up either – sometimes rather spectacularly – so maybe it comes out fairly even in the end.
Anyway; good, bad or indifferent – today is for the fathers.
Deep and Meaningless – 2005 – Rooster
One of the best songs from a vastly underrated British indie band. This is from their self-titled debut offering. Great, poignant words. It’s a shame they burned out after only two albums.
I’m Your Baby Tonight – 1990 – Whitney Houston
The biggest and best female voice of the eighties started off the nineties with this classic. As far as I’m concerned, this is possibly the most difficult pop song to perform live. Ever.
New York State of Mind – 1976 – Billy Joel
Billy Joel is a master of the melody, but he has always been somewhat overshadowed by his contemporaries, which is a shame because – lyrically – he always has a lot to say.
…not cause any office blackouts.
I blew up my work PC last week – accidentally, of course – and nearly:
a) lost a couple of fingers
b) took an eye out
c) shit myself
Let me tell you, there are a lot of volts going through those cables.
-- Purveyor of Imagination -- 