Wacky In The Noggin And A Boot To The Buttocks

I don’t know what to write sometimes. Hmphh, some writer! Moving on, however...

I think my o.c.d. has been acting up lately. I’ve been thinking that all the books I own need to be in near-perfect condition in order for me to be a ‘proper’ writer because that’s the condition of ‘proper’ writers’ book collections, except I’m told that it isn’t, that I’m just being a little wacky in the noggin, and I think I might perhaps believe that may well be true, quite possibly. Ha-ha.

And I’ve been thinking that my poetry isn’t ‘real’ poetry. I’m not talking ‘real’ in the sense that Yeats or Bukowski or Verlaine is ‘real’, coz that’s really REAL poetry, from the tendons of the earth beneath well-worn slippers, and mine’s certainly not real poetry like their’s – it’s but a fact that few genuine poets exist – at least, I think that’s probably correct – although my slippers are slightly scuffed, shall we say? – so, no, I’m not talking ‘real’ like that. I mean that my poetry doesn’t feel ‘real’ to me (at the moment, anyway) because I don’t have a clear understanding of the varieties of poetic form. Most of my so-called poetry is free-form stuff, but does not, for example, the painter need to be able to draw accurately before legitimately experimenting with line and form? I think there are a lot of sloppy, semi-skilled poets in the world today, myself included; and I feel a pressing urgency to improve my poetical understanding and skills. Yet, am I just talking rubbish? I mean, perhaps Bukowski couldn’t adequately descant upon accentual-syllabic verse in relation to the iambic pentameter and its caesurae, and I think my o.c.d. has been acting up lately and that can be debilitating to me.

In fact, yesterday I was so discombobulated, and at times so dang tired, not to mention busy trying to get a uni. assignment in on time, which I failed to do – I think I missed the papers box closing time as the office was closed by the time I arrived, a bit after 5pm – that I didn’t do anything for the 118th anniversary of Charlie Chaplin’s birth, beyond pleasant well-wishing. A big-footed kick in the buttocks for me! I plan to do something this weekend, if not before. Watch a short and eat some custard pie with Shantoozy, at least.

Happy Birthday for yesterday, Sir Charles!

Moran and Morons

Last night Shantoozy and I saw performing at Town Hall as part of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, that red wine drinking, cigarette smoking, cake and chocolate loving Irish chap from Ireland in Ireland, Dylan Moran.

Here's an accurate description of Dylan's performance style from The Internet Movie Database:

'Moran’s live stand-up comedy is unique in that it merges two strands of stand-up that seemed incompatible for a long time: sharp observational humor, and surreal and fantastical language-based absurdity. On the one hand, he has a clear influence from what could be called an American school of stand-up comedy that is heavily observational. On the other, Moran’s comedy is characterized by a use of language similar to the stand-up comedy of Eddie Izzard and Ross Noble: surreal associative leaps between on the one side observations and on the other fantasies, verbally painting bizarre and absurd worlds, often through a use of stream-of-consciousness narration. His language is often highly poetic, resembling a James Joyce that has had one too many.'

Some morons in the audience may have gasped when he posited that it really wouldn't be all that bad to have sex with one's own mother ("What's the worst that could happen? You might both feel a little embarrassed afterwards."), but Shantoozy & I laughed considerably during his one hour show, and now he's got me wondering, what are the spaces between the teeth of a comb called, and does Batman have nipples?