Wednesday, 19 August 2009




The curse

David Schwimmer, David Swimmer, I must forget the name David Shwimmer. David Shwimmer is taking up the brain space that some contemporary social commentator should be, or at the very least the 97th use for a goat. David Shwimmer, a man I never needed to know. Pub quizzes aren’t that easy that the answer would be David Shwimmer. The chances that we both would meet and it’d require me introducing him to his own self is next to fucking nil. Even if we do meet, I don’t think I'll want to talk to someone who I share nothing in common with and probably will think about taking the piss out of as soon as I get out his sight. Unless a chance conversation where I list the worst films Simon Pegg has been in and who directed it, I will not need David Shwimmer. I just don't even care to spell his surname right considering his Jewish heritage from shw to Schw, i don't hate jews, i just want to loose Shwimmer. I never ever circled Friends in the TV guide. I mean, I watched it, laughed at the bits that were genuinely funny but David Shwimmer’s character was never endearing or warm. He was basically an anal twee wanabee git. The irony is he doesn’t even know my first name or anything I may or may have not done. To him I am “a Brit”, some Brit person but not even that, the schwimmer.

But now I have it, thanks to myself and the last paragraph David Schwimmer is glued in my head until the day I die whereas other, better things will wash through my head and evaporate faster than the space in-between two friends jokes. It's sad to think of all that you have learnt and all that you have retained aren't the same. That all those nuggets of experience and skills, memories and conversations have been and gone without even a thought.


All those units of stuff, grams of whatever and eighths of you know what have made the process of retaining these thingamy bits harder and stupider. We don't have the capacity we once had however much we delude ourselves, we're less efficient. Hunter S Thompson was so inept he needed a tape recorder. Old gacked out Spears, lip fudges her way around thought and Ozzy Osborne's been walking around looking for grey matter for the last 20 years, presumably it's on the floor.

Forget about it

Brains basically screw us, but are us, but don't let us have what we want. Like your Mum, it knows you want something, it knows where it is, but it gets you to mow the lawn before it'll tell you where it is. So you mow your lawns, rack your brains, searching in the dark for that black match. It doesn't matter if you do mow the lawn if your mums suddenly in an off mood she might not tell you anyway. So you spend about half a day thinking about a thought to realise it's wandered off and got itself lost in Primark.


You can't even write it down. If you write everything down, chances are you'll forget where you put it, read it and forget it again or reread it and just not get what you're on about cos your brain's in a different place. Plus such reels of writing is, as I have found, so overwhelming and time consuming. You're basically wasting life looking back at life in some immature critique of the life you had, in shitty hand writing.

So to avoid loss have people witness everything you do, they will because everything you now do will have to capture the vitality and amusement of a live audience. Pouring a glass of water is now a voyage in gravity, liquids and impulsive dance. Warning, don't cross the line into "the entertainment industry." It will end up with you, Dick and Dom at the end of the Pier of decency, vomiting.

For fucks sake, no, no, NOO!

“I hate losing things,” when people say this do they think some people walk around in states of bliss due to loss? Everyone hates losing things unless it’s like a big wart or your faeces.

When you lose something, at first it seems like it's close, almost in your grasp. Then, after about a minute of searching it suddenly leaps to being anywhere you have been in the last two days and stays there until you find it. Or realise the world is not some OZ like wonderland where tin robots find your possessions, guess where you live and somehow return them without so much as a laboured cup of oil.

Losing your phone is a temporary loss of tedium, friends and an hour typing in phone numbers you’ll never ring.

Losing your wallet is a loss of access, money, comfort and a receipt for nik-naks.

Losing your keys is a loss of accommodation, kudos with the key cutter and knocking-skin off your knuckles.

Losing your job is that bastards fault or a humiliating mental self critique of all the many mistakes you’ve made weighed up to how much of that they might have not realised, was you.

Losing your office/course/home work is down right wrong. Years of people's hard determined work has been lost by the ineptitude of save. Save is not the only convict, out of battery, a virus, and binning stuff that probably definitely shouldn’t have been binned sending scabbied crawling chants of “I’m a dickhead!”

Losing your family is just that bit more.

Gran’s gone to Coronation Street, in the sky

People die, yeah they, we, you, her, she, she proper dies. But to lose life without you pissing them off or sleeping with their best mate isn’t too good. It makes you faulter, recoil, and cry out and in. All of a sudden losing that rock makes your rock legged table collapse, you go a bit funny because, well unless someone dies every year of your life you're not that used to loss. If that did happen I would think that was the only time I’d recommend the viewing of the whole Final Destination series, without irony.

I’ll not be there for you, when the rain starts to pour, cos that’s just servitude.

Some of the worst losses (a 7.3 of loss) are the loss of a close friend over time. Everyone we know has a friend or two who they knew and now have to resort to a lamey facebook post, a New Years text message, or an awkward chance meeting where time is spent apologising for the time you haven’t spent talking and couldn’t be bothered to keep in touch. But these friends move and blossom or rot and you play the game of top trumps friends addition. Laying down one for three of a lesser, picking up an old one and missing out on two new, or however the hell they play it.

Weigh hay

But loss has to be stacked up to gain and by Joe, Jill and Jack we’ve all gained a lot. There’s so much knowledge circulating, brimming and primed to verbally explode we should have a party. This party would be stocked with every walk of every life hooked with throwaway thunder music from tongue to tongue. Transgressing any borders it intersects and constant rushing throughout life, pounding bumps, stretching marks on junk jeweled madness. There’s no high water mark, no theoretical force innsummountable. We can be drunk, pissed, fuct, stone cold, off our faces on each and every.


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