George Carlin

George Carlin is dead.

I suppose some sort of gushing tribute is in order; some homily about how the world's a less funny place now he's gone, how there'll never be another, just like we said about every comedian from Max Miller to Bill Hicks.

Sod that for a game of soldiers! If you think for a moment that I'm going to get all maudlin just because another comic icon's health finally let him down you've got another think coming. At what point did this become a tradition? To spend a few minutes crying into our beer just because some guy we probably never met and may have thought (quite rightly too) that we were a bunch of wankers finally popped his clogs? Nope. Sorry. When it comes to death, you won't get that sort of public wailing out of me any more. I've got better things to do.

There's a very good reason for this, believe it or not. And hopefully I've got some of you upset enough to read on. The reason I'm not going to post my own platitude is that various people in the (ptui!) blogosphere have posted their own tributes to George Carlin. People I know and like, too. Clever people, even. But I've come to think that their motives are dubious. What they say could be applied to any comedian, Hell, you could even say it if Carrot Top and Larry the Cable Guy died (unless they die in some kind of autoerotic asphyxiation experiment gone horribly, horribly right of course). It's sad, he was funny, now he's dead… because what they said was so damn generic, their mourning isn't about the guy who's dead at all. It's about themselves. Oh, look who's dead! Look who I'm mourning! Look how I'm validating my existence today! I'm not immune to this, of course. I've done it myself. I know you meant well, but you got it wrong. Time for us to learn our lesson, boys and girls. Pay attention. There will be a test later.

Let's bring a bit of culture into this rant, by quoting another famous George. Shaw had the best insight into this whole life and death business, bar none. Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.

You want to mourn George Carlin? Fine. Do it some other way. Find an ego that needs puncturing. Find something ridiculous, and ridicule the fuck out of it. Find something wrong, and expose it to the harsh light of truth. Carlin, like so many others before him, died leaving a Hell of a lot of work unfinished. If you want, you can stay silent for a minute, but if you want a better way to spend that time, look for ways to carry that work on.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 24th, 2008.

Seven Ages of Man, abridged.

So, this site's undergone a major reorganisation, has it? You do know that's one of the tell-tale signs that any organisation or business is doomed, don't you? I'm expecting a mission statement to be written any time soon. There may even be rationalisation or streamlining. Well, that's the way the biscuit disintegrates, ain't it? The more Phil learns, the more he transforms into something he despises.

Some might say that's a tragedy. A profound and searing satire on the human condition; as we grow old we all turn into something that, in our youths, we hated.

Not me, however. I just think it's bloody hilarious.

So, gentle reader, take a good long look at yourselves. Allow yourselves an hour of introspection; consider what you are, what you like about yourselves and write it down. Put it in a safe deposit box, bury it in a time capsule, whatever it takes: just make sure that a soul-searching record is preserved for a decade or so. Then, when that time's passed, look over your character once again, and compare and contrast it with the person you were.

And if by that time they've developed time machines, don't go back to your past unless you're armed. It's always the wasted opportunities we regret the most.

There was a point to this entry, but frankly I can't be arsed to remember what it was.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 21st, 2008.

Interviews

Yes, after altogether too long of that box in the lower-left corner of the screen displaying a test message, I'm back. I know, I've done this before: I've declared my triumphant return then promptly vanished off the radar for another few months. But I'm here for you now, baby, I've changed, please take me back, please God take me back. Don't make me cry. You don't want to see me cry.

Still, for my latest brief but glorious return to the Intertubes, I figured I'd be better off for venting my spleen on a subject that's been bugging me for ages now. Those of you who enjoy writing, who are trying to harness the power of the Interweb 2.0 for the purposes of cramming your words into the eyes of people who previously wouldn't feel inclined to give half a shit for your work, those who are trying to make your way in an increasingly hostile literary world: this one's for you. Read on.

I hate interviews with writers. Everywhere I look now, there's an up-and-coming writer being interviewed. New book on the way? New website? Ooh, better get an interview with some other site that's low on the pecking order. They've got to fill their whatever-it-is-they-have-instead-of-pages now, haven't they? Every single HTML document on the web is now a mere six frigging clicks away from someone determined to share their thoughts about literature today, dropping names like some great butterfingers. Where do you get your ideas from? Who's your influence? Where are you answering these questions? What the Hell are you about?

I have some horrible news, boys and girls: no-one really gives a shit. Not the reader, not the interviewer, and — deep down you know this, guys — you. It's not because of you, really; you're (usually) regular people, nothing wrong with that. It's because of the interview. What the Hell is the point? That's what I'd like to know. You've got a website, a blog, a mySpace, a facebook, a twitter, and a metric crapton of other minor things that all amount to a pretty comprehensive web presence. And what do you do with all this? You blog. You write about your lives, often in exhaustive detail, so when interview time finally rolls around, we're all bored shitless with you before you put fingers to keyboard. You've told us all there is to know, and the novelty of having some other bugger ask you about specific bits and pieces soon wears off.

Now, you are, I'd hope, intelligent people. This can't have escaped your notice, can it? Next time, try and do something original. Make sure your next interviews are complete fabrications from start to finish. Total and utter lies. Or do something other than just talk about yourselves! Act like the raconteurs and raconteuses you're supposed to be, and take the reader, the interviewer and yourselves somewhere interesting for a change.

Don't make me say 'please', folks. I'd never live it down.

Originally posted to slacknhash.net on June 5, 2008.