Ian [LOVEHEART]z Muppets 4eva IDST

Well colour me annoyed*. I hold off on watching The Muppets** and when I finally do watch it, it turns out to be really bloody good. Annoyingly good, in fact. Not just managing to be funny and nice, but heartwarming in the right way and playing to the exact notes of nostalgia it needed to play to.

Could have done with a different celebrity to Jack Black, but there you go. Jason Segel more than makes up for that, because he’s clearly great.

So I just fell asleep and woke up to the above on screen, and I have little idea where I was going with this beyond some straightforward review-type-thing that I can’t actually be bothered doing now because that would make two in a week.

But I will go with this: The Muppets are and have always been excellent. Entertainment created for nothing other than the sake of entertainment, made to be enjoyed by everyone by a now-dead hippy who probably shouldn’t have allowed Dark Crystal to be made.

Just like Sesame Street is one of the finest creations of all time – though admittedly more limited appeal to everyone than The Muppets have.

I like this shit. I really, really do. They should just rename The Muppets ‘How To Get Shit Right’ and be done with it.

And then let me write for them, or something. I can do great jokes for Fozzy Bear.

*Green.

**He says as if he did so on purpose.

Intimidaaaaaaayshun

Prompted by brief discussion earlier – well, I say ‘discussion’, I mean ‘thing I wanted to crowbar into a conversation because what I say is more important than what anybody else has to say’ – I’ve been thinking about times when I’ve actually been intimidated to talk to someone.

Beyond childhood/adolescence, I can honestly only think of two occasions. Both of the celebrity variety. Both in the last year. Actually, both on the same trip, now I think of it.

Normal people? Whatever. They’re people. If they had a gun I’d be intimidated. If they were made of biceps, sure. If they’re female, yeah, sure. But my point was intimidated by people I wanted to approach. Too terrified of girls to approach them, so the point is moot.

See, normally I don’t give a shit about celebrities. There are people I like, people I dislike, even people I respect. But I don’t care much for the celebrity thing, at least not to the point where I’m going to bother approaching someone for an autograph or photo.

There’s an element of nervousness, certainly, a bit of lacking self-confidence, naturally, and the need to be polite and not hassle someone. I am British, after all. But never intimidation.

Then I met former WWE Champion Alberto Del Rio. I have never  before walked up to a man who seemed to leak such menace. Well-dressed, surrounded by entourage, massive, stony-faced, totally in character – I genuinely felt like a tiny child in front of him. Even though I’m probably taller than him.

He was really nice, of course. They all are.

Wrestlers, I mean. Not Mexicans.

Some Mexicans are pricks.

Anyway, on the same trip we were heading back from LA, waiting to board the plane. I look across the lounge, scanning the faces in the bored fashion I usually do when I see a grey-haired chap buried in a book near the front of the queue.

I carry on scanning the gormless chops of the morons surrounding.

Something draws me back to his face.

He looks up.

It’s only Henry fucking Rollins.

If my bowels were any weaker than they are, I likely would have shit myself with joy at that moment. But they’re strong. And, as it turns out, I was way, way too intimidated by the man to approach him and plant a massive kiss on his dick.

So yeah, there’s that. No idea why I was intimidated by this man:

The Increasingly Poor Decisions Of Todd Margaret… review, I suppose

I have just, as in about half an hour ago, finished watching the final episode of The Increasingly Poor Decisions Of Todd Margaret.

It stars David Cross, who I love, Will Arnett, who I love, Sharon Horgan, who I love, Spike Jonze, who I love, and Blake Harrison, who… well, he doesn’t irritate me.

It is a comedy show.

It is about a man who is a dickhead and who fails at everything and causes other people to suffer through his ineptitude, idiocy, selfishness and lies.

It is basically the perfect show for someone called Ian, like I am.

Yet I do not understand how it has hit a rating of 7.7 out of 10 on IMDB. Because it is… no. It’s lacking something.

There’s no reason to like Todd Margaret at all. Now that’s not a problem in itself – Gob Bluth from Arrested Development is a self-centred assmunch only out for himself, to get laid and to spend money. But he gets away with it.

As do the rest of Everyone On Arrested Development.

But there’s no reason to like Todd Margaret and there is nothing redeeming about him, beyond a couple of times he tries to do the right thing. Whatever that is.

There’s no connection. There’s constant leaps of logic and faith needed by the viewer to accept that someone could be as monumentally stupid as Todd Margaret is.

What could easily have been a very real show – cringeworthy in a way The Office is still a master of, annoying in a way Arrested Development always pulled off with sympathy, and surreal in a way 30 Rock still gets away with on a weekly basis – turns out to just be a bunch of irritating people doing unbelievable things that escalate in a fashion that just pisses you off.

Still, John Hamm playing John Hamm is good. “I need to go film Mad Men!”

And it does have something going for it, as I bothered with all 12 episodes. Hmm. I am a comedy masochist, it seems. That, or I’m really bored.

Your Face/10

Out of step, with the WOOF

I wanted to hit y’all with some deep-ass shit here, questioning the motivations of western society at large, proclaiming myself to be out of step with the world* and wondering aloud if anyone else finds it as utterly ridiculous as I do, at a very base level, that we not only live in but actively support a capitalist system that keeps the vast majority in glorified servitude for their working lives (and beyond: thanks Tories!).

But then I remembered I saw a dog this morning while I was walking to work and it sort of happily barked at me and smiled with a big, stupid slobbering face looking at my big, stupid slobbering face (I slobber when I walk fast (I walk fast all the time (some of the time))).

I remembered how I was in a foul mood, wandering along in the morning with my mind racing faster than my incredible walking speed. Then I caught eyes with this pooch and it just made me laugh out loud, because it was just so wilfully, uncaringly dumb. And happy.

And for a fleeting moment, it made me happy.

Then, later on, while explaining my feelings about things to friends and feeling the red mist descend once more, I looked across the park we were sitting in to see a puppy. A stupid, fat-faced golden lab puppy just flopping its stupid big paws around like a stupid idiot.

It found a stick. It had the time of its life with the stick. I was somewhat amused, and once again the anger dissipated; the mood lifted.

Anyone would think my brain is trying to tell me something. Probably that I want to slobber more while chewing on sticks. Might just take up crack instead.

*M’kay? (MacKaye)

WHERE IS KAAAAAAIN

I liked Robocop 2 when I was a kid.

I still don’t hate it.

I bought it when I was an adult, because I had a pirated copy as a child.

Piracy works! Robocop 2 is great! At least one of those statements is true.

That’s it for today.

Consider my gears ground. Or grinded, if you want to use the less-than-correct past participle

Tell me how to think, tell me how to feel, tell me exactly what you mean because I can’t possibly figure it out for myself. Misunderstand what I’m saying, put words in my mouth, make an honest, measured comment out to be a hate-speech laughing at the plight of others.

Tell me I’m wrong, never let yourself be told you’re wrong by me. Claim amnesty and immunity from reason, yet use that same reason to attack me. Lure me in with the carrot then beat the living piss out of me with the stick.

Laugh at me, never with me. Dance like no one is watching, but always watch me dancing. Fear nothing but fear itself, but make me fear you.

I am, of course, talking about my ex. No, wait – I mean ‘the world as it seems’. This is a bit of an irritation from today that seems to have blown up into a way more dramatic intro than it ever needed to be.

What I wanted to get at was this ridiculous culture of having to explain oneself, all the time, for everything. It’s one of the biggest negative points of living in a world so closely connected, yet connected in such an unemotional way. All the smilies in the world don’t substitute for good old fashioned inflection (and hand waving (and amazing facial features)).

And it works both ways. It works in the way that I am seemingly forced to explain that saying I don’t care if a chain of shops is shutting down is not the same as saying “I am glad thousands are out of work”. I shouldn’t have to explain that, because it’s fucking obvious.

It also works in the way that people feel the need to head it off at the pass (or at least editorialise in everyday life), telling me of how something that is clearly tragic is tragic. Newsflash, hotshot: I’m not thick. A lot of people aren’t thick. The death of dozens of kids doesn’t have to be asterisked with the small print pointing out to me that I should find this news saddening in some way.

Well, unless I’m a psychopath, in which case I would need to be told how to feel. But then, that wouldn’t really matter. I’d probably be the one that caused those kids to die in the first place.

AND ANOTHER THING: jokes are never ‘too soon’.

I need to go to bed. Or to watch Friends until this angry malaise passes (which will seemingly be Never).

I wish I was as good at writing as Dr Thompson.

I’m going to have a coffee.

Bye.

Ian’s wild and wacky week off

At the end of my adventure in being off work it’s only fair to report back on the exciting adventures I’ve involved myself in, the thrills and spills I’ve seen, the other stuff that I can’t think of words on how to say what it is. “The shit” works.

So here it is in a simple-to-digest diary style. My life is important: what I do with my time matters to you more than you would ever dare admit.

Monday
Sat in pants, played Mass Effect 3, drank about three litres of coffee.

Tuesday
Sat in pants, finished Mass Effect 3, suddenly got worried I had nothing to do, drank about three litres of coffee.

Wednesday
Sat in pants, drank about four litres of coffee.

Thursday
Sat in pants, drank about five litres of coffee, went to see Stanhope, drank enough to floor an elephant.

Friday
Sat in pants, drank about eight litres of coffee, drank enough booze to floor a drink-hardened elephant.

There were some other days, too, but they’re simply not exciting enough. What a life I lead!

Your conversations are shit, so shut up forever please thanks

I usually travel with the comfort of earphones in my ears, blasting out all manner of music you probably don’t know about because I’m well cool*. I do this for one very important reason: it blocks out the sound of the world.

Now birds I’m fine with, the chirping little twats. Some cars annoy me, like the one up the road that has a monstrous engine and just seems to be left idling for 20 minutes every single morning. Wind can be gustily satisfying. Other miscellaneous noises: I will allow.

But it’s the people. People and their incessant need to talk. I don’t mean to me – I look like the kind of person who would sooner make a plaster of Paris cast of your face in my secret dungeon in order to have you over for murderdrinks rather than actually engage you in polite discourse, so people aren’t exactly tripping over themselves to talk to me.

What I mean by that, of course, is that I am described as ‘aloof’. And am definitely not a murdering plaster of Paris modelling freak bastard from hell. Definitely not, no siree.

Yet these people still insist on talking, and when I don’t have the two-pronged defence force in the shape of my (terrible, horrible) earphones I often have to listen to these idiots wherever I am.

And – not that I want to have turned into one of those people – but around here I have to hear the conversations of a lot of students. And it’s turning me into one of those people who hates students because shut the fuck up.

I have even tried to make a game out of it, hearing a snipped of a conversation and imagining what it’s about, what brought the topic up or, if they’re on the phone, what the person on the other side is saying.

Unfortunately, as I’m really very funny, I end up making myself laugh. While walking down the street. Alone. Already looking like I’m going to poP your face off. It’s… not the most desirable outcome.

So it is I rely on music to keep the inanity at bay. To keep the mention of “I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE DID” away, because I can believe what he did because he is a person and people do whatever he’s done all the fucking time, unless what he did was suddenly sprout three extra arms before carving a perfect copy of the Venus De Milo out of an assortment of fine (and not-so-fine) cheeses.

Then you can say you don’t believe it.

If, like is usually the case, he drank a lot or he cheated on you or he didn’t do the washing up or he was just a prick who plays rugby or some other wanky sport, then you can believe it. I allow you to believe it. Please believe it. I want you to.

And your pissy little film project for uni? Yeah, it won’t get you anywhere. You’ll end up alone, cold and dying like the rest of us do. Quit now, never try again, learn your lesson.

Happy sunny day, kids!

*Or you do know about because you told me about the band as I am incapable of finding out about music of my own volition.

IMPORTANT HAIR UPDATE

Maintaining my ravishing mane is becoming problematic, I have to admit. It looks shit, for one, which is a pretty major problem what with me having to be seen out in public.

It’s really weird around the ears. Also it’s a lot greyer than it was when I wasn’t this old. Which is a mild irritation.

Last time around when I grew my hair it was very different. I cared even less about my appearance, somehow, I was drunk pretty much all the time and – most importantly of all – I had a(n admittedly small) selection of hats.

And that’s the key issue: hats. I own a single hat, but it’s not appropriate until I actually have the locks to back it up. Otherwise it’s just a big brown mushroom thing on top of me. And it probably smells bad. Not that that really matters.

What I need is a new selection. I need a new batch of baseball caps (I’m 28 and English) to tide me over while the fur elongates to 2005 standards.

And now I think of it, there’s only about a month until Groezrock, the reason the hair is growing, and it’s not going to get long enough. This is a tremendous waste of time.

But hey, at least I’ve saved the £8 I would have spent getting the locks whipped, and I haven’t had to go through the whole ‘talking’ thing the barber always expects. I AM NOT GOOD AT SMALL TALK.

I need to shave my head in order to re-Rollins myself. Life is pain.

Bieber naked Bieber sucks

That title up there is merely me showing my expertise when it comes to luring in internet traffic. I know how it works, so I know how to abuse the system.

I mean, I think we’re all aware that Justin Bieber is excellent, not naked and actually doesn’t appear at all in this blog apart from the couple of mentions here. And certainly not naked. No naked bieber pics here.

I did it again!

But what’s with this sudden demonstration of internet might? Well, I’ve been checking the stats – the facts and figures behind the scenes of this blog – and it doesn’t make for a pretty sight. Numbers are down since last year, average readers per day has taken a hit and there are far less comments than there used to be.

So it’s come to pass that… actually, wait, no – I don’t care. And I have to keep reminding myself of that because every time I look at those graphs and charts it hits the stupid unthinking part of the brain that craves success. Numbers measure success.

I automatically want the behind the scenes stuff to show green arrows pointing up with big numbers next to them, rather than red arrows pointing down (also with big numbers next to them).

But when rational brain kicks in again I remember why I’m doing this: not to get more hits, not to build up a following, not to impress you or even entertain any of you in the slightest. No, it’s just done for one reason and one reason alone.

To continually prove to Richard McCormick that I am better than him at saying I’m going to blog every day and then doing so.

BAM.