Damn fool ideas: Jallu

Day 25. 62 pages, 30,356 words.


Well, that was a waste of a weekend. Okay, not really, but I am disappointed in myself and wonder if I will ever learn.

Saturday was fun. Actually got out into the forest with Wump, hiked through to the shops and bought picnic stuff and had a picnic before hiking home by way of a cliff and some of the fields near our house, that apparently Wump had been wanting to walk over for weeks and was totally thrilled to finally do.

Then we left the girls with mommo and headed into town to see off our friend Mr. Bloom in style. Which was a debacle that started badly and ended worse.

Okay, that’s overly dramatic. It started with me getting in a jallu-off with a barmaid, and ended with me having an obscene hangover and spending most of Sunday lying down. I have officially reached the point where I cannot drink with young people anymore and I hope this will be the only wake-up call I need. Also, I absolutely should have taken the ride home when Mrs. Hatboy left, because that would have saved me €40 and a lot of illness.

Yeah, upon arriving at this pub in Kallio and strolling up to the bar and looking uncertain, I was asked by the barmaid, “what would you like? Jallu? Double jallu?”

I made the mistake of laughing and saying “TRIPLE JALLU!”

Even the extremely out-of-it barfly sitting nearby wondered about the legality of this, but I did end up with a tumbler full of jallu (jaloviina), and that was where it all started to go downhill.

Final civil act of the evening.

This is the last partially civil thing I did all night.

A round of Munchkin later (Mr. Bloom had frequented this pub in the past and so this was not the first time Munchkin had been played there), drinking continued unabated and somehow conversation went around to three-star jallu versus one-star jallu. It turned out that the pub we were in didn’t have the “good stuff”, so I went to another pub down the road on a little side-quest to try both brands.

They did undoubtedly have distinct flavours. Not sure which one I would say was better.

After that (and after almost coming to blows with the bouncer at the second pub because I started to wander out of the door with my two glasses of jallu in order to take them back to the first bar so everyone could taste them), I returned to the original place and for some inexpressible reason continued to drink.

I don't even know what this is.

My phone flawlessly captures what it is like when I drink.

I have a vague memory of being apologetically useless in the taxi, first trying to find cash in my pockets (what do you know, it had all been consumed in liquid form) and then trying to pay using the wrong sort of bank card. I must have paid, though, because I have a receipt. Then I evidently collapsed into bed because that was where I woke up, and that was where I stayed until about two o’clock in the afternoon, with breaks to drink bottles of water, to go outside and throw up all the water I’d been drinking, and to post woeful status updates on Facebook.

And this coming weekend is my brother-in-law’s 30th birthday. Oh God no.

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Day 24. 61 pages, 29,770 words.

Lately, I’ve been watching “Jake and Amir” on YouTube’s Collegehumor channel.

Random sample.

I’ve been watching these – some surreal, some painful, some hilarious, some shockingly violent or otherwise graphic – and wondering why they’re so fascinating. Occasionally, the characters will switch roles and it’s utterly disturbing. What is wrong with these two?

First, it seemed like just Amir was profoundly mentally unstable. And make no mistake, he is horrifyingly unhinged. But Jake only seems sane in comparison, and even that fades as you begin to realise he has bizarre, frightening problems of his own. He cloaks them in normality as best he can, but Amir[1] effortlessly strips the disguise away and exposes Jake’s pathology every time.

[1] And a staggering cast of side characters who at once completely fail to notice Amir’s lunacy and feed into it so seamlessly that they may in fact simply be figments of Jake and Amir’s imaginations. And this is before we even begin to scratch the surface of the possibility that either one, or both, of Jake and Amir themselves may be figments of the other. And that doesn’t even make sense. It’s only when they begin switching roles, and really getting into each other’s heads, that the line between them vanishes. And their pasts, as they take crazy and non-linear shape, only enhance the effect.

Did Amir drive him there? Is madness feeding madness? Or is Amir simply acting as a sounding board, a mirror for Jake’s neuroses, reflecting and magnifying? Sometimes, Jake’s treatment of Amir is utterly inhuman, and yet he seemed to get there organically. At least Amir’s actions can be passed off as insanity. Jake, on the other hand, is right there with the crazy person every step of the way, and never fails to insert himself into Amir’s rambling narrative.

It’s not hard to see why this seems familiar.

Riddle me this, Hatboy.

Wait, it’s coming to me.

Of course, this can be said of any dysfunctional pair of dialogue-based characters, particularly when you enter the trope of hetero-life-partner bros. I was watching Withnail and I last weekend and our excellent blog-comrade dreameling and I agreed that there was a distinctly ‘Creepy and Hatboy’ vibe about those two, too.

It just seemed a lot more eerie and worrying this time, especially since I solved the Creepy and Hatboy Enigma and worked them into my Unifying Theory of Everything.


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Glum Saturday

Day 23. 61 pages, 29,770 words.

Not entirely sure what’s happening this weekend. Probably not a lot. If we can swing the babysitter time, we might go into town and hang out with our esteemed friend Mr. Bloom as he prepares to depart for – of all places – the United States of America. Yes, those United States.

Or, I guess, otherwise he can come over here for drinks since we have a bar of our own.

But whatever happens, I’m thinking I probably won’t get much written, and I probably won’t miss it either. It’s been a very productive week and I sort of need to just cool it for a bit. I’m most likely going to spend most of the weekend hanging with my family. It’s gotten to be a very comforting thing lately, despite the fact that it invariably ends up being quite a lot of work and I’m such a jerk I always get frustrated and snappy and sulky for no real reason. Wump is a demanding creature – brilliant, but demanding – and Toop is a baby just achieving mobility. They don’t deserve my stress. And neither does Mrs. Hatboy, of course.

As a matter of fact, the other night I helped Toop do a bit of crawling, for those who aren’t on Facebook to see the hilarious videos I sometimes link up there through my YouTube channel.

Oh, she was so close on some of those. Work the legs!

I don’t know. It’s just comforting. Because the world just seems to be becoming such an ugly and hostile place, the media so full of fear and the Internet so full of hate, that any way I can shield myself from that, I’m going to do it. My ladies do more than I could ever thank them for or praise them for, in that regard. They make my little bubble worth living in. All my friends and the rest of my family do too, obviously, but the ladies in particular.

It’s been cold this week, but sunny. I hope the weather holds, so I can maybe do a little forest-stroll with Wump. Get in a couple more of those before the winter descends on us.

Work is stressful lately, but with any luck we’re at least going to get a bit of closure on that sometime next week (already a solid couple of weeks too late, but I guess they had to do what they had to do). After which I will (probably, best case scenario) just have a looming and colossal series of documents and put-off-way-too-long deadlines to worry about, instead of actual loss of livelihood. What joy.

Stupid Internet.

Stupid people.

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This is why I don’t give my feminism free rein

Day 22. 58 pages, 28,201 words.

The Zoologically Accurate Spider-Man, issue #4,200,000,077.

Issue #4,200,000,077.

This month in The Zoologically Accurate Spider-Man:

Spider-Man wakes to find himself reduced to approximately 7” in height, and robbed of every superpower he ever possessed except for one: the ability to make gargantuan, horrifying flesh-mound Spider-Woman briefly want to tolerate being fucked by him slightly more than she wants to eat him!

The Cooper Gang is back in town, but that’s really pretty irrelevant because everyone is too piss-scared of Spider-Woman to even think about breaking the law. In New York City there is only one law: I AM SPIDER-WOMAN, THY COLOSSAL BLUBBERY GODDESS!

While a miniscule and feeble Spider-Man struggles to overpower a medium-sized schoolyard bully through the entire first act, all while commuting on public transport due to the fact that he can no longer even make web, Spider-Woman shits out an enormous super-complicated hammock of death for herself and then just lies back and eats motherfucking cream pies while she waits for hapless criminals to ensnare themselves and die in abject struggling terror for her amusement.

And now, it will take every scrap of Spidey’s willpower and endurance to scale the vast spandex slopes of his lady love’s sumptuous, obscenely fertile rump! And every scrap of his audacity and cunning to distract her with some inordinately-hard-won gift-wrapped bank robbers! And every scrap of his gag reflex control to quickly rub out a load of come while she is busy smooshing the fuck out of the poor bastards with her mighty she-jowls and drinking their bodily fluids like a Goddamn thickshake oh my sweet, sweet Jesus Christ our saviour!

Discerning readers will notice this is the same essential plot as the previous 4,200,000,076 monthly issues of The Zoologically Accurate Spider-Man. This is because basically the formula works, so why change it? SPIDER-WOMAN! ALL SHALL GAZE UPON HER AND DESPAIR!
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*twiddles thumbs*

Day 21. 54 pages, 26, 168 words.

I don’t know what to write today either, but unlike yesterday I will not bore you with stats.

Instead, I will show you this scary video about civil forfeiture.

And this funny one about The IT Crowd.

And this brilliant one about “I could care less”.

And then I will share this picture from the mid-Nineties.

Goddamn Brits all know each other.

I’m afraid I don’t know who that fourth guy is, the Internet was no help to me.

My mind was blown, and hopefully now yours is too, a little bit.

Or a little … Brit?

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Day 20. 53 pages, 25,585 words.

I have absolutely no idea what I am going to write today. I mean, I’m writing a whole bunch of stuff but I have this intentional self-imposed discipline-obligation to write a blog entry as well, just to provide a setting for my page-and-word count and make sure I am actually forcing myself to write something every day.

But it’s not going to be terribly interesting.

A sad truth.

In fact, it’s going to be quite sad.

Yes, I started to compare actual statistical metrics between my first book’s progress and my second book’s progress, using the blog’s word-search function. And aside from a few points where I realised I had mis-numbered the days, and a few bits where I hadn’t recorded the counts and a few where I went a couple of days without achieving anything at all, it all seemed to hang together.

And so before I knew what was happening, I had stopped any pretense at actually writing anything, and had made a chart of the first twenty days of my writing effort, plotting word count against time.

Another sad truth.

Sad but true.

The good news is, I seem to have started slower but am now accelerating.

The bad news is, this chart.

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Goofy Goober Something Something

Day 19. 49 pages, 23,678 words.

I lost my Spongebob Squareginity last night.

Yes, I sat down with Wump and randomly Netflix’d around until she said “that one”. Then we sat and enjoyed the feature-length movie, which I guess was a bit more family-friendly and less spaced-out and weird than the TV shows, but I’m not sure since I haven’t seen any of them. This was plenty weird enough.

I can’t believe the voice talent they had in this movie! Clancy Brown? Jeffrey Tambor? Scarlett Johansson? Alec Baldwin?

Wow! The Hoff rocks!

And The Hoff!

Anyway, this was a wacky and quite fun movie, and I’m not entirely sure how much of it Wump understood. Certainly there were layers to it and she was wondering why I was chuckling from time to time, but there was also a sufficiently simple primary storyline for a four-year-old[1] to follow. It was sort of a blend between Snorks and Ren and Stimpy. Which is exactly as surreal as it sounds, I assure you in the unlikely event you haven’t seen the show or movies.

[1] Or massively stoned twenty-something-year-old.

And the best part of all? At the end, adorably, a familiar old song played over the credits.

I started singing along with it. Wump was stunned. “Hey,” she said in outrage, “how do you know how to sing this song?”

“Well sweetie, that song is by a band called Ween, that papa used to listen to when he was a weird teenager.”

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