Headphones, Books and the "F*ck off" Priciple

A (Swear)Word of Warning: This particular entry contains decadent use of the word f*ck. I have censored it to protect all the innocent minds on the internet (both of them), but if you are of weak heart, you may wish to turn away now.

Hello again! How are we all feeling? Myself, I'm feeling quite well, if a little tired, which really I have little right to be, considering I've spent the entire day doing nothing but trying to write a comic book script, playing Ico and listening to music through my headphones.

Note how I said headphones, as opposed to earphones. There is a reason, a reason that I shall explain to you.

People ask me "Joseph, you anachronistic retrograde! Why on Earth do you persist in utilizing such outmoded technology? Surely, any use at all in these clunky, unwieldy apparatus was made obsolete when their counterpart, earphones, nigh overtook them in terms of sound-quality and, most obviously, in compact and unobtrusive design?"

They never do get an answer. Do you know why? It's because I've got my headphones on and am thus totally removed from the conversation. That is why I love headphones.

Of course, there are other reasons. I like them because they cancel noise and are comfortingly weighty, something that I admire in gadgetry (I still maintain in using the iPod Classic line as opposed to the Nanos or Minis). In addition to this, they are charmingly retro. Not that I have a specific fondness for retro objects, I just like my things aesthetics to be a mix of the archaic and the ultra-modern if that didn't sound too gay (my apologies to gay people everywhere).

But my main reason for loving headphones is what I shall refer to as the "F*ck Off" principle. The very qualities that make earphones so useful in the eyes of others (smallness, portability, unobtrusiveness) are exactly what turns me off them. When somebody sees you with earphones in, well first off, they're unlikely to notice that your earphones are in, but in addition to that, they are far more likely to assume that you are in some way open shop.

Allow me to clarify: When I am listening to music, I am listening to music. I am not looking for a conversation, for even a chat. I am listening to music. Don't worry, I'm perfectly happy listening to music and am not looking to talk to anyone. I am listening to music, f*ck off. Hence the "F*ck Off" principle.

Let me clarify: I'm not trying to be mean - I'm not trying to be rude. I'm just saying, as politely as possible: "F*ck Off". This discounts friends and relatives of course, most of whom by now recognise my eccentric headphone related behaviour.

That's what's so great about headphones, they tell the world, politely, to f*ck off. It's the same power that a book holds, or for some a phone or other gadget, or merely if you're focussing on doing something with your hands. It says that while you may be a (genuinely) fascinating person to talk to and while I'd love to talk to you at any other time, presently I am otherwise engaged.

Of course, I say that they hold this power, this "F*ck Off" factor, when really they seem to be losing it. More on more people blatantly ignore my headphones / book / doing something with my hands and assume that somehow if I'm not up and talking to people at the social gathering / work or school place / bus-stop, I must be inherently miserable and due for a conversation. Listen, inquisitive by-stander, I know you have the best intentions at heart, but you know, I'm honestly happy to sit here and listen to music!

Oh dear. I'd intended to finish this blog with a pithy "Unless of course, you're an attractive young woman, in which case, you could interrupt me performing internal heart surgery on myself for all I care!" which would have been amusing, alerted you all to the fact that I'm heterosexual (thus counteracting the aesthetic comment of earlier) and hinted that maybe I'm smart enough to perform heart surgery (I am not), but looking back over what I have written, I see now that my heart isn't really in it. Thinking rationally I see that all those people who interrupted my music listening / book reading / manual activity did so: A) With the intentions of brining what they thought was a shy lonely individual out of themselves. and B) With a hope of a good conversation or even starting a friendship.

I see now that I have been self-centred to have assumed that they were initiating this conversation purely to annoy me and foolish to have attempted to brush them off as early as possible in an attempt to get back to Radiohead / Terry Pratchett / A really difficult Professor Layton puzzle.

And so I apologise, both to all the people I attempted to brush off and to you, the reader, for tricking you into reading an entire 15 paragraphs of ranting which I then rendered utterly meaningless by providing its own counter-argument.

Thank you and good day.

PS Seriously though, attractive young women can interrupt me any time.

The Importance of Armchairs

Hello again! I'd like you to know that I've just had my evening bath and am now sitting in my room on my armchair in my pyjamas feeling considerably more human than I did upon my last entry. Once more I apologise for its poor quality, I hope, from now on, the posts to be better.

So, what have I done since yesterday. Well, unsurprisingly, very little, seeing how it's the summer holidays. I've mainly been enjoying the novelty of having an armchair, a novelty that I'm sure you'll agree does not sound particularly novel. However, I've wanted an armchair for some time now as a place to read and surf the web of an evening. As most of the furniture in my room is either hand-me downs, relics of childhood or improvised out of other pieces of furniture. So, when I heard that one of my parents friends was throwing out an old armchair, I delightedly declared that I would take it off their hands.

However, I had failed to take into consideration several key facts, blinded as I was by the prospect of a chair in my room not either designed for a five year old, so old that it creaked like a galleon under full sail or a converted bed - by which I mean a bed only with cushions. These key facts were: 1. The chair had been left in a damp garage for approximately a year; 2. The chair was in a house a good walk away from my own; 3. The only method I had of transporting it was my own hopelessly out of shape body; 4. My room is up two flights of stairs.

All these facts were in my possession, but each one simply could not assault the image of me parking my rear-end upon plump cushions for a quiet, and above all comfortable read. It was as if the image was Arnold Schwarzenegger and the facts an unending stream of terrorists: However much logic stated that at least one terrorist/fact should be able to take down the lumbering Austrian/image, they just couldn't quite seem to hit it. (I'll admit that that's a stretched simile).

In any case, the next morning the realisation that of the difficulty of this task struck me, like the Bad Guys main henchman shooting Arnie in the leg with a sniper-rifle, obliterating my previous self confidence / his tibia bone. How the hell was I going to do this? I put it off and put it off until it sunk into the bleary recesses of my mind in which everything I plan to do eventually sinks.

However several days ago the sun was shining bright, I had nothing to do and my arse was particularly uncomfortable and so I decided that today was the day I'd go and claim my chair. I became resolute; fixated; the bee was back in my bonnet. I turned stony faced, put on my jacket and hiking boots and said to my sister, lounging around watching Two and a Half Men: "I'll be back." Ignoring her queries as to what the hell I meant, I stepped out into the bright sunshine, headphones on head and began to climb the hill to my friends house.

The trip up, while tiring for my aforementioned out of shape self, was pleasant enough, especially while listening to Abbey Road. I dare-say a slight spring had entered my step as I approached the house. Even opening the garage door in the way I was instructed, surprisingly worked without hiccup. It was only when I looked at the ungainly piece of moss covered furniture that I realised that the whimsy of my escapade had vanished as quickly as if you'd shown Roald Dahl pictures of the current state of the Gulf of Mexico. But what could I do, other then sigh, pick off the worst of the snails and, ignoring the mould, sling the thing over my shoulder.

As I walked back down the hill, drawing strange glances from passer-bys, I reflected that once you had learnt to ignore the smell, it really wasn't that bad. Those crafty Swedes knew how to make lightweight furniture, alright (my apologies to any Swedish readers who were offended by this).

The hill I walked down meant I had a fairly clear view of the surrounding countryside. I happen to glance up during my toils and noticed that despite the glorious sunshine here, over the next hill, it was raining quite considerably. "Gee," I thought "At least it isn't raining here." Too late, I tried to retract that thought, but it had already flown out of my head and into the Universe.

It began to rain.

There was no warm-up period of sort-of-rain. No. God in his infinite power, wisdom, benevolence and desire to personally crush any optimism that might spark within my mind had cracked his mighty knuckles at the sound of my thought and opened the heavens; If we wasn't so malicious I might even believe in him. Big fat drops soaked to and the chair to our cores, but I was steadfast. I was Odysseus, defying the Gods.

As I hauled myself and the chair into my back garden it stopped raining - of course it did. I removed the fabric cover from the chair with as much fury as a man could, and dragged the foam slabs out of it. I then proceeded to scrub the wooden frame with hot water, washing-up liquid and animal ferocity. When it was half clean and half dry I dragged it upstairs into my room, knocking down countless small objects that seem to populate every available surface of our house. I found that no amount of vinegar, salt, lemon juice, washing-up liquid, soap, expensive soap, tears of rage or human blood would wash out the mould from the chair cover. So I flung it into the washing-up basket and instead used the foam slabs and a blanket.

I sat down on my new chair.

So, I imagine, if you haven't left due to boredom by now, that you're wondering if my excursions for the day paid off; was it worth it?

Well, my buttocks and I have come to the unanimous conclusion that: Hell Yeah it Was!

Well, I'm afraid I must say goodbye dear reader and remember to keep your buttocks happy: they're the only pair you'll get.

Good Day

Greetings

Good evening, or whatever it is wherever you are. My name, as you may have guessed, is Joseph Black and due to my overall idle attitude and inherent laziness, my dear mother has suggested that I start this blog. It is my intention to, as the weeks go on, to fill this blog with my thoughts, ideas, opinions and creations. I hope that they will serve to both entertain and inform you.

I must apologise if this entry is not particularly up to the standards that I hope to continue in. I'm afraid that I've neglected my hay-fever tablets and therefore am feeling rather groggy and out of sorts. But happily I can hear the hum of the air-ioniser behind me as it ionises the air (though I've never quite understood how exactly that's meant to combat pollen). In addition to that, autumn is on the way, probably my favourite season as it's too late for hay-fever and too early for a cold, two conditions that seem to tag-team me to make sure I spend as little time as possible per year without a runny or blocked nose and general feeling of having just woken up.

So, with my snivelling (quite literally) excuses out of the way, I'd like to welcome you to my blog. It was a devil to design; most of it was done with the help from my aforementioned mother, despite my constant pestering and insistence that I know better (despite the fact that she is a graphic designer).

Anyway, I'm sure I've bored you all enough. Until tomorrow, good day.