sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

So.
Right oh.
And there you go.

There weren't many men brave enough, not many men, nor many women, lest we alienate them, and risk never having a woman come up to any of us, bat her eyes, lick her lips in that special sort of way women have, and... well, how it goes, you know? Right so. Anyway, many men. Or women. Brave. But you'll see, anyway. Maybe.

Right.
So you hear about the sweaty palms, and you hear about the sort of eyes bulging (though I only thought that because of so many damn closeups in films of people's eyes, and then I started thinking of Rodney Dangerfield, and how he always anno yed me, and how pants it was some people thought of him first when someone leapt out at them with a book of words and said, "Hey quick, what do you think of whe n I say comedian!?" The exclamation mark is my emphasis, though the people may n ot have necessarily verbalised the emphasis, I just figured anyone jumping out f rom behind a lamppost or bush or kangaroo or something (depending on the venue, I suppose, you're not very likely to leap out from behind a kangaroo in New Yor k City or anything, nor do I know if it's physically possibly to leap out from b ehind a kangaroo; I know a few Australians, and they've never mentioned anything like it, really, which doesn't mean it doesn't happen, but you'd think that would be one of the foremost stories an Australian would tell, were he or s he telling other people about themselves... unless, of course, it really is that common and they just assume you know what's it like - "Oh yeah, I jump out from behind kangaroos all the time, bit tricky when they've just eaten, though, they don't like you to do that, then, and in fact sometimes the gardaí patrol for that sort of thing" which is a conversation presuming Australians, or this particular one telling you the story, calls their policemen or rangers or what h ave you 'gardaí', which would be very Irish of them, I suppose.) definite ly intends emphasis, and perhaps wanted to provide the feeling of emphasi s more from their actions than from their words, which is a very noble pursuit ( though no doubt a novelist, and argumentative novelist, might argue with you (th ere's the argumentative bit) that words can be just as potent as actions, as the y would have to do, unless they were one of those novelists that favoured sparse prose, and maybe tactile sort of book jackets, or had a title like "Steal This Book and Throw It At Them" which would be a decidely more active reading experie nce than most people think of when someone leaps out at them from behind a mount ain goat or coal bin and shouts "What's the first thing that pops into your head when I say 'reading'!?" (This one I feel okay about the exclamation mark, as I did say they were shouting, as most of these people prone to leaping out from behind things generally get to that certain point where they shout much much faster than more normal, non-leaping people, and in addition to shouting a lot more often, also probably have higher blood pressure, thought that's purely a guess on my part, for all I know, leaping out at people with a book and shouting things at them may have a calming effect on some people, I might need to try it at some point). Which is okay, challenging your potentially rushed answer to what you consider reading (also possibly gauged to make this crazy person who's leapt out at you from behind a Doctor Who-style police box or palm tree asking you what you think of when they say 'reading' happy, as there's no telling, really, what they might do if you answer wrong and say something stupid, like "Go fish," like you did that one time when the teller asked you if you had change for a fiver, or ten p or something, you can't remember because you left the shop with your face all red after realising you just told the teller to "Go fish."), it's good to expand your horizons and perception and all that sort of thing.) thing that goes on, and you're standing there by a wall, maybe occasionally rubbing your sweaty little palms (as you're quite little, that's no comment on yourself, you're only twelve, after all, even if you're big for a twelve year old you'll always seem small and slightly awkward, that's the right and privilege of twelve year olds (which, granted, some of us hang on to for years and years and years and years afterwards, but there you go)) against that same wall, stubbly paint smooth and now wet and sweaty as well against your sweaty little palms, and you just know you're going to work up the courage to ask someone to dance with you. Hopefully, this time, before the last song plays.

disclaimer:
Ah, sweet youth. Sweet sweet blush of youth. Sweaty little youths.

You touch it, you bought it.



		archives horoscopes accessories contacts theatre fables home Search Sane: [A Note on My.Netscape.Com]		Soul Shoulder So. Right oh. And there you go. There weren't many men brave enough, not many men, nor many women, lest we alienate them, and risk never having a woman come up to any of us, bat her eyes, lick her lips in that special sort of way women have, and... well, how it goes, you know? Right so. Anyway, many men. Or women. Brave. But you'll see, anyway. Maybe. Right. So you hear about the sweaty palms, and you hear about the sort of eyes bulging (though I only thought that because of so many damn closeups in films of people's eyes, and then I started thinking of Rodney Dangerfield, and how he always anno yed me, and how pants it was some people thought of him first when someone leapt out at them with a book of words and said, "Hey quick, what do you think of whe n I say comedian!?" The exclamation mark is my emphasis, though the people may n ot have necessarily verbalised the emphasis, I just figured anyone jumping out f rom behind a lamppost or bush or kangaroo or something (depending on the venue, I suppose, you're not very likely to leap out from behind a kangaroo in New Yor k City or anything, nor do I know if it's physically possibly to leap out from b ehind a kangaroo; I know a few Australians, and they've never mentioned anything like it, really, which doesn't mean it doesn't happen, but you'd think that would be one of the foremost stories an Australian would tell, were he or s he telling other people about themselves... unless, of course, it really is that common and they just assume you know what's it like - "Oh yeah, I jump out from behind kangaroos all the time, bit tricky when they've just eaten, though, they don't like you to do that, then, and in fact sometimes the gardaí patrol for that sort of thing" which is a conversation presuming Australians, or this particular one telling you the story, calls their policemen or rangers or what h ave you 'gardaí', which would be very Irish of them, I suppose.) definite ly intends emphasis, and perhaps wanted to provide the feeling of emphasi s more from their actions than from their words, which is a very noble pursuit ( though no doubt a novelist, and argumentative novelist, might argue with you (th ere's the argumentative bit) that words can be just as potent as actions, as the y would have to do, unless they were one of those novelists that favoured sparse prose, and maybe tactile sort of book jackets, or had a title like "Steal This Book and Throw It At Them" which would be a decidely more active reading experie nce than most people think of when someone leaps out at them from behind a mount ain goat or coal bin and shouts "What's the first thing that pops into your head when I say 'reading'!?" (This one I feel okay about the exclamation mark, as I did say they were shouting, as most of these people prone to leaping out from behind things generally get to that certain point where they shout much much faster than more normal, non-leaping people, and in addition to shouting a lot more often, also probably have higher blood pressure, thought that's purely a guess on my part, for all I know, leaping out at people with a book and shouting things at them may have a calming effect on some people, I might need to try it at some point). Which is okay, challenging your potentially rushed answer to what you consider reading (also possibly gauged to make this crazy person who's leapt out at you from behind a Doctor Who-style police box or palm tree asking you what you think of when they say 'reading' happy, as there's no telling, really, what they might do if you answer wrong and say something stupid, like "Go fish," like you did that one time when the teller asked you if you had change for a fiver, or ten p or something, you can't remember because you left the shop with your face all red after realising you just told the teller to "Go fish."), it's good to expand your horizons and perception and all that sort of thing.) thing that goes on, and you're standing there by a wall, maybe occasionally rubbing your sweaty little palms (as you're quite little, that's no comment on yourself, you're only twelve, after all, even if you're big for a twelve year old you'll always seem small and slightly awkward, that's the right and privilege of twelve year olds (which, granted, some of us hang on to for years and years and years and years afterwards, but there you go)) against that same wall, stubbly paint smooth and now wet and sweaty as well against your sweaty little palms, and you just know you're going to work up the courage to ask someone to dance with you. Hopefully, this time, before the last song plays. disclaimer: Ah, sweet youth. Sweet sweet blush of youth. Sweaty little youths. You touch it, you bought it.


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