INDEXED IN «humour»
I SHOT COLDPLAY

Written after hearing way to much Coldplay on passing radio, a band I don’t really enjoy – especially when subjected to it against my will. No intent of actual violence was meant by this “poem”, I just thought it was funny.

I shot Coldplay from the bush on the hill
A laser guided rifle and a whole lot of will
Took five different shots and then the task was done
Frantic crowds flee behind Vodafone and O2 tents in the festival sun

I shot Coldplay from the open doors of the lift
Sort of like Valerie Solanas when Andy got sniffed
There was instant satisfaction but not sure about the mess
I’m sure Parlophone could smooth out that stress

I shot Coldplay disguised as a midget
Though the first shot missed through the arm of Chris’ faux military jacket
A second shot was fired – a success! – but it wasn’t from me
The odds must be high for those wishing to carry out the deed

I shot Coldplay but first heard the man out
Mr. Martin insisted they meant no malice to offend anyone
We laughed and shook hands and let down our guard
But I shot him anyway as I hold grudges hard

That song where the kids sing “Wa-ohhh wa-ohhhh”
I just had to get out and “go-ohhh go-ohhh”
A short time later Martin and co were taken out by a bus
I’d like to think the driver had kicked up a fuss

I shot Coldplay from the depths of a dream
If I hear “Yellow” one more time I think I might scream
Don’t look at me strange from the things that I say
Sit down, relax, it was all in my mind anyway

Just saying really…

STARTING THE YEAR ON WRONG FOOT, RAIL-Y

For a few weeks I was wondering when I’d break in this blog for the “first post” for this ominous looking and sounding year that is 2012. I had a few things in mind but sort of got lost for well over a month, side-lined by the realities of modern living including things like moving house, engaging in new places of employment and returning to my former home city over the holidays to further confuse myself to which city — the former or the current — is actually “home”. Oh, and I bought a cool oriental fan for $12.00 CAD.

It seems that my problems with a local rail provider would be worthy of this first post. As I’ve moved, my transport links have changed and I’ve had to make numerous journeys on an overground rail line that services parts of London I go regularly such as Hackney and The City. It has been no source of joy in my life, but you can read the full complaint letter I sent myself to the provider below:

Dear Personnel of National Express East Anglia,

My name is Jack Duckworth, a resident of Walthamstow, and I am writing you today regarding the bizarre, flippant spasms of activity that you publicly refer to as the Liverpool Street to Chingford line of your National Express East Anglia service. I guess you can say this is a complaint letter; one that I’ve been avoiding writing as I’m quite a busy man and feel it should only really come to a point of great distress that I should write such a letter. Well look, here I am… writing this letter.

I have recently relocated my place of residence to Walthamstow and have looked to rely on your London Liverpool Street to Chingford service as a fast and easy service to points in Hackney and The City. This service is scheduled to run every 15 minutes at the same times on the hour, every day Monday through Friday from any given station.

However, much to my confusion and astonishment, this service has not delivered on what I casually estimate as 35-40% of the time. I have arrived at stations in Walthamstow, Clapton and Hackney Downs to find trains delayed by at least 5-10 minutes or more, or even cancelled for reasons totally unbeknownst to myself, and upon my inquiry, to members of staff themselves. Notable extreme examples include a 25 minute delay (!) at Hackney Downs at approximately 9am on January 10th and a number of occasions at Walthamstow Central in the evening where the trains to Liverpool Street have been cancelled for cryptic reasons of “signal failure” with no further explanation or no prior warning.

Another example was a southbound train from Hackney Downs on December 14th at around the hour of 11pm. The display had stated the incoming time of the southbound train and then had stated all trains were cancelled. This cancellation was announced on the loudspeaker with no reason provided except to call an information number. I dialled this number and the pre-recorded message told me to call back during business hours, of which I forget now as at that moment my energies were mainly focused on quelling a brewing rage in the dumb, looming shadows of transportation incompentence.
The instances I’ve mentioned above were the most extreme in a somewhat more lengthy list of examples of poor train service.

Let’s assess the London Liverpool Street to Chingford line. It’s train that runs on quite a short length of track consisting of approximately 10 stops from end to end. I’ve taken the train from end to end and it’s about 25 minutes or so from what I remember. Aside from minor gradients in the track there are no challenging obstacles or features in this length or track; no obstacles which might actually vary train service: obstacles such as an insurgency of armed rebels obstructing track, sections of track running through sluggish quicksand or sections of track that may resemble sections of a rollercoaster (ie: a “loop the loop”) that one would find at a fun fair or carnival, which would obviously add an unpredictable element to the service and thus rightfully delay the service.

The usual reasons for delay are vague and non-eventful at that such as “signal failure” or “adverse weather conditions” (read: “light rain”) or in some cases, “an on-going situation at XXXX station.
I can already predict a likely reply to this letter, and one “justifying” the poor service. It would be one stating that the trains or sections of track are old and need upgrading or some other pre-written bureaucratic stock answers that underpaid customer service agents will spend mind-numbing hours copying and pasting into countless reply emails. Considering the UK pays some of the highest fares in Europe — and to which one occasion a European colleague of mine had with tact referred to as “highway robbery” — it’s an extremely tall drink of nasty liquid that one has to ingest to side with that reasoning. Where is all of this money going?

What is even more frightening, or tragically hilarious — depending on what way you look at it — is that we are six to seven months away from the 2012 Olympics; an event that requires London to allow itself to become fat and uncomfortably bloated with the addition of at least five million people (estimated figures). And with this train service, as well as notable other examples throughout the London transportation network, coasting into this massive event on the same quality of service to me is the equivalent of a stereotypical dope-smoking teenager coasting along in cannabis-induced bliss, right until that moment he needs to pick up the phone and order one massively large, Olympic-size pizza and failing to even do that when going into mad panic seconds after picking up the phone.

I can already imagine the blind rage of commuters during those patience-testing two weeks as massively enlarged body of population attempts to smoothly use this service as it’s current level of quality. The biggest spectacles I can assure you wont be at the stadium or track, but at tube and rail stations themselves as angry commuters create new sports of their own such as synchronised turnstile hurdling, Oyster Card discus, the 100m platform dash, inner carriage boxing and much more. Perhaps all of these events would revolve around the “Olympic Flame” of burning effigies of Boris Johnson, who the public identify as the face and mouth of TFL. A man with all the charm and charisma of a soft, perspiring potato.

Anyway, I’m sure as you can tell by my tirade expressed the numerous paragraphs aboves there are serious faults to your service which you’ll need to pick up the slack on in terms of efficiency to validate the amount one spends in fares. In the meantime it’s a bit of a farce to say the least.

As I’m sure most of your staff are familiar with the popular animated sitcom “The Simpsons”, I’d like to conclude this letter with words that would like be quoted by that curmudgeonly, unshaven and borderline shapeless character we all know as “Comic Book Guy”:

“Worst. Train Service. Ever.”

Yours Sincerely,
Jack Duckworth

THE ETERNAL LEGEND OF THE LOOPFAX

Junk mail. It’s something most of us receive in the post on a daily basis. Multiply that exponentially and that’s the quantity of email spam that someone on average might receive in that same amount of undisclosed time. I’ve sometimes checked my junk folder with only a month gap to the previous round of mass spam deletion to find that there’s another 2000+ emails in that folder. Weird printing companies that exist somewhere in the far east offering outlandish deals on business cards, overtly formal letters of bank account transfers from purported princes of Africa asking me, a random Canadian in London, if I will take on their wealth in the event of their succumbing to a strange disease. That’s just the tip of the iceberg really.

Receiving junk mail by fax is another phenomenon: bad, dot-matrix style ads spooling painfully to the out tray with garbled graphics of houses to let and tasteless clip-art. An old friend of mine worked at a paint store that made regular use out of the shop’s fax machine. Apparently the percentage of junk mail that that fax machine received prompted my friend to take action against the spam-sending aggressors. The result is where this whole story starts.

“I just took three sheets of paper, penned them up so they were all black, and taped the three sheets together into the fax machine,” he said — or something to that effect. “Once the chained sheets went through and started coming out the other side, I’d tape the three sheets again into a loop.”

From there one would get an infinite fax message; the three sheets constantly rotating and when received on the other side the fax wouldn’t stop until manually stopped. The blacked out pages added more nastiness to the deed, wasting up the recipient’s toner as well as their paper. Yes, harsh revenge for those shameless fax spammers. This trick was what we then called a “loopfax”.

This friend of mine had a knack for telling stories and things that happened in his life and his telling of it was hilarious. As we had also played in a band together, a short time later after a show in Victoria, the loopfax came up again — this time at a small party at a friend’s house. Fueled by a post-gig high, likely lack of sleep and alcohol — the loopfax story struck a chord with those that hadn’t heard of it as it seemed like the most simple yet ultimately damaging form of technology-based office warfare that there was. The conversation started picking up and as we discussed the repercussions of loopfax usage (or mis-use), scenarios worthy of science fiction were discussed. That and a lot of laughing our asses off.

Imagine a future where man is slave to the machine. It is the year 2056 and mankind has deforested the entire planet to make paper to feed into the Giant Fax Machine. It has been receiving and endless fax message for years. Giant monoliths of printed fax paper obscure the sun, standing hundreds of stories high. The sky is polluted with chemicals from pulp and paper mills. All is dirty with the blackness of toner soot. One day our hero steps forward and ends the madness by simply pulling the plug. Mankind rejoices.

Sounds like a plot as goofy as Spaceballs or Darkstar.  And even from there it went on, popping up sporadically over the following years. A friend of mine even did a small blog about it that’s still haunting the internet as a joke, full of suggestions for fax-based revenge and practical jokery — perhaps some modern Dada-style art.

To be honest, I’ve never even tried making a loopfax. If this short piece inspires you, try it at home and send your loopfax related adventures to me by email… or by FAX (scary ending music).

A FLAVOURSOME CRUNK(CH)

CLICK TO ENLARGE

I’d keep telling people about these: a ridiculous “urban-themed” hip hop snack but totally forgot the name and any of the details. It’s sort of like telling a joke but flailing on the punchline. No-one likes a flailing punchline — really.

The first time I came across “Rap Snacks” – as I’ve now found out – was in a non-descript (possibly derelict?) gas station off of the interstate in St. Louis, Missouri. We had spent the evening hanging around a venue in a not-so-good part of town and were now packing up to make tracks to our next destination: Memphis, Tennessee. The initial draw of Rap Snacks were the cartoon-ish illustrations of the endorsing “rapper” on the packaging and the bold colouring made by usage of only a few solid primary colours. There was sort of a Spy Vs. Spy or Dick Tracy vibe going on.

Warren G., L’il Romeo, Pretty Willie… can’t say I’ve heard of these guys. They must have some clout in the rap world to get a snack with their name on it. Perhaps the snack flavour is a representation of their personality. Pretty Willie is a spicy yet smooth personality: therefore Salsa Cheese.

Knowing that ages young and old will pick up a bag, positive messages are printed on the packaging: “Respect Your Elders”“Stay In School”… Looks like they’re taking a cue from Mr. T.

“Worry is a misuse of imagination” – quote by Chopper, a “rapper” that I’ve never heard of. This quote is from a bag of Hot Sauce Pork Cracklin’s.

Maybe this was a smaller, tight knit scene of bonafide rappers getting together and doing something positive? Who knows? The message is sure there. As well as a big potential for advertising. Getting the artists out to the rap music lovers… and lovers of dry, salted snacks.

We know musicians have been tied with food for a while: Greg Norton of Hüsker Dü owns a restaurant in Minnesota, Alex Kapranos of Franz Ferdinand wrote a food book and I know various musicians of the punk/hardcore cannon that have written about food or pursue a career in food in tandem with their musical endeavours. Bands have even made novelty merchandise around food.

Maybe a genre-based snack could be launched on a more microcosmic scale.

EAST LONDON WAVE SCENE SNACKS
Many different variations, each with some sort of active persona on the packaging with a morally uplifting (or nihilistically sarcastic) message on the front of the bag/box.

If I had that bizarre opportunity to put my face on a snack it would likely have cashews in it.

THE CREATOR OF TEDIOUS INVITES

Often in my daytime profession I am assigned with the task of creating florid and stately invitations for various entities in the high brow part of this fair city that is called Mayfair. There are many different kinds. Invites to art shows, invites to fashion launches, invites to elaborate dinners in historical manors fortified by lush green expansive grounds in exotic locations such as Somerset, Wiltshire, and Essex. You wouldn’t need much effort to deduce that a lot of the wording in these things are excessive. Team that up with the attentive presentation and you get a pretty pricey token: custom, textured papers / foiling / spot varnishes / metallic inks, etc. And just recently there came a request for only fifteen invites for a semi-casual luncheon — an invitation extended from a possibly bored person to a selection of acquaintances and friends from the west side “art scene”.

“Man, you could easily just call these fifteen people up and save a hell lotta time and money…”

Yes, it should seem so. Getting invites designed, selected with envelopes, and then sent via post for a lunch seems to most people such as myself a little pretentious, yet the idea of it is entertaining.

Hanging on this subject, I’ve decided to create a couple of my own mock invites below, but in more ludicrous contexts:

GREETINGS, MICHAEL!
YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO
“LUNCH FANTASTIQUE!”

AN AFTERNOON OF CASUAL “STREET” DINING AT THE MILE END BRANCH OF PERFECT FRIED CHICKEN
This Thursday, January 28th at 3pm sharp
123 Mile End Road, London UK

Please place your reservation by telephone, fascimile, email, or text message.
T: 020 5555 5555 / F: 020 5555 5551 / E: chickenpostdrunksnackparty@mail.com

If you have dietary concerns please advise three hours prior to the event.

Yours Sincerely, Your Friend Jeffrey

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SARAH AND JAMES PRESENT AN EVENING OF GANJA MAGIC

CHRONIC SUPERNOVA!

February 5th @ 8pm sharp! Apartment 11, 345 Broadway Avenue

Come and sample new strains from our dealer Simon from Apartment 14A!
Hindu Kush / Silver Haze / Island Lady / White Queen

A small gathering of friends in our living room and hours of THC-induced antics! Potato based snacks, soda, and light comedic, television-based entertainment will be supplied.

Please RSVP at chronicsupernovaevenings@mail.com

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The above two examples are of course ridiculous exagerrations however I do find myself attracted to subtle absurdity and out-of-context formalities. Telling a friend you’d like to give them a “telephone call” or send them an “electronic mail later in the week” sounds odd but intriguing. Gain the upper hand in all situations with eloquence and good manners. I seem to recall a bit of information from years ago that Barry 7 of the now defunct electronic music group Add N To (X) advocating or being part of an organization that would subvert mainstream society by mastery and usage of those very traits. I wholeheartedly agree: the pen is mightier than the sword – the tongue as well. I think I’ll end this train of thought here…

In the end those fifteen invites ended up being created: swirling script fonts, textured card, high quality self-sealed envelopes — all for a casual lunch. I guess it reminds me of an old-fashioned formality somewhat lost in the general echelons of modern culture but I don’t think I’ll be cranking out invites in the post to my friends en masse anytime soon.