COMMISERATIONS, LAND GRUBS.
It is 1:42 AM this very Monday as I slouch into my couch. Most of the past couple weeks have kind of run together for me, and as such I got what some high-level university professors might call,
I knew this previous Friday that my piece for today would likely be formed under soup-brain conditions, so why not EMBRACE that idea?! Thusly, here comes me rambling in a meaningless tangent to related music.
To start off, I’ll need a topic from the audience. . . aaaannnndd since I’m alone, I’m gonna start with the late 90’s/early 2000’s television hit, Robot Wars.
Retitled and franchised as one thing or another (BattleBots, Robot Combat League, etc), the main premise of the show was to make a small armoured RC vehicle, capable of fighting other machines built with grand amounts of variation, all while being assaulted by far more impressive “House Robots” and all kinds of environmental hazards. Constantly under fire.
I mostly wanted to talk about Robot Wars to talk about strange hobbies. Some people collected certain types of cards, vinyl, or jewelery, whereas some people just build mechanized RC Cars. As far as weird hobbies go though, I don’t have a ton myself. I play board games, guitar, doodle, cook, go on walks at horrendous hours of the morning in frigid temperatures, and I do all these things because I genuinely enjoy doing them. If I could describe my perfect day, it probably wouldn’t exceed much beyond being away from the city at some secluded cabin, splitting logs and smelling like campfire.
Chainsaw as an instrument; Weird hobby. Not as weird as early Renaissance era machines built to simulate entire orchestras, but getting there!
The human mind’s ability to wordlessly solve complex equations is so simply overloaded by outside stimuli that it is easy to understand how we have ended up in a society where people don’t put down their phones to cross the street. The base art of communication has fallen into disarray and people you used to know may suddenly have become unable to have a five minute eye-to-eye, yet many manage to keep 3-6 different social networks updated.
I get angry enough in a day at the people I’m not forced to see again, I can’t imagine wanting that many separate lines of unnecessary documentation. Vexed by this and other queries, I left my abode this morning to procure the tradition “Nothing else is open, I’m going to Sev” midnight haul of snacks, and in my travels I watched a man throw up off his 4th story deck and an absolute dreg of a prostitute. The thing about being a prostitute this time of year, is that not many people are on the hunt for “51, female, smoker, snowpants”.
Despite all the crazy run-about of dodging said street atrocities, I have taken to walking a pretty set route home. Organization leads to better mental health, and having a clean space to do so within helps more than anyone has told lately. The year is young, and I look forward to spending it all with you.
Do good out there, scrubs.