Broke the back of a monkey, hung him up in a temple by the tail...
I understand that by the age of 14 Felix Mendelssohn had written 12 symphonies. He is considered by some to be the greatest child prodigy since, oh... Mozart.
Albert Hoffmann invented LSD and then went for the most famous bicycle ride evah. (Apparently the boys down at Cisco labs don't mind a bit of California sunshine). Fucker's still alive too. Elixir of life? Makes you wonder...
Some bastard somewhere in Russia called Perelman reckons he can solve the Poincaré conjecture without the conventional recourse to euclidean geometry, or some shit. Don't even want the accolade nor the US$1m. Punk mathematical.
These are examples of proper fucking genius. People who got shit done. Useful.
There are other examples of genius that are not readily identifiable by any great and lasting achievement. There is a woman somewhere with an IQ measured at about 185, one of the very highest on record. She writes an agony aunt column in an obscure American magazine. Her surname's Savant! Ha!
One time I gave an advice to the Chief Constable about a guy who had walked into police HQ and demanded a license to possess cocaine. To train his dogs. He purportedly owned a company that trained sniffer dogs. Genius! When I'd wiped the tears from my eyes and come to the sober realisation that there was in fact such a thing, and that sniffer dogs were not in fact sent on sabbatical to Columbia I made a few phone calls. Ninety minutes later I was the owner of a shelf company called Habeas Canis and three germain German Shepherd puppies. ZZTop's TenDollarMan was flashin in my brane.
None of the aspects of genius can be attributed to my hoppoes. (Hoppo - noun. Arch Greek hoplite, meaning in the context of a house of multiple occupancy, roommate, flatmate etc.) I shall return to them in due course.
Quite some time ago, before I moved in here, I was watching television, which is itself a rare thing and thereby bloggable. The program was concerned with the restoration of Roman bronzes. I saw a girl who was the absolute apogee, the very acme of geek chic. She was head restorer. That is to say, she restores the head. But preternaturally beautiful and so, so fucking eloquent. Big fuck off glasses and a mass of black curly hair tied back.
I was transfixed. Imagining her shaking out those locks while removing her glasses and suspender belt, obscenely stroking a nipple with her strange little brush. I knew her name and her museum, and so I stalked her, seduced her and took her to a nightclub (hoping that before long she would be restoring my head). Donovan's Superlungs (My Supergirl) was playing in my head.
On the next table to us was an obnoxiously drunk, squat South African with a sinister Mediterranean complexion.
He saw me and my breathtakingly achingly fabulous companion and felt himself compelled to approach. He yapped and yarped so long at Rose that we fled to a restaurant, Motörhead's No Class playing in my head.
Not too long after, due to three tragic misunderstandings with my previous landlady involving in quick succession: a small dog, a 17 year old redhead and a *ahem* her (that is: the landlady's) dildo, I had cause to find new premises, rapid. Alabama 3's Let it Slide playin sweet, goddamn pretty motherfuckin' country-acid house music in my brain.
And to my hoppoes. There are three. Tweedledum: a very large rugby playing behemoth throwback to the Neanderthals. A properly nice bloke with a vocabulary of perhaps 100 English and 500 Afrikaans words and a propensity towards the consumption of vast volumes of Jagermeister and ultra violence. Very effective on the blind side offense. A nahhce gahh. Bro.
There is Tweedletwee: a sort of minor computer graphics technician responsible for the background textures in a recently released driving simulation on the PS3. He is very British and doesn't speak a word of English, unless you grab the bastard by the throat, push him to the wall and scream, spittle flying, in the manner of a deranged Spider Jerusalem. Even then he only speaks like an embarrassed Hugh Grant, and apologises, terribly, for the inconvenience, won't happen again, I assure you, and would you mind ever so much, umm, how can I say this, um, letting me go. Oxygen, you see. No, no at all. My fault entirely.
And Tweedledumbest...
To my horror, on my first night in the new establishment, I walked into the hallway and saw the aforementioned Tweedledumb insensate on the floor, apparently trying to fuck something. I stepped gingerly over his giant, twitching, prostrate form, The Electronic Hole's The Golden Hour Part III playing in my brain, and entered the lounge area. What did I see?
One large, squat south African of indeterminate Cypriot heritage!
NOOOOOO!!!
Mendelssohn's Song Without Words starts playing in my mind.
Christ no!
The Nightclub Bastard!
"What kind of fuckery is this...?" sings Amy Winehouse...
Anyway, by way of introduction, dear reader, he optimises spam Google searches for anti-masturbation and gender re-assignment hypnosis mp3s. I shit you not. I cannot make this shit up. Into chi energy manipulation and walking on broken glass. Which is, I will reluctantly admit, pretty cool to watch.
Not really a bad bunch. None of them so far are particularly evil, and none of them appear unbearably unpleasant. But, dear god, why? Why must I live with these bastards? What the fuck have I done? How can I invite the astoundingly hot host of "Pimp my Statuary" here? One flatmate scurries in mortal fear of social contact, one leers drunkenly down at me from 6' 6", and one is convinced that by meditating he can change the size of his hands.
Albert Hoffmann invented LSD and then went for the most famous bicycle ride evah. (Apparently the boys down at Cisco labs don't mind a bit of California sunshine). Fucker's still alive too. Elixir of life? Makes you wonder...
Some bastard somewhere in Russia called Perelman reckons he can solve the Poincaré conjecture without the conventional recourse to euclidean geometry, or some shit. Don't even want the accolade nor the US$1m. Punk mathematical.
These are examples of proper fucking genius. People who got shit done. Useful.
There are other examples of genius that are not readily identifiable by any great and lasting achievement. There is a woman somewhere with an IQ measured at about 185, one of the very highest on record. She writes an agony aunt column in an obscure American magazine. Her surname's Savant! Ha!
One time I gave an advice to the Chief Constable about a guy who had walked into police HQ and demanded a license to possess cocaine. To train his dogs. He purportedly owned a company that trained sniffer dogs. Genius! When I'd wiped the tears from my eyes and come to the sober realisation that there was in fact such a thing, and that sniffer dogs were not in fact sent on sabbatical to Columbia I made a few phone calls. Ninety minutes later I was the owner of a shelf company called Habeas Canis and three germain German Shepherd puppies. ZZTop's TenDollarMan was flashin in my brane.
None of the aspects of genius can be attributed to my hoppoes. (Hoppo - noun. Arch Greek hoplite, meaning in the context of a house of multiple occupancy, roommate, flatmate etc.) I shall return to them in due course.
Quite some time ago, before I moved in here, I was watching television, which is itself a rare thing and thereby bloggable. The program was concerned with the restoration of Roman bronzes. I saw a girl who was the absolute apogee, the very acme of geek chic. She was head restorer. That is to say, she restores the head. But preternaturally beautiful and so, so fucking eloquent. Big fuck off glasses and a mass of black curly hair tied back.
I was transfixed. Imagining her shaking out those locks while removing her glasses and suspender belt, obscenely stroking a nipple with her strange little brush. I knew her name and her museum, and so I stalked her, seduced her and took her to a nightclub (hoping that before long she would be restoring my head). Donovan's Superlungs (My Supergirl) was playing in my head.
On the next table to us was an obnoxiously drunk, squat South African with a sinister Mediterranean complexion.
He saw me and my breathtakingly achingly fabulous companion and felt himself compelled to approach. He yapped and yarped so long at Rose that we fled to a restaurant, Motörhead's No Class playing in my head.
Not too long after, due to three tragic misunderstandings with my previous landlady involving in quick succession: a small dog, a 17 year old redhead and a *ahem* her (that is: the landlady's) dildo, I had cause to find new premises, rapid. Alabama 3's Let it Slide playin sweet, goddamn pretty motherfuckin' country-acid house music in my brain.
And to my hoppoes. There are three. Tweedledum: a very large rugby playing behemoth throwback to the Neanderthals. A properly nice bloke with a vocabulary of perhaps 100 English and 500 Afrikaans words and a propensity towards the consumption of vast volumes of Jagermeister and ultra violence. Very effective on the blind side offense. A nahhce gahh. Bro.
There is Tweedletwee: a sort of minor computer graphics technician responsible for the background textures in a recently released driving simulation on the PS3. He is very British and doesn't speak a word of English, unless you grab the bastard by the throat, push him to the wall and scream, spittle flying, in the manner of a deranged Spider Jerusalem. Even then he only speaks like an embarrassed Hugh Grant, and apologises, terribly, for the inconvenience, won't happen again, I assure you, and would you mind ever so much, umm, how can I say this, um, letting me go. Oxygen, you see. No, no at all. My fault entirely.
And Tweedledumbest...
To my horror, on my first night in the new establishment, I walked into the hallway and saw the aforementioned Tweedledumb insensate on the floor, apparently trying to fuck something. I stepped gingerly over his giant, twitching, prostrate form, The Electronic Hole's The Golden Hour Part III playing in my brain, and entered the lounge area. What did I see?
One large, squat south African of indeterminate Cypriot heritage!
NOOOOOO!!!
Mendelssohn's Song Without Words starts playing in my mind.
Christ no!
The Nightclub Bastard!
"What kind of fuckery is this...?" sings Amy Winehouse...
Anyway, by way of introduction, dear reader, he optimises spam Google searches for anti-masturbation and gender re-assignment hypnosis mp3s. I shit you not. I cannot make this shit up. Into chi energy manipulation and walking on broken glass. Which is, I will reluctantly admit, pretty cool to watch.
Not really a bad bunch. None of them so far are particularly evil, and none of them appear unbearably unpleasant. But, dear god, why? Why must I live with these bastards? What the fuck have I done? How can I invite the astoundingly hot host of "Pimp my Statuary" here? One flatmate scurries in mortal fear of social contact, one leers drunkenly down at me from 6' 6", and one is convinced that by meditating he can change the size of his hands.
posted at 20:26
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