Pulp non-fiction

I don't like to watch Quentin Tarantino films.

I hear they're good.

I believe they're intelligent.

They have good soundtracks.

But I don't like to watch them.

Because I don't like violence. I don't like watching it, real or fictitious, and, I don't understand society's fascination with it.

Especially random violence. It doesn't make sense, not even evolutionarily. (I could elaborate here, but I won't. You're quick enough to get where I'm coming from, right? Right.)

So, to the random nose-smashers of last night's London, why? Not a despairing, rhetorical, fist-at-the-sky 'Why?', but seriously, why? Couldn't you use that energy climbing, riding, making, finding, learning, writing, growing, teaching, moving, exploring or playing something? Honestly, I want to know, why?

This way up.

I was a head in a box the other day. Actually, the whole band were. Six of us. Six heads in six boxes. (Actually, that's wrong, five of us were in boxes, Neil was in a suitcase.) Boxes on the floor with just our heads and some packing materials (some had styrofoam, some straw, I had newspaper). A little girl came around and opened the boxes and we sang at her. Nicely.

We filmed part of a soon-to-be-released music video the other day.

Anyone want to guess which state-of-the-art effects we used to do this?

(For the second filming we get to be hanging from trees...)

Things I have learnt about old-fashioned running.

I've run a few marathons, now and again. Never placed though. I think, however, that, I may have stood a chance at a top-ten place in the marathon at the 1904 Olympic games in St. Louis, where:

-The first to cross the finish line was a runner who actually quit after 9 miles and was just going back to get some clothes. The crowd was amazed at his time, and he let them be, including taking the gold medal. Which he didn't keep for long.

-The second to cross the line did so legally, but heavily poisoned. In those days, it was pretty common practice to feed athletes strychnine (mixed with brandy, of course). He almost died.

-The fourth to finish was a Cuban postman who didn't have any real athletic clothing, so just cut his regular trousers into shorts for the race. He stopped off at an orchard during the race to eat some apples. They were rotten, so he had a nap. He still came in fourth.

-The ninth to finish was chased nearly a mile off course by angry dogs.

The Hoke, the poke.

I didn't write this. But I wish I had:


The following is from the Washington Post Style Invitational contest that asked readers to submit "instructions" for something (anything), but written in the style of a famous person. The winning entry was The Hokey Pokey (as written by 'William Shakespeare').

O proud left foot, that ventures quick within
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinistral pedestal to writhe.
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl.
To spin! A wilde release from Heavens yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl.
The Hoke, the poke -- banish now thy doubt
Verily, I say, 'tis what it's all about.
-- by "William Shakespeare"

Written by Jeff Brechlin, Potomac Falls, Maryland, and submitted by Katherine St. John.