Wot's this a neuroback? Yeah well. Let's not get too hopeful. Where have you all been? I go to London or something and there's no entries for weeks. We're going to have to put a stop to this nonsense.
My excuse is the best one I've ever had - no net access. Sure, Mister I'm Great Zoomtard managed to get net access when he was in the arse end of nowhere, but hey, what am I, some kind of superhero? (That new Superman movie is not such hot shit, by the way. With the exception of caterpillar eyebrows!)
We moved! The new house is a cavernous ridiculosity. Big, ugly, odorous (rotted things), lacking furniture. Zoomspouse couldn't be happier but then, he is a man of few standards. Insert crack about him marrying me. All laugh. Two second pause. Normal entry resume. Everything here is grotty. It needs a lot of work. I started painting and have already made a right pig's ear of everything. I have never sweated so much in my life - nerves crossed with humidity does not a fragrant neuro make.
I am, as of today, unemployed once more. I have spent a few weeks teaching singing to inner city kids on the SVP summer project. I won't bore you with the details but suffice to say there was a slight swelling in the chestal region and a wetness in the eye when they sang the songs I'd taught them at their concert today. They did it - the harmonies, the rounds, the rude hand gestures. I like kids. Not so much that I adopt Baby-VoiceTM whenever addressing them, though. I'll leave that one to the experts. I did occasionally shout at them, not really in anger, more to be heard, during the more hyper classes. On Monday I was informing one of the younger groups sternly that they needed to get this song darned well RIGHT because they would be performing it for their parents and guardians. To which Shannon, shaking her little red head sadly, piped up, "My Ma will never come. She never does." That sure made my dancing feet feel sad. What are you gonna say? Right in the middle of the class? I said, not really believing myself, "Maybe she will make it someday." Shannon simply shook that head resolutely again and I had to move on.
On a serious note, I had some prejudices blasted away with these kids. The vast majority of them are bright and sweet and well cared for. They may have pronounced accents and poor literacy and a little attitude but they are not tough or rough or anything else that they might be labeled. Sometimes I think about taking up teaching, on those days when I don't know where to go with my life, and I've decided now that if I ever do go down that route, these are the kinds of kids I want to work with. A friend of mine works in an international private (read: exclusive) boarding school in the UK that is filled with kind, intelligent teenagers who want to learn what Julie's got to teach. She loves it. But that wouldn't dissuade me. Those kids will succeed whether or not they have good, dedicated teachers. The SVP crew might not.
On that whole issue of Jobs and Unemployment and Bewilderment About Neuropurpose, I am in the probably long, slow process of interviews with a well known multinational for a (hopefully) challenging and interesting job. It's gone well in the short distance I have travelled with them so far, so if it's your way, say a little prayer for me. Or you could post a positive vibe, etc. Address: Dirty Cardboard Mansion, Somewhere in the Approximate West Dublin Region, Ireland.
So yes, Betamaxnomates and I did the London thing and it was good. Too hot, and the hostel was a kip, but good. Let's make that doubleplusgood. We did the whole London-Eye-Harrods-Bus-Tour-Boat-Tour-Aquarium-Theatre-Restaurants-Soho-Bars-Stuff. And the tube is magnificent, truly. We bolted around sweatily on it. The whole city seemed to swell and quiver with heat. If I ever return for a similar holiday, I will go in September. And I certainly won't bring that loser with me again. "Oh, let me pay for this!" What a wanker. We wore a lot of sunglasses and drank the piss that is known as bitter. We talked to a lonely man from Holland late at night who hated London with all the sorrow his little Dutch heart could muster. We talked the hostel staff into giving us a fan. Yes that's right, they stood at our bedsides at night with magazines, flapping rapidly until we awoke, refreshed and angry. Memories.
And if you are a Zoomtard reader then you will be awareof his conspicuous absence from my life for most of July. He is now, thankfully, back, skinnier and with a darker farmer tan than ever before. Equilibrium has been restored. I can now let go of responsibilities such as remembering to take a key with me when I go out. This is why I love him. Also because he ate a jar of chutney for lunch while I was gone.
And on love, Gav and Ange (you don't know them, they're good ones though) tie the knot tomorrow. Gav is staying with us tonight. He is a jolly Welsh man who wrote a phd about stars. These are just two reasons why I approve of him. We are dining and gigging but getting him to his leaba at a reasonable hour. The ceremony is not til 3pm so the pressure is not too high. Zoomy is a groomsman, I am doing the music. I don't know how else to put it other than doing. I got soaked in the rain twice today and I really need to shower before we go out. I sure hope the rain holds off tonight.
My very last piece of exciting news is that I lost my wallet on Saturday night. Photos! Credit cards! Multiple bank cards! Phone numbers! Receipts! DEAD 'N' GAWN. I should write a country and western song about it. Are you going to stop me? It will probably lack a certain (as Stig would say) as the French would say I Don't Know What if it's just me whining along as I play drums, which is the only instrument I can play, bar the recorder, and four chords on the guitar. You'd be amazed how many Beatles songs you can play with four chords! Ok that's enough rubbish for you all to be coping with, sure isn't it enough that your lives are in tatters without me rabbiting on with semi-surreal nonsense all the live long day. I shall have a beer for all of you tonight.
neuro-praxis -- Buttering You Up, One Ounce At A Time
