Friday, March 10, 2006
Peculiar Theakston here.
I've spent my day trawling through the personal effects of a stranger. Not out of some sordid compulsion, you understand - I was actually hired to do so. I find myself facilitating the transfer of one obsolete medium to another soon-to-be-obsolete medium. In this case, 8mm videotape to DVD.
For some reason, it reminds me of how I once spent a summer patching accountants' laptops in advance of Y2K, and I realise that I've come to make a living in the cracks between popular technologies.
In this case, I'm filling in for a man crushed by the expectations of his steady readership. Haunted by the *sighs* that pepper the blogosphere upon a fruitless refresh. His psychic salivary gland running dry. His tongue furred with the leukoplakia of ennui...
And therein lies the peril of the popular blogger. Brilliance comes to be expected. Wit and insight are hotly anticipated. The fingers of expectation drum on one's head much like a beating heart in a box under the floor - were someone to contrive such a preposterous scenario.
One must take care not to build expectation of writing so profound and affecting, it's like putting a magnet to the side of a monitor. They're all like: "Don't do that, I'm trying to read. You're making the colours go all wonky." and you're all like: "Relax. Just press the degauss button. That's what it's there for."
So, for the next week or so, I promise you a steady diet of unrelenting mediocrity.
In closing, may I advise any videophiles out there to refrain from suggesting to your girlfriend that she "show off her arse" - Fifteen years from now, a young man is sitting in a darkened room, quietly judging you.