HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Saturday, 27 June 2015
Helloooo Newman: The 150 Percenters
Helloooo Newman: The 150 Percenters: Being a famous and spectacularly successful writer is a huge burden. But this blog is not about Stephen King. The problem with ME being ...
The 150 Percenters
Being a famous and spectacularly successful writer is a huge burden.
But this blog is not about Stephen King.
The problem with ME being a writer is that I'm picky with language. Except when I'm drunk. Put some of that "vodka from the skull" in me and I speak more of a "languidage". Or perhaps a "liquidage."
When I'm sober, there is one English phrase, or meme, or verbal habit, that drives me nuts.
It comes from the 150 percenters.
As a group, the 150 percenters are the most annoying in society. These are people who say things like, "I'm so thankful for their effort. They gave 150%."
"I expect you to give 1000% on this project."
I guess what these people are really saying, but feel the need to couch it in a nonsensical phrase, is, "please, go that extra mile."
I hate going that extra mile. One thing I love about Canada is you don't have to go that extra mile. You go that extra kilometre, which is shorter and easier.
For these people, the glass isn't half empty or half full, but more than full, which makes so much sense. No need to fuss with a bigger glass. Just make this glass more than full.
Remember when Nigel Tufnel, from Spinal Tap, exclaimed about his amps that "these go to eleven?" We all laughed at the absurdity of that, correct?
Well, when the 150 percenters ask someone to give 150%, they are Nigel with his amps. They look and sound just as silly.
"Hey Bob, sorry I only gave 100% on that last job. But you know what? I found a bag full of 50% more energy, so here I am to help some more."
This group also says things like, "to infinity and beyond." They have watches that count metric minutes, which are shorter. You can fit more in across your lifespan.
Are there any 150 percenters among the one percent? Yes! They are the 151 percenters.
Keep this in mind. When a member of this group asks you if you could give 150%, what they are really saying is your last effort sucked. Smarten up and work harder.
But this blog is not about Stephen King.
The problem with ME being a writer is that I'm picky with language. Except when I'm drunk. Put some of that "vodka from the skull" in me and I speak more of a "languidage". Or perhaps a "liquidage."
When I'm sober, there is one English phrase, or meme, or verbal habit, that drives me nuts.
It comes from the 150 percenters.
As a group, the 150 percenters are the most annoying in society. These are people who say things like, "I'm so thankful for their effort. They gave 150%."
"I expect you to give 1000% on this project."
I guess what these people are really saying, but feel the need to couch it in a nonsensical phrase, is, "please, go that extra mile."
I hate going that extra mile. One thing I love about Canada is you don't have to go that extra mile. You go that extra kilometre, which is shorter and easier.
For these people, the glass isn't half empty or half full, but more than full, which makes so much sense. No need to fuss with a bigger glass. Just make this glass more than full.
Remember when Nigel Tufnel, from Spinal Tap, exclaimed about his amps that "these go to eleven?" We all laughed at the absurdity of that, correct?
Well, when the 150 percenters ask someone to give 150%, they are Nigel with his amps. They look and sound just as silly.
"Hey Bob, sorry I only gave 100% on that last job. But you know what? I found a bag full of 50% more energy, so here I am to help some more."
This group also says things like, "to infinity and beyond." They have watches that count metric minutes, which are shorter. You can fit more in across your lifespan.
Are there any 150 percenters among the one percent? Yes! They are the 151 percenters.
Keep this in mind. When a member of this group asks you if you could give 150%, what they are really saying is your last effort sucked. Smarten up and work harder.
Saturday, 13 June 2015
Helloooo Newman: Shortening
Helloooo Newman: Shortening: I've had some feedback that my blog articles are too long. – The End –
Tuesday, 9 June 2015
Helloooo Newman: The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer
Helloooo Newman: The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer: My biggest fans often ask me, "Hey Paul, is writing your fantastically creative and brilliantly fluffy and funny articles, that are jus...
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer
My biggest fans often ask me, "Hey Paul, is writing your fantastically creative and brilliantly fluffy and funny articles, that are just deep enough with useful information that I say to myself, 'hey, reading that was better than brushing my teeth with a miter saw', a lonely endeavour?"
I love these kinds of fans. As I've said before, when I'm on the street, crowds of one or two people will swarm me, creating this capacious mosh pit, and chant my name. I guess mosh pit is a bit hyperbolic. There's no moshing, although one of my fans, high on bug spray, was jerking around my body and kept calling me Kenny G. That really hurt. At least confuse me with an artist who's tough, like Hemingway, who had the balls to end his career fellating his shotgun. Honourable, but that method isn't for me. I'll probably get cozy in a bed and listen to Kenny G for a week straight. They don't call it the Big Sleep for nothing.
Then my fans will spray paint some of my best lines on the sides of buildings. Unfortunately I've had to tell a few overzealous fans not to quote me directly, using my name. Hemingway would be a good substitute name.
And certainly don't draw my face using black spray paint. First of all, I've copyrighted my face. At first, the lawyers said the © symbol had to clearly appear on my face, one inch below my hairline (which drifts every day, much like the continents do) and be at least the size of a beer bottle cap.
One day, the lawyers showed up for an urgent meeting while I was in the shower. A female lawyer glanced at my bum (can you blame her?) and noticed similarities to my face. That's when they decided the © could legally appear on my bum.
On a side note, I certainly don't call myself a genius. Clever, I guess, like a chimp that can learn a slew of symbols. Oh, those chimps and that Paul, so much more clever than we ever thought. But do you know what the keyboard shortcut for the copyright symbol on a MAC keyboard is? Option-C, right? You know, the first letter of copyright. That's what I would have done. I mean if I were as talented as Kenny G.
No. It's Option-G, like the G in Kenny G. From those clever folks in Cupertino.
I ramble.
Back to my fans, armed with spray paint. As I said, they will spray entire articles of mine on buildings. Have you ever had to remove a whole article of graffiti from a brick wall with your bare muscles? A year ago I had to remove just that off the Brass Rail's front facade. I run into fans at the Rail all the time. How embarrassing.
Why can't writing be a group activity, like playing Bridge, or Croquet? Hey, my word trumps yours. Remember to hit the reader over the head with a mallet, to get your theme across.
Instead I feel like Dustin Hoffman from that running scene in The Marathon Man. All alone, frantic and sweaty. Then I ask someone to edit or comment on my work, and suddenly Olivier shows up as a dentist, asking "Is it safe?". "Is it readable?". There are holes all over your plot, as well as in your teeth.
I'm not sure why, but every time I start writing, my craving for Chinese food goes up 1000 percent. I load up on MSG, check out what I've written, and love it. Half an hour later, I hate it. Damn, that!
Great writing should be like Chinese food, shouldn't it? Half an hour later I need to read more.
I can't write a new blog every half hour. Pick another food, I'm still writing. Try Indian. I've eaten Indian and spent hours in the WC. I also like Indian because you can put it in a blender and it still looks and tastes the same, only easier to eat.
The real tragedy about my writing career is that I have no time to be a helicopter parent to my daughter. I'm not even a broken down Escalade parent. I'm more like one of those retro wooden wagon parents. Wagon Wheels for dinner. Eat your broccoli.
Are these the things that tortured Hemingway? Am I a real writer or a nyquil-fuelled ranter? Will my fans accept more serious work from me or opine for the earlier, funnier stuff?
You try wrestling with all this every day.
I love these kinds of fans. As I've said before, when I'm on the street, crowds of one or two people will swarm me, creating this capacious mosh pit, and chant my name. I guess mosh pit is a bit hyperbolic. There's no moshing, although one of my fans, high on bug spray, was jerking around my body and kept calling me Kenny G. That really hurt. At least confuse me with an artist who's tough, like Hemingway, who had the balls to end his career fellating his shotgun. Honourable, but that method isn't for me. I'll probably get cozy in a bed and listen to Kenny G for a week straight. They don't call it the Big Sleep for nothing.
Then my fans will spray paint some of my best lines on the sides of buildings. Unfortunately I've had to tell a few overzealous fans not to quote me directly, using my name. Hemingway would be a good substitute name.
And certainly don't draw my face using black spray paint. First of all, I've copyrighted my face. At first, the lawyers said the © symbol had to clearly appear on my face, one inch below my hairline (which drifts every day, much like the continents do) and be at least the size of a beer bottle cap.
One day, the lawyers showed up for an urgent meeting while I was in the shower. A female lawyer glanced at my bum (can you blame her?) and noticed similarities to my face. That's when they decided the © could legally appear on my bum.
On a side note, I certainly don't call myself a genius. Clever, I guess, like a chimp that can learn a slew of symbols. Oh, those chimps and that Paul, so much more clever than we ever thought. But do you know what the keyboard shortcut for the copyright symbol on a MAC keyboard is? Option-C, right? You know, the first letter of copyright. That's what I would have done. I mean if I were as talented as Kenny G.
No. It's Option-G, like the G in Kenny G. From those clever folks in Cupertino.
I ramble.
Back to my fans, armed with spray paint. As I said, they will spray entire articles of mine on buildings. Have you ever had to remove a whole article of graffiti from a brick wall with your bare muscles? A year ago I had to remove just that off the Brass Rail's front facade. I run into fans at the Rail all the time. How embarrassing.
Why can't writing be a group activity, like playing Bridge, or Croquet? Hey, my word trumps yours. Remember to hit the reader over the head with a mallet, to get your theme across.
Instead I feel like Dustin Hoffman from that running scene in The Marathon Man. All alone, frantic and sweaty. Then I ask someone to edit or comment on my work, and suddenly Olivier shows up as a dentist, asking "Is it safe?". "Is it readable?". There are holes all over your plot, as well as in your teeth.
I'm not sure why, but every time I start writing, my craving for Chinese food goes up 1000 percent. I load up on MSG, check out what I've written, and love it. Half an hour later, I hate it. Damn, that!
Great writing should be like Chinese food, shouldn't it? Half an hour later I need to read more.
I can't write a new blog every half hour. Pick another food, I'm still writing. Try Indian. I've eaten Indian and spent hours in the WC. I also like Indian because you can put it in a blender and it still looks and tastes the same, only easier to eat.
The real tragedy about my writing career is that I have no time to be a helicopter parent to my daughter. I'm not even a broken down Escalade parent. I'm more like one of those retro wooden wagon parents. Wagon Wheels for dinner. Eat your broccoli.
Are these the things that tortured Hemingway? Am I a real writer or a nyquil-fuelled ranter? Will my fans accept more serious work from me or opine for the earlier, funnier stuff?
You try wrestling with all this every day.
Tuesday, 2 June 2015
Helloooo Newman: AEIOU and Always Why
Helloooo Newman: AEIOU and Always Why: One of the first things we learn as children is the alphabet. And the most important question we learn to ask as we explore the world is &qu...
AEIOU and Always Why
One of the first things we learn as children is the alphabet. And the most important question we learn to ask as we explore the world is "Why".
Why is the question that distinguishes humans from all other living things. Not only can we ask why, we are compelled to ask it. All humans need food, water, sex, reasonably priced beer and to know the reason why.
There are two kinds of "why" questions. Upper case "WHY" questions and lower case "why" questions.
WHY questions are the BIG questions: WHY is gravity so much weaker than the other forces of the universe or WHY did human consciousness develop. I like asking these kinds of questions, but only after my fair share of beer, nyquil and the weed.
The more mundane, lower case "why" questions are the questions I want to entertain here. Questions like, why is Canadian beer sold for a lower price in the U.S.?
Here is another question. You are approaching a set of doors. You extend your arm to open one of the doors, say the right door – and it's locked. You are walking full speed ahead, expecting the door to serve its function, but…face, meet plate glass.
Why do we build two doors and lock one of them? Why does this improve the human condition?
Why don't we build other entrance/exit mechanisms where only half the structure is allowed to do its job?
You never run into a turnstile that only turns half way. Immediate castration (for men) or tubal ligation (for women).
Imagine if only half your car doors opened. "Hey Fred, my door won't open."
"Sorry, Tony, I keep those doors locked. Can you squeeze in from this side, around the baby's seat?"
How about revolving doors only working half way. Or you live on the 58th floor of the newest condo and the elevator is only allowed to go to the 28th floor.
So, we don't know WHY humans developed consciousness, but the more important question is, WHY don't the humans who lock these doors use their consciousness?
Gentlemen, we are at the forefront of human ingenuity. We are going to build a structure, and only allow people to use half of it. Pretty soon, all things will be done in half measure.
Maybe, like the locked door, they only keep one of the brain hemispheres switched on. Or maybe I'm being too generous here. Maybe just one neuron works.
Starting today, the glass will ALWAYS be half empty. All houses will be halfway houses.
Can't we meet these people halfway?
Why is the question that distinguishes humans from all other living things. Not only can we ask why, we are compelled to ask it. All humans need food, water, sex, reasonably priced beer and to know the reason why.
There are two kinds of "why" questions. Upper case "WHY" questions and lower case "why" questions.
WHY questions are the BIG questions: WHY is gravity so much weaker than the other forces of the universe or WHY did human consciousness develop. I like asking these kinds of questions, but only after my fair share of beer, nyquil and the weed.
The more mundane, lower case "why" questions are the questions I want to entertain here. Questions like, why is Canadian beer sold for a lower price in the U.S.?
Here is another question. You are approaching a set of doors. You extend your arm to open one of the doors, say the right door – and it's locked. You are walking full speed ahead, expecting the door to serve its function, but…face, meet plate glass.
Why do we build two doors and lock one of them? Why does this improve the human condition?
Why don't we build other entrance/exit mechanisms where only half the structure is allowed to do its job?
You never run into a turnstile that only turns half way. Immediate castration (for men) or tubal ligation (for women).
Imagine if only half your car doors opened. "Hey Fred, my door won't open."
"Sorry, Tony, I keep those doors locked. Can you squeeze in from this side, around the baby's seat?"
How about revolving doors only working half way. Or you live on the 58th floor of the newest condo and the elevator is only allowed to go to the 28th floor.
So, we don't know WHY humans developed consciousness, but the more important question is, WHY don't the humans who lock these doors use their consciousness?
Gentlemen, we are at the forefront of human ingenuity. We are going to build a structure, and only allow people to use half of it. Pretty soon, all things will be done in half measure.
Maybe, like the locked door, they only keep one of the brain hemispheres switched on. Or maybe I'm being too generous here. Maybe just one neuron works.
Starting today, the glass will ALWAYS be half empty. All houses will be halfway houses.
Can't we meet these people halfway?
Monday, 1 June 2015
Helloooo Newman: Zoology
Helloooo Newman: Zoology: I don't understand why we use the word "zoo" when referring to certain events. "Wow, wasn't that concert a zoo?&quo...
Zoology
I don't understand why we use the word "zoo" when referring to certain events.
"Wow, wasn't that concert a zoo?" "Boy, that dance club was packed with chicks, but what a zoo."
We seem to use the term to describe excessively crowded and chaotic events.
But any zoo I've been to has been relatively orderly, and mostly not that crowded. Sure, people bunch up around the cages every once in a while, giggling at the orangutan as he tries to hump the coconut. But then you turn around and you have acres of property to roam free in.
The Toronto Zoo is massive. The giraffes have plenty of space and seem pretty much at peace with their environment. Even in the cages, animals aren't packed to the rafters, like your average popular bar after work. And they are fed in a very orderly, precisely-timed manner.
Zoos are great for people too. No one is pushing or shoving or spilling beer on your shirt. And you don't get a bill for $78 and change for the privilege of yelling over hordes of other voices.
I think the place that more accurately describes crowded and chaotic events is the subway, especially during rush hour.
"Man, I'm so happy our team won, but wasn't that game a subway?" "I'm never going to see Taylor Swift in concert again. What a subway!"
Yes, that sounds much better.
What surprises me is how orderly zoos really are. More orderly than your average bar or club and a virtual paradise compared to the subway.
I've never seen the zoo's resident anteater mix beer, red wine and vodka in his stomach and then vomit it all over his cage, like I saw a girl once do on the subway during New Years Eve. After messing up a good portion of the subway seating, this girl started screaming and scratching herself, thinking her body was covered in ants. That's called delirium tremens, and it's the only thing she had in common with the anteater.
Zoo animals are far better behaved than people who are drinking. I only have to look at my own behaviour to prove that. I remember at one dance club (I can't remember the venue, just the incident) I decided that trying to balance two beer bottles on my head would be the next smart move I could make. I filmed it for an interview at Cirque de Soleil, and was promptly turned down.
One thing I am sure of is if I were a zoo animal I would have way more fun than the animals currently have. I would want to be a monkey, and my first order of business would be to fling my own feces at some of the spectators. It's just lying there anyway, and what a great way to clean my home. Make a day of it. The zookeeper will thank me for this.
I don't get why animals haven't tried this. It would be a hoot. Be nice and charming, cute and smiley, wait for them to get close, and then heave a steaming pile at their eyes.
It's only fair. It levels the playing field. I'm stuck in this cage. You're free to roam the world. So here's shit in your eye. No, I don't have an opposable thumb, but I can still ruin your day.
If I were a lion, I would laze around pretending I was asleep, wait for some stupid kid to get real close to the cage, and then suddenly charge him with full fangs and claws. Now I get to see you shit your pants for a change, human. Sure, I'll get a time out, but without me, there's no zoo.
If I were the orangutan, I would work up a big, orange erection just as the 500-pound doe head man was swallowing his corn dog in front of me. Hey, we're looking for another pig in the zoo, mister. The job's yours.
Yes, zoo animals are far too well behaved. I think these animals need to visit the subway at rush hour.
"Wow, wasn't that concert a zoo?" "Boy, that dance club was packed with chicks, but what a zoo."
We seem to use the term to describe excessively crowded and chaotic events.
But any zoo I've been to has been relatively orderly, and mostly not that crowded. Sure, people bunch up around the cages every once in a while, giggling at the orangutan as he tries to hump the coconut. But then you turn around and you have acres of property to roam free in.
The Toronto Zoo is massive. The giraffes have plenty of space and seem pretty much at peace with their environment. Even in the cages, animals aren't packed to the rafters, like your average popular bar after work. And they are fed in a very orderly, precisely-timed manner.
Zoos are great for people too. No one is pushing or shoving or spilling beer on your shirt. And you don't get a bill for $78 and change for the privilege of yelling over hordes of other voices.
I think the place that more accurately describes crowded and chaotic events is the subway, especially during rush hour.
"Man, I'm so happy our team won, but wasn't that game a subway?" "I'm never going to see Taylor Swift in concert again. What a subway!"
Yes, that sounds much better.
What surprises me is how orderly zoos really are. More orderly than your average bar or club and a virtual paradise compared to the subway.
I've never seen the zoo's resident anteater mix beer, red wine and vodka in his stomach and then vomit it all over his cage, like I saw a girl once do on the subway during New Years Eve. After messing up a good portion of the subway seating, this girl started screaming and scratching herself, thinking her body was covered in ants. That's called delirium tremens, and it's the only thing she had in common with the anteater.
Zoo animals are far better behaved than people who are drinking. I only have to look at my own behaviour to prove that. I remember at one dance club (I can't remember the venue, just the incident) I decided that trying to balance two beer bottles on my head would be the next smart move I could make. I filmed it for an interview at Cirque de Soleil, and was promptly turned down.
One thing I am sure of is if I were a zoo animal I would have way more fun than the animals currently have. I would want to be a monkey, and my first order of business would be to fling my own feces at some of the spectators. It's just lying there anyway, and what a great way to clean my home. Make a day of it. The zookeeper will thank me for this.
I don't get why animals haven't tried this. It would be a hoot. Be nice and charming, cute and smiley, wait for them to get close, and then heave a steaming pile at their eyes.
It's only fair. It levels the playing field. I'm stuck in this cage. You're free to roam the world. So here's shit in your eye. No, I don't have an opposable thumb, but I can still ruin your day.
If I were a lion, I would laze around pretending I was asleep, wait for some stupid kid to get real close to the cage, and then suddenly charge him with full fangs and claws. Now I get to see you shit your pants for a change, human. Sure, I'll get a time out, but without me, there's no zoo.
If I were the orangutan, I would work up a big, orange erection just as the 500-pound doe head man was swallowing his corn dog in front of me. Hey, we're looking for another pig in the zoo, mister. The job's yours.
Yes, zoo animals are far too well behaved. I think these animals need to visit the subway at rush hour.
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