Beck is one of my favourite musicians. He just continually blows me away. This is ‘E-Pro’ from his Guero album that was released a few years ago. I’d never seen the video before, and I love it. The ending is the best bit.

Due to a recommendation from Chris on a previous post about The Flight of the Conchords, I’m currently watching the third season of The Mighty Boosh.

It’s a surreal British comedy that’s difficult to describe. At its core, it’s about two friends going off on strange, magical adventures. It’s very colourful and creative. There are clever jokes and gutter jokes, singing and dancing, demon grannies and talking apes. It’s really all over the place.

When I first started to watch the series, I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not. The more I watched it, the more I enjoyed it, and now I’m pretty much obsessed with it. The third season is airing right now and is looking even better than the last two. I also watched the DVD of their live theatrical act, which was possibly even better than the series.

So, thank you Chris. I now have one more obsession to add the the list.

Here’s the introduction to their first show. It’s a taste of their humour.

I wrote a little more of my NaNoWriMo manuscript tonight. After I fell behind on it in November, I basically just ignored it for the month. Whenever I opened it, I felt like I was trying to catch up to the competition, and it put me off. I’m sensitive that way, I guess.

Anyway, I thought I’d post the first little chunk of it here. It’s just the start of the opening scene, and it’s mainly dialogue, so it’s probably not the best piece to excerpt, but I thought parts of it were funny.

Untitled

“Not that one, you idiot,” said the coffee mug next to the computer.

Mark Dryer stared at it for a moment, opened his mouth to ask it to shut up, but thought better of it. Coffee mugs don’t talk, and he really wished this one would understand that. Only a few days ago, he had been living in quiet bliss, having gone through his entire life without anything inanimate speaking to him. It was one of those simple pleasures that one doesn’t cherish until gone. He nudged the mug away with the end of his pencil and tried to focus on his work.

The square his mouse was hovering over had the number three written on it, and it was surrounded by five blank squares. He held his breath and pushed down the button, and as he released, dozens of squares on the board lit up with red bomb icons.

“I told you,” said the mug, “and you did not listen. This is a simple game. I do not understand why you continue to fail.”

Mark sighed, closed the program, and glanced at his clock for the fifth time in the last minute. The final hour of a work day always seemed to last a lifetime, especially when trying to ignore your newly developed insanity.

“You do understand that the number is a representation of how many bombs are surrounding the square, yes? They are meant to be there as a guideline. You are to use those numbers when deciding which square is free of bombs. Why do you keep taking random guesses?”

“I understand Minesweeper!” Mark shouted at the mug.

“Good for you,” called a voice from the other side if his cubical wall. “Maybe next month you’ll master tic tac toe.”

“I was talking to…” Mark began, but decided it wasn’t the right time to reveal his talking glassware.

Trent’s head popped up above the wall, his glasses nearly falling from the tip of his nose and his curly red hair sticking out from under his baseball cap like the squashed remains of a giant centipede under someone’s foot. “We’re the only office monkeys left in here, man. If you weren’t talking to me, what were you talking to? Your stapler?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not insane,” said Mark as he lifted the empty mug with two rulers and dropped in into his filing cabinet, sliding it closed and locking it.

“I wonder sometimes,” said Trent, as he climbed down from his chair. “It’s nearly five. I’m out of here.”

Mark shut off his computer, wishing he could just throw it out the window instead. Since he started this job, one year ago, each day seemed to drag on longer and longer. He had been so sure of where he wanted to go in life. There was no doubt in his mind, when he was offered this position, a copy editor for Makeshift Publishing, that it was perfect for him. Now that he was here, filling out useless paperwork while trying to stay awake through endless hours and endless days, he didn’t know where he belonged.

“Are you going to the pub tonight? Half the company is going to be there. It’s Thursday wing night,” Trent said, as if he couldn’t possibly fathom the idea of someone resisting chicken fried in week old oil and dipped in store-bought BBQ sauce.

“I think I’m going to pass tonight.”

“Wouldn’t want to cut in to your big night of television, would we? Sometimes I’m shocked you even manage to get out of bed in the morning, after the wild nights you have,” Trent said, disappearing around the corner.