I'm atop the TPC again. I'm 1.4 kays in. Kays used to be my go to metric. It meant near the end I might go faster so as to end the torment of exercise. If I saw a 5.5 then, 'hey-ho, let's go' and off I sped (1). Now though the metric is time, 40 minutes being the goal as doctor-ordered if I am to have a chance at staving off lifehood-disease induced horror to add to an already over-flowing cornucopia of health-issue shit.
I did Literature of War as a subject at uni. It was a brutally confronting yet awesome subject in which I got to watch war movies and shit. It was in that class, or possibly one of my film units, that I got to see Full Metal Jacket. I was the only one who laughed at the funny bits. I must have looked a bit like a tubbed-up De Niro minus the tatts and cigar as per the remake starring said De Niro (2) of Cape Fear where he intimidates other cinema patrons with his smoke-laced guffawing.
And I'm spent. I have now finished riding. Let's carry this conversation on about me and the TPC. For old time's sake.
I took a bunch of stuff away from Literature of War; for one what a surreal hell-scape war is yet at the same time it shows the courage found within it. 'War maketh the man' has a still-powerful grip on the Western psyche. Another other was the nature of the known time and how knowing how long you'd be in theatre for was actually more depressing than open-ended commitment but one with a promise of rotation away from the front-line when time allowed. Vietnam, for example, was basically a 12 month tour. You got in, you did you time, you got out. In World War Two the end point was not known. However experience soon proved, as I understand it, to be about a year of active front-line duty before being rotated away. From D-Day through to the end of the European war some US units had about 170 per cent causalities. As in some had cycled through so many men that some units had no original soldiers left from the initial charge up the beach in June, 1944.
In Vietnam the knowledge of your end date ate you. You got superstitious; short-timer syndrome (3). The closeness of the date, the greater the panic of something getting you just as you got out; or you'd take a horrible wound that may maim you for life. Some avoided newcomers for fear their greenness would draw aggro in a fight. Others avoided the short-timers for fear the ill-luck -that chased them would take them as well. Men started scribing calendars on their ballistic vests, crossing off the days as the time drew near.
So in essence that's what it's like riding to a time instead of a distance; because, you see, of the loss of hope. It doesn't matter if I go fast to take it away because I have to do the time instead. It sucks hairy balls. So I screen seeing the clock and put the display on distance and aim for about 9.5 kays before I switch over and check the time. At that point I assess my pain and discomfort and, if I need a break I'll take one. If my hip is sending out snapping dry vine signals then I will simply call it and stop for the night rather than pressing the sense of discomfort.
Tonight my arse went nearly completely numb. I had to get off at 35.51 and stand for a while as my arse throbbed back into life, assisted by gentle rubbing from myself.
Yes, I spent ten minutes in the shed gently rubbing my arse ... only to then get the fuck back on the TPC and make the full desired 40 minutes (4).
And thus I grind on.
(1) Wouldn't spode be kewler than sped?
(2) Can you think of any other celebs other than Robert De Niro with the surname of De Niro. You can't can you? So ... so why is that? (knock, knock, knock) (Young man goes to the peephole and looks through. He sees the back of man's head) Er yes? (back-facing man speaks) You Andy De Niro? (Andy at peephole is nervous) Yes (The man laces his fingers behind his head and flexes. There's a crunch audible despite the door. The man speaks) The actor? (Andy gulps. The man lowers his hands and his head dips slightly. He continues to speak) Star of 2011's pilot Fear of Cohabitment, a show an IMDB reviewer said 'This cliché-laced romantic comedy aimed at men 18-25 is about a man in his late-thirties who finally gives in to his much-younger girlfriend's demand that she move in. The promise she made to sweeten the pot? Anal. The horrid tagline of " 'cos he's going to hit her sweet pot" an example of the tired genre of spicy teen-lure that forever corrupted the term sweet apple pie". A pilot where you played ... (the man's head shifts, perhaps as if to more closely inspect something) Friend Mover Two and your only line was 'Hey, Derek, way to tap that sweet pot. Let's bones it up for your boner' whereupon you lift your fist up so he can bump his fist onto yours and then you do so? And as your fists connect he says 'Rock on, Friend Mover Two,' the scriptwriter cleverly using your generic character name as your character's just bestowed joke name? That you? That you Friend Mover fucking-Two as played by Andy-fucking-De Niro? That you? (Andy De Niro swallows then replies) It's ... it's a stage-name. (The man's head nods) Yes it is Mr Andy De Niro. Actual name Robert Andrew Clakebrake. I'm an actor too; it's a tough gig. Name like Clakebrake I'd fuckin' change it too. (In the distance a hushed shout is heard. The new voice is also a man's but high. The voice's owner is excited, like a puppy) You need back-up Bobby? (the back-facing man ignores the intrusion) But De Niro? That's a little high-vis. That's what you kids say, right? High-vis? High Visibility. That right, Clakebrake? (The higher voiced man is closer, though he still cannot be seen by the now outed-as-Richard-Andrew-Clakebrake. He speaks, voice still eager) Bobby, you need me? We jump this clown? (The man's head turns to the right slightly) Back off, Joe, I got it. (Higher talker backs away. Back-facing Man speaks again). And since you're used to changing your name then change it the fuck again. Do we have an understanding, Clakebrake? Do we? (Richard Clakebrake twitches. He speaks) Er ... yes. (The man leaves. The higher voiced man follows and offers a suggestion) Let's go get a fucking In and Out Burger, Bobby. Fuck me they're delicious. But ... but can we eat in? The fuckers are always doin' shit to my food unless I stare at 'em when they cook it at the grill. (The man agrees) Sounds good, Joe. Now where did you park the fuckin' car?' (AND SCENE).
(3) Interestingly there's a book called The Short-Timers. I had no idea that it was the book that Full Metal Jacket was based on. Huh, you learn something every day.
(4) I actually did two and a bit minutes over without realising. Go me!
I did Literature of War as a subject at uni. It was a brutally confronting yet awesome subject in which I got to watch war movies and shit. It was in that class, or possibly one of my film units, that I got to see Full Metal Jacket. I was the only one who laughed at the funny bits. I must have looked a bit like a tubbed-up De Niro minus the tatts and cigar as per the remake starring said De Niro (2) of Cape Fear where he intimidates other cinema patrons with his smoke-laced guffawing.
And I'm spent. I have now finished riding. Let's carry this conversation on about me and the TPC. For old time's sake.
I took a bunch of stuff away from Literature of War; for one what a surreal hell-scape war is yet at the same time it shows the courage found within it. 'War maketh the man' has a still-powerful grip on the Western psyche. Another other was the nature of the known time and how knowing how long you'd be in theatre for was actually more depressing than open-ended commitment but one with a promise of rotation away from the front-line when time allowed. Vietnam, for example, was basically a 12 month tour. You got in, you did you time, you got out. In World War Two the end point was not known. However experience soon proved, as I understand it, to be about a year of active front-line duty before being rotated away. From D-Day through to the end of the European war some US units had about 170 per cent causalities. As in some had cycled through so many men that some units had no original soldiers left from the initial charge up the beach in June, 1944.
In Vietnam the knowledge of your end date ate you. You got superstitious; short-timer syndrome (3). The closeness of the date, the greater the panic of something getting you just as you got out; or you'd take a horrible wound that may maim you for life. Some avoided newcomers for fear their greenness would draw aggro in a fight. Others avoided the short-timers for fear the ill-luck -that chased them would take them as well. Men started scribing calendars on their ballistic vests, crossing off the days as the time drew near.
So in essence that's what it's like riding to a time instead of a distance; because, you see, of the loss of hope. It doesn't matter if I go fast to take it away because I have to do the time instead. It sucks hairy balls. So I screen seeing the clock and put the display on distance and aim for about 9.5 kays before I switch over and check the time. At that point I assess my pain and discomfort and, if I need a break I'll take one. If my hip is sending out snapping dry vine signals then I will simply call it and stop for the night rather than pressing the sense of discomfort.
Tonight my arse went nearly completely numb. I had to get off at 35.51 and stand for a while as my arse throbbed back into life, assisted by gentle rubbing from myself.
Yes, I spent ten minutes in the shed gently rubbing my arse ... only to then get the fuck back on the TPC and make the full desired 40 minutes (4).
And thus I grind on.
(1) Wouldn't spode be kewler than sped?
(2) Can you think of any other celebs other than Robert De Niro with the surname of De Niro. You can't can you? So ... so why is that? (knock, knock, knock) (Young man goes to the peephole and looks through. He sees the back of man's head) Er yes? (back-facing man speaks) You Andy De Niro? (Andy at peephole is nervous) Yes (The man laces his fingers behind his head and flexes. There's a crunch audible despite the door. The man speaks) The actor? (Andy gulps. The man lowers his hands and his head dips slightly. He continues to speak) Star of 2011's pilot Fear of Cohabitment, a show an IMDB reviewer said 'This cliché-laced romantic comedy aimed at men 18-25 is about a man in his late-thirties who finally gives in to his much-younger girlfriend's demand that she move in. The promise she made to sweeten the pot? Anal. The horrid tagline of " 'cos he's going to hit her sweet pot" an example of the tired genre of spicy teen-lure that forever corrupted the term sweet apple pie". A pilot where you played ... (the man's head shifts, perhaps as if to more closely inspect something) Friend Mover Two and your only line was 'Hey, Derek, way to tap that sweet pot. Let's bones it up for your boner' whereupon you lift your fist up so he can bump his fist onto yours and then you do so? And as your fists connect he says 'Rock on, Friend Mover Two,' the scriptwriter cleverly using your generic character name as your character's just bestowed joke name? That you? That you Friend Mover fucking-Two as played by Andy-fucking-De Niro? That you? (Andy De Niro swallows then replies) It's ... it's a stage-name. (The man's head nods) Yes it is Mr Andy De Niro. Actual name Robert Andrew Clakebrake. I'm an actor too; it's a tough gig. Name like Clakebrake I'd fuckin' change it too. (In the distance a hushed shout is heard. The new voice is also a man's but high. The voice's owner is excited, like a puppy) You need back-up Bobby? (the back-facing man ignores the intrusion) But De Niro? That's a little high-vis. That's what you kids say, right? High-vis? High Visibility. That right, Clakebrake? (The higher voiced man is closer, though he still cannot be seen by the now outed-as-Richard-Andrew-Clakebrake. He speaks, voice still eager) Bobby, you need me? We jump this clown? (The man's head turns to the right slightly) Back off, Joe, I got it. (Higher talker backs away. Back-facing Man speaks again). And since you're used to changing your name then change it the fuck again. Do we have an understanding, Clakebrake? Do we? (Richard Clakebrake twitches. He speaks) Er ... yes. (The man leaves. The higher voiced man follows and offers a suggestion) Let's go get a fucking In and Out Burger, Bobby. Fuck me they're delicious. But ... but can we eat in? The fuckers are always doin' shit to my food unless I stare at 'em when they cook it at the grill. (The man agrees) Sounds good, Joe. Now where did you park the fuckin' car?' (AND SCENE).
(3) Interestingly there's a book called The Short-Timers. I had no idea that it was the book that Full Metal Jacket was based on. Huh, you learn something every day.
(4) I actually did two and a bit minutes over without realising. Go me!
No comments:
Post a Comment