... but I stopped. Now I'm a dad, and may blog again...

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Block Chop 50

Number fifty?  Hmm, fifty.  Why not fivety?  Where has the ve gone, and where did that f come from?  What is the significance of the number fifty?  Roman numeral L, 50 Cent and the atomic number of tin... What can it all mean?

Wait, hold on.  Hold on; stop this.  This is clearly an instant rehash of Wednesday’s study on the uninteresting number forty-eight.  How many times can I reuse the same idea?  The reason I’m wondering this is that I’ve left writing today’s blog until way after I should have fallen asleep.  I’m exhausted, and in similar past situations I’ve resorted to whining about being too tired to write.  But not today!

I could have written some soon after waking up when I composed two lines about being hungry; about dribbling, salivating, desiring a fry-up and craving sashimi.  Then I saved the file and closed it; reopened it then deleted it.  Hours passed by, during which I visited the job centre (the less said the better) went to see the main hall at MOSI (being renovated and totally disappointing), had sushi (at Kyotoya, Withington – awesome!), and was then forced sadistically to watch hour after unending hour of Big Brother in direct contravention of the Geneva Convention.  All time I could have spent writing.  Then we walked home in the rain, drank tea and watched Family Guy.  Then we retired to bed and watched Star Trek: Voyager (for the completists out there: S04E16 Prey); still no writing.  Finally as my eyes closed and my brain floats away on a bed made of dove wings and teddy bear toes, I pull the laptop before me and begin typing.  And that gets you up to date and me up too late.

So as it is I’ve got very little to say.  Wanna talk about the number 50?  No.  Well let me just say that there are 50 States of the Union, 50 chapters in Genesis, and Asterix comics are set in 50BC.  And then there is 50 thousand million humungajillions: the number of squillion years that Ultimate Big Brother lasted.  Interest, eh?  What, you don’t think so?  Wondering why you’re still reading?  Wondering why I’m still writing?  Wondering how much wordcount I can consume with stupid rhetorical questions and verbal padding? Quite so! Indeed! Indubitably! Right on! Champion! Hot dang and diggity! Who’s ya daddy! Really rather jolly good! What ho, what!

In other news:  I was born in Showa 57; that’s Japanese for 1982.  The 57th year of the Showa era.  Showa is the era of Emperor Hirohito, who now takes the posthumous name Showa.  Showa means era of enlightened peace despite the fact that first twenty years were characterised by a mad descent into rabid fascism and warmongering, invasions of China, declaration of war against the Axis powers, kamikaze suicide pilots, and crimes against humanity, massacres and death squads across Asia.  Luckily for Hirohito he was allowed to stay on as Emperor as long as he declared he wasn’t really a god.  Hirohito got to keep his privileged lifestyle, Japan became a first world power, and I got an interesting story.

What Japanese era year were you born in? 
Night night.
God I'm glad that's over.

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