Hmmm. Something very curious is happening very slowly over at fireland. Maybe you better take a look.
* * *
WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
The Killer and I were in a minor accident the day before yesterday. Rearended. We’re okay, but our necks were sure sore yesterday, which got me to thinkin’; what ever happened to neck braces? Didn’t one once see people in neck braces all the time? I can’t think of the last time I saw one. I wonder if they’ve fallen out of use because insurance companies or legal decisions no longer favour the neck injury? That’s what happened to carpal tunnel syndrome. Vanished after people stopped compensating people to have it. Really.
Anyway, I’m glad I don’t have to wear a scungy foam neck brace.
HAMISH
Hamish is, apparently, back in Japan, which means Mango Pudding Blues can now boast about its readers there. Yes, we have Pac-Rim readers. Asia readers. Nice. We also, according to reports from our back end people (heh heh), have readers in America, the UK (although we don’t know who you are, you UK punters. Why don’t you drop us a note, then?) and, once, just and only one little time, a reader who dropped in from somewhere in France. We wish that reader would return.
So in honor of our varied international readership, here’s the full text of Hamish’s correspondence with MPB, to which we have not yet had a moment to personally reply. Patience, Hamish. Please note that we are posting this unedited so that it matches the generally raw, unedited ambiance of Mango Pudding Blues. That ambiance is intentional, incidentally. You have no idea how hard I work to put in all those little typos, spelling errors and grammar mess-ups. All to make you think you’re getting your Mango Pudding Blues hot off the stove.
Right. Hamish. Here:
I was sitting here on my tatami floor, writing and listening to CKUA (don’t even fuckin’ ask me why) on the web. It was morning, a gorgeous fall morning in fact, and I had most of the windows and doors open, airing out the hut.
There was an Oscar Peterson Tune playing, a pretty swingin’ number, but ultimately just another dull choice by the dull cunts that run CKUA with their little mis-pronounced-for-effect voices. Do you really think Enya’s mother calls her “Ahn-Yah?” My arse. They’re the people that call Herbs “Uuuhrbs.” Fuckin’ Vicky-Gabereau inspired twats.
Anyway, I’m weavin’ already. (Elmer Fudd’s answer to the barman ordering him out) I go out the back to bang the carpets and there’s our next door lady who we’ll call Mrs. Hamada. Hamada-san , a married woman of about 50 summers is standing in her yard, stood still, listening. As it turns out, listening to my radio. She goes in Japanese “Oscar Peterson eh?” I go, “yeah, that’s right” then after a pause “how did you know that?” She smiles a far-off, wistful smile and says that she used to love jazz, years ago.
I ask if she still listens to jazz, does she have any records?” She laughs as if the notion were the stupidest thing she’d ever heard and says something along the lines of “no, dear me, why would I want to bother with that nonsense now at my age, as if I have time for that.” My first instinct was to download a bunch of songs and make her a CD but then I thought she probably doesn’t even have a stereo in the house. Also, it felt as though I’d be doing wrong by encouraging her to indulge her knowledge of Jazz.
What do you think about that, Mr [Mango Pudding]? And what the fuck is a Blog, exactly?
Hamish
PS; Gord Downie CD? Still got mates in the HMV world that get free “product?” I can think of no other reason for that CD being stuck in your changer save perhaps divine intervention.
WHAT IS THAT THING?
From the mailbag, also raw:
Personally,I believe the instrument portrayed on your web page is the unreleased model of the b-29 anal tormentor,which personally I have no idea how it fell into your hands but NASA will be in touch. thank you.
* * *
i will tell you the truth
the pile of eviscerated spare
parts on the armchair
that used to be
a cd player
quite clearly says
pioneer
not sony
the boss with his
misty-eyed reminiscences
is wrong
did he buy it at
a sony store
did he really have
mousse in his hair
was it even
1985
reggie
the silverfish
* * *
MAILBAG REUNIONS
How delightful! The mailbag today contained these entries in the What Is That Thing contest:
1. Anthrax-proof rainbow.
2. Half a Soviet doughnut (the workers controlled the means of production of the other half).
These are from Not My Dog, which I’ve been reading for the last oh, say six months or so. Via her note in the mailbag, I learn that Not My Dog and I have, in fact, previously met. Reunited by blogging!
And speaking of reunited, how ‘bout this:
“Why it’s a 90-degree, 3D (bend radius of 3 x diameter of original material) of ordinary dryer hose. If one’s dryer happened to be just around the corner from a handy outlet to the outside world, one might utilize such a bend to accommodate said curve. Either that or you own todger after an all-night torture session with little [name withheld to prevent her further embarrassment], ne?”
...from my long lost pal, the mighty Hamish. It’s sweet to see his words. As for Name Withheld, she was his downstairs neighbour, who I used to, uh, visit. I knew her before I met him. Then I met him through C, whom you all know. Hamish and I, making small talk, found out we lived in the same neighbourhood. He told me what building he lived in, and I knew it because of Name Withheld. “Sure, I know that building. Nice place,” I said.
“Yeah, sure, I guess” he replied. “The only problem is the thin walls.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’ve one this one neighbour, this girl? Jesus she makes some noise. It’s hard to get any sleep.”
“She’s noisy?” I asked, too dumb to catch what he meant, but smart enough to slowly realize that he’s the “big Scottish dude” that Name Withheld told me had come knockin’ on her door once or twice to complain about noise.
“A real screamer,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Hoo, boy. Small world.
Hi Hamish!
1985
It’s 1985. I’m wearing black baggy Le Chateau pants and very pointy black shoes. I look like a fool. I have mousse in my hair. I walk on down the mall to the Sony Store and plunk down my money for a cd player. The digital future yawns before me. The going rumor says you should paint the edges of your compact discs with a green felt pen to prolong their lives. I work in a record store. Dire Straits wants its MTV. The Eurythmics are popular. Duran Duran is the big teen pop sensation. CDs are the third-selling format out of three; vinyl is big. Cassettes are number two. People are confused about the DDD, ADD or AAD notifications on every cd that are supposed to explain important factors in the recording, transferring and mastering of the discs. Not every record is available on CD yet. There is still some lingering doubt over whether the format will succeed. Most discs have, in their liners, an oblique explanation about the format. I have two cds waiting for me at home; Talk Talk’s The Color of Spring and a minimalist thing with a little John Adams, a little Steve Reich. Amazing, years later, with all those cds that came and went, that I still have those two. This morning I retired that old Sony. It started sputtering a while ago, and I fixed it with a bobby pin. Then it sputtered some more and would only work when on its side. Then only when fully upside down. I had to take it apart this morning to retrieve the Gordon Downie cd that got lost inside it one day when I turned it upside down. Tonight I bought a fancy new 5-cd changer.
* * *
We hasten to inform you that our misspelling of "grammar" was a typoraphical one. We know how to spell grammar. Yes, yes we do.
* * *
WHAT IS THAT THING?
Specially reinforced macaroni?
A portable soprano didgeridoo?
A Habitrail U-turn?
Dada binoculars?
These are the latest entries in the "What is that thing on the upper left of the page?" contest. Earlier entries are here. Remember kids, you've only got until November fifth to play, and there is a prize. Note also that literally all of the entries so far are from one astute reader, who is quite clearly kicking the asses of the rest of you lazy sons of bitches, who rarely even bother to drop me a note saying hello, in spite of all I've done for you. Said reader has also, sweetly, pointed out that a Google search of "mango pudding blues" will yeild no fruit at all. We are not troubled by this, since it is our expectation that each of you is doing your best to propagate this site. Surely the word of your mouths is more powerful than a handful of tired meta-tags? It is your responsibility. Go now. Do it.
* * *
ROD THE MOD
“I like Rod. Did you? I once saw him at the Saddledome – in ’88, I think. It wasn’t until I glanced at all the big bangy hair around me, the rhinestoned purses, the sweaters of cashmere, that I realized the average Rod fan was a Camaro-driving secretary who wore Jordache jeans to high school in 79. Still...”
Mango Pudding Blues has stolen the above comment from some personal mail he received today from C., who always has something clever to say about everything. As noted in the past, we feel no compunction about cannibalizing our personal correspondence for you, our loyal readers. In fact, we felt quite relieved to be able to steal a few words from our pal, since we spent a few spare moments this morning trying to think of what to say here about Rod. We felt obligated to say something about him, having brought him up the day before, but at the same time, things are still so new between us, between you the reader and Mango Pudding Blues, and we want so much to please you, and we were a little bit afraid, like we always are when we meet someone new whom we would really like to be friends with. We know the safe route is to sneer at Rod, but we found Rod to be wholly likeable and entertaining, and we also found ourselves unexpectedly misty at the sight of all those cougars unguardedly, enthusiastically reliving their youths. And while we might wish that we had been to see, say, Lou Reed or someone like that to cement in your impressionable little minds just how fucking cool we are, the fact is, it was Rod we went to see. So. There it is.
C. assures us, by the way, that while Rod is the shit, the Trembling Blue Stars are even more the shit. Is even more the shit, I should say. Which brings us to a matter of style. In the case of collective nouns, such as the names of rock groups like the afore-mentioned Trembling Blue Stars, we prefer a singular verb. Ergo, the Trembling Blue Stars is the shit. The Velvet Underground is the shit. The NAC Orchestra is the shit. In this we differ from many popular publications, but we feel we are correct. Our long-suffering girlfriend Killer pointed out to us the other day that Fowler’s Modern English Usage is quite happy to allow a little leeway on this matter, but we are of the opinion that the third edition of Fowler’s that she is citing tends to allow a little too much leeway in many matters.
Which brings us to something we do feel a compunction about, and that is the degree to which this website has been, particularly lately, self-conscious. We know we’ve been talking about matters of links and grammar and headers (uh, we turfed that tropical stinker today) and such, and, in a larger sense, themes and reasons for being here and all of that, and we really feel that Mango Pudding Blues is in danger of disappearing up its own asshole. We will, starting soon, attempt to restrain ourselves. I mean, really! But on the other hand, some of this sort of housekeeping is necessary, this being our very very early days.
GAMINE
This is a transcript of a conversation I just had on the telephone with Killer. Killer was calling from the bilingual dictionary, where she works:
Me: Mango Pudding Blues.
K: Hi. It’s me. How would you describe Winona Ryder’s haircut?
MPB: Uh, the one you used to have?
K: Yeah.
MPB: (pause) uh, short?
K: Would you say “gamine” or “gamine-like”?
MPB: Didn’t I use “gamine” in a scrabble game once?
K: Did you?
MPB: It was either me or you. I think it was me, but I was desperate. I don’t even know what it means.
K: It’s a girl from the streets. Or maybe a thin girl.
MPB: Oh. Well, she could have any kind of hair, though.
K: What?
MPB: Well, she could have any haircut, this gamine.
K: What about “urchin”?
MPB: Ooh, even worse. A runty, filthy street kid.
K: No, an urchin is just a boy.
MPB: Well, okay, but it’s often collocated with “street”
K: Yeah, alright. What about “waif”?
MPB: Well, a waif is a skinny, sad street kid, and the word was adopted by the fashion press to describe the dissipated Kate Moss look. But a waif would have long, stringy, unwashed hair, not a pert, expensive Winona cut.
K: Yeah. Okay. Thanks.
MPB: Was that helpful?
K: Not really.
FREAKS VS. FREAKS
Okay, so my terrific technical assistant is a member of the Society For Creative Anachronism, those nuts who dress up all medieval-like and bash each other’s brains out with wooden swords. Anyway, she and her husband are holding a big SCA shindig and another friend of hers, who had been invited, told her that she, the friend, was being filmed for an episode on a documentary television show (on like the Love Network or some such thing) because she’s involved in a “polyamourous” union, which is to say she has two boyfriends and one girlfriend, or something like that, and they all do their thing together, and could they please allow the teevee cameras to follow them to this shindig as part of the documentary.
So, my technical assistant goes through all this worry and phone calls about whether this is a good idea, the deal being that some SCA members are hypersensitive to their already freaky public image, and they don’t want people like, say, me, people who already think they’re all a bunch of weirdos, to think that they’re also holding medieval orgies on top of bashing each other’s brains out. But at the same time, my technical assistant is totally committed to the idea that everyone should just do their own thing without guilt, so she finally tells all the hypersensitive types that it’s just too bad if people are that narrow-minded and unable to distinguish the SCA from the free love types.
And then her friend cancelled because some polyamourous types are hypersensitive about their already-freaky public image, and didn’t wanna be associated with the SCA.
* * *
A CONFESSION
Look, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it: I’m going to a Rod Stewart concert tonight.
No, I did not pay for it.
* * *
MORE HOUSEKEEPING
Well, if you happen to have checked in over the last hour or two, you may have noticed us in here, lurching around spastically, trying to fix up a few rough spots. Now, at last, all of the little blogger and html details are fixed up the way we had originally intended them. Which is to say that there are permalinks at the bottom of each entry, that links open in new windows, that the link colors look reasonable on the scrubby old laptop and that there’s the mandatory “powered by blogger” button up there. We also slapped on a little tropical header (which we ourselves had to clear our cache in order to see) in honor of Mango Pudding Blues’ brother being in Bali and all. Hope he’s havin’ fun.
Now that all of the little finishing touches are fine, future technical improvements are likely to be concentrated on the proper presentation of the text, as much as possible given the frustrating limitations of the internet. Sadly, no further improvements are expected in the actual writing, for which we are already doing the best we can.
While we are, as of this writing, proud of the basic functioning qualities of Mango Pudding Blues, we are, as expected, horrified by its design. Not forever, we hope; the art department has been working on version two since we posted version one.
As a final technical note, if this page is not looking at least readable in your goddam browser on your goddam platform, please get a new computer. We are exhausted. Oh, and we also apologize for the repeated motif of three asterisks at the bottom of those entries that were written before, where the new permalinks blah blah blah.
Yes, we do this all for you, and yes, we can feel your attention wandering. We are losing sleep over your wandering attention. We will introduce new features soon, including more salacious gossip, more brilliant and saucy tips, startling new algorithms, lurid colors and images, recipes for Vietnamese salad rolls, naked pictures of the neighbours, riddles, mysteries and, of course, plenty of branded merchandise at premium prices. Mango Pudding Blues is not like those other blogs, which seek only to glorify their authors. No. Mango Pudding Blues is devoted to pleasing you.
* * *
What is it?
