Googling Myself

It’s not that I’m vain, or anything, but I do occasionally Google my name (okay, I am vain; but can you blame me with this hair?).  At least I don’t check to see if I’ve got a Wikipedia page – no, really, I don’t, honest…

I have to Goggle myself when I’m submitting poems, because so many editors exclude poems already published online, even if it was on my now defunct poetry blogs which can no longer be accessed.

I Gaggled four poems and my name this morning and I was disappointed to find one of them in the 2010 comments section of a poetry blog, which means I can’t use it.  

The Haggle brought up a pleasant surprise, however – which isn’t always a given when you Giggle yourself; all I’m going to say is tea bags/washing line/shame…. Fortunately, I’m such a prolific blogger that the embarrassing photo is hidden way down in my Boggle listing.  

I discovered that a poem published by English Pen last year in their Dictionary of Made-Up Words was featured on their website earlier this year, as part of an ongoing promotion of the book.  I didn’t know it was there.  I’m chuffed!

Even better – it was retweeted!  It’s nice to be twit.

You may say it was coincidence, but I think it’s strange that I didn’t come across this poem until I had my hair cut.  I’m like an anti-Samson: all of my power was consumed by my long hair; now it’s short, I’m discovering my work in the ether and being invited to take part in poetry events which may or may not come off so I can’t say anything at the moment…except that the invites were issued after the haircut…

So, do you Wriggle yourself?  Or are you afraid to discover dirty little secrets of yours hiding out there in the ether?  Are there photos of you drunk at a party? Taking an illicit beach day from work?  Wearing flares?

I’ll find out, you know, when I Ogle you.

I’m No Michaelangelo

Daily Prompt: Michelangelo’s YOU

The Pieta, by Michelangelo (Photo credit: kiwizone)  AKA Hub Carrying His Missus To The Hospital On The Occasion Of Her Blackhead

Your personal sculptor is carving a person, thing, or event from the last month of your life into the glistening marble of immortality. What’s the statue and what makes it so significant?

The statue is a large, flaking pimple.

This is what I look like at the moment:

Okay, the flaky skin was cured by copious amounts of Vaseline and the seventy-year old woman staring out from the mirror has lost twenty years; but now I am lumpy.

On Monday evening sometime after nine, I suddenly felt an ache on my neck.  I suspected a lump but couldn’t really find one.  Yesterday morning it had appeared.  Yesterday evening it was stretching its legs down my neck tendons and feeling quite sore.  This morning it hurt.  Fortunately, that is easing as the day goes on.

Naturally, I reached out for expert help.  

Google says it’s a goitre, which means I’m either infected or hormonal.

You choose.  But don’t mess with me…I have a disgusting thing and I’m not afraid to use it.

 

There Are Stats, Tilly Bud Stats, And Google-Inflated Stats

I never thought there’d come a time when I would be annoyed to have four thousand hits in one day.  That day was yesterday. 

Image via Wikipedia

 

A large snowflake was measured on 28 January, 1887; I mentioned it in a post in 2010; Google Doodle celebrated the anniversary of that snowflake yesterday.  

4,225 people came to my blog in search of a Google Doodle snowflake.  4,225 people went away disappointed, without even so much as one – one, mind you, out of 4,225 – ‘Like’ or comment for my large snowflake post.

I’m annoyed.  My stats are all out of sync now.  Google Doodle better watch it; I’m in the mood to take on a conglomerate.

And what kind of multi-billion pound business celebrates the anniversaries of snowflakes anyway?  I’m so irritated, I’m not even going to provide a link to Google, Google Doodle, or any snowflakes.  That’ll teach ’em.

Signed,

 

Hacked Off of Stockport.

Big Day

Big.  That’s the theme for National Blog Posting Month.  In April, like NaPoWriMo, and to which I have also signed up.  Problem is, I have no big announcements and all I can think of is Tom Hanks in the movie Big.  And that’s all I have to say about that.  I thought I would for once avoid the obvious self-deprecating fat jokes so I Googled ‘Big’ to see what came up.

I should have realised that there would be more than one movie with the word ‘big’ in the title: The Big Lebowski and The Big Chill, for starters: the former is famous for having a dude Jeff Bridges and the latter for having a dead Kevin Costner, preternaturally foreshadowing his career after Waterworld (which I rather liked, incidentally).  He played the corpse in TBC and his scenes ended up on the cutting floor. 

Google also reminded me that there is Big Ben (a time machine), Big Brother (a time waster) and The Big Issue (time to do your bit for homeless people).   Did you know that Big Ben is actually the name of the bell and not the tower?  According to Wikipedia, ‘Big Ben is the largest four-faced chiming clock and the third-tallest free-standing clock tower in the world.’  Hmm.  This post is so dull it’s practically a horology story.

But I was surprised by the number of companies using the initials B.I.G.  – two.  I thought there’d be loads more.  I did like the home page of the Bjarke Ingels Group.  Check it out for yourself and try not to snigger if you’re English and reading this: http://www.big.dk/

I also liked the name of a little tourist attraction in Devon: http://www.thebigsheep.co.uk/  The blurb invites us to ‘Take yourself on a tour of our website and you will find out how our unique North Devon attraction is devoted to sheep.’  You’ve got to love a place devoted to sweaters and Sunday dinner and offering ‘9 live sheepy shows every day.’

Going off topic now, it is time for Day 2 of NaPoWriMo, but before that, I have hidden the word ‘BIG’ twice in the above paragraphs; see if you can find them.  What else do you have to do?  All of the shops are shut and there’s nothing on the telly. 

I’m afraid I’m going to be a day behind as far as the writing prompts are concerned; I hope you don’t mind.  Yesterday’s prompt was to take five song titles and work them into a poem.  I will give you the titles after the poem; see if you can spot them.

 

Frances Farmer Wanted A Life

 

Picture this:

her mama tried. 

Her mama tried;

her mama tried. 

Her mama failed. 

.

She was

just another nervous

wreck on a bleak life ride,

always moments away

from crazy jail.

. 

Poor Frances. 

They called it ‘madness’ –

those who, safe in their

sanity, electrocuted her

soul; they called her mad.

.

.

The songs are:

Picture This – Blondie (or Wet Wet Wet)

Mama Tried – Merle Haggard (my Dad was a massive country & western fan)

Just Another Nervous Wreck – Supertramp

Moments Away – Mango Groove

Madness  –  Madness

.

Joe’s Got The X-Factor!

I was thrilled last night that Joe won the X-Factor.  He has a wonderfully melodic voice and seems like a genuinely nice guy.  I felt sorry for Olly, but he seems like another nice guy and was gracious in defeat; and these days, runners-up tend to do as well if not better than winners, so I’m crossing my fingers for him.  Poor Stacey went out on Saturday night.  I thought she gave the performance of the weekend in her duet with Michael Bublé.  They had real chemistry, and she looked fabulous in that dress – for the first time in years I felt nostalgic for my figure because I have never worn a dress like that, and now it’s too late.  Still, I won’t give up hope, because Michael Bublé still hasn’t met me yet.

What annoys me is the nay-sayers: I have read around the blogs this morning, and so many people are complaining about the blandness of the X-Factor and that type of show and how it’s the rise of mediocrity, that it makes me wonder who of the ten million who voted last night dares to disagree.  Well – I do, being one of the 6.1 million people who voted for Joe to win.  There have always been tv talent shows; the X-Factor is simply the latest incarnation.  Mark Lawson (a critic with whom I usually agree) irritated me with this: ‘…the victory of McElderry and Cowell is a defeat for admirers of high-quality or public service television…’  I don’t think talent shows come much slicker than the X-Factor; do you?  It is high-quality television in that it is well-made and entertaining.  Yes, it’s not brain-stretching telly, but so what?  It’s Saturday night and I want to settle down with my family and enjoy myself without having to think.  I would also say it is public service television: the 200,000 who applied to be on it and the twenty million who watched the final would probably agree with me.  This is just snobbery: what does Mr Lawson think Shakespeare was writing, if not entertainment for the masses?  And what would I, Mark Lawson and the 9,200,000 Google results I’ve just found have to write about this morning if it didn’t exist?

Britain’s got the X-Factor!