Dry Deadpan Humour

I should clarify something pertaining to my humour, this is something that seems to plague my mother's side of the family quite a bit. At times my humour can get so dry that it seems as though I say something unintelligent or bigoted, when in fact it is sarcastic parody uttered with a deadpan expression.

For example; the other I was at a party with a few acting and film students, and the conversation led somewhere towards gay actors. I decided it would be absolutely hilarious if I sarcastically made a quip about there being no question as to whether an actor was gay. Since I believed all of those present were aware of this fallacy, I assumed it would be apt to parody that humour, so without believing it I uttered it to the crowd.

The joke crashed and burned. Everyone in the room stared at me, and one girl uttered "You're in my domain now buddy", or something along those lines. You know your humour has certainly backfired when not only are you explaining the premise of the joke, but also trying to clear your name of being an idiotic bigot.

When your humour takes on such a depth of complexity, it can be hard to ignore the surface. The other day I was helping out mixing sound on a show at the university, and the lighting was very flat and uninteresting to my eye. Due to my great social awareness, and the fact I was waiting around for the shot to be ready, I knew this would be a great opportunity to share in my great sarcastic humour.

The other students in the waiting area went along with it, as we made jokes only a cameraperson would understand. Unfortunately for my, when I was in the middle of saying something along the lines of

"Lighting is all about the shadows and how much you can remove them, that's what they've taught us to make our projects broadcast safe!" As we are chuckling and laughing at the dop's choice of lighting, in walks our cinematography professor Peter Woeste; a very respected member of the Canadian Society of Cinematographers.

"If any of you claim I have taught you this nonsense, you will never find a job in this industry!" I may be embellishing that line, but the emotional impact was similar; as we all practically shit our pants.

From these recent developments I have learned that although my humour can be deft at times, in some circumstances they can blow up in my face. I hope this blog post helps you become aware of this desaturated brand of humour, and that you will slap less jokesters in the face.

Milk Caps

Recently I perused a few blogs because that is what you do on the internet. Among these blogs were those of my cousins; Kristan and Teo. The two had an argument between their blogs, which by examination seem to be dedicated to that purpose, although Kristan did write some short story about some scientist dumb enough to disintegrate himself.

This argument was over the banal topic of proper milk jug conduct. Although I am a bit late to the argument, I might as well write down my two cents. It's so hilariously depressing how a simple argument about whether a simple act (which has become reflex for me) becomes the basis for published works that argue human tendencies not related to kitchen etiquette at all. Sure it happens in real conversations, or in a forum, but these are blogs dammit!

Here is a quote that pretty much summarizes what I'm talking about

"What I'm talking about is the lack of understanding that your fellow man has just as many rights as you do and to violate any one of those rights is a violation on something beautiful."

 Okay, so imagine what realistic argument would transpire towards this. The opposition, is violating the rights of their fellow human beings, to force them into closing the milk jugs. Holy shit the Milk Nazis are coming!

Die Kappe überlegen ist!
(The Cap is Superior)

Ok, so this is scary, especially since in a kitchen, getting stuffed into an oven is more prevalent than any other room in the house. When the milk Nazis break down my door I will be ready, sourdough in hand. I would have fought them off with French bread, but that would easily crumble, and i suspect they would take my rhye claiming i had taken it from them.

Culinary Nazi jokes aside, I do think it is hilarious how a simple squabble could result in a written article. If I wrote about such mundane things all the time, I suspect I'd be a flagrant hipster, like the ones who post billions of pictures of sewer drains. Vernacular is their domain, since most of it is pretty bad art anyhow.

Maybe my next post will be an biography about that house plant the dog mercilessly knocked over the other day.

Mid Creek

Currently Standing

Midst of Wide

Freezingly Flowing

Creek that Sifts

I'm Gazing Ahead

Toes have Grown Number

From Cold like Dead

Synthesized Comfort

Ice is more Sandpaper

Than Frozen Needles

It Smooths Down Rounder

Than Hardened Spikes

Shear Anticipation

I wrote this for a writing class at highschool, and felt it to be blog worthy. Enjoy

Today I am going to get my hair cut. It’s going to be the first time getting my hair snipped at the hairdresser in many years. My locks previously have been dealt with at home, cut by kin. I need my head professionally worked away from ruggedness this time. An important event is impending, a cordial reception where I will be judged by many.

What could I expect? Is it expensive? It shouldn’t be a lot for such a simple procedure. I hope the twenty dollars slim will cover my little trim. What specifications should I relay? Maybe I’ll just ask: “Give me whatever style that is affordable, simple, and removes the look of a despondent bush from my head.”

Is there any way I should prepare? I made sure to wash and condition my hair, so I don’t get sucked into a professional head wash, hogwash, or some other slimy scheme to supply seemingly unnecessary services.

What if he screws it up? Although this event could be deemed very nominally important, a lot of things are riding on it. I need to impress people with my showing, so that maybe they will tell their important friends how that professional person they are looking for exists. My career could be shaped by this. A rudimentary cut wouldn’t do, it must look good.

Maybe I’m taking this too seriously; it’s just a routine thing, nothing really special. It’s just preparation to make sure I look spiffy and confident. After all, how hard could slicing another’s fur be? All they do is cut it to pieces.

Why is someone going to judge me over the styling of my crown? I should be afforded some kind of leeway, especially due to the monumental effort I put into this.

You can only make a first impression once. Probably the best impression is that of a well groomed intelligent man of diligence. It would be regrettably laughable, to stand there with a loose lock or curl, jutting out like a sore thumb.

I must take a leap of faith. It’s not as though the state of my head is in impeccable shape. The top is like a flower bed left unattended. Various weeds and tangles sprouting out like it’s nobody’s business. The hairdresser is probably equivalent to pouring gasoline and lighting matches. Sure it looks like a very effective option, but the inherent risks have me guessing a second, third, fourth, who knows how many times.

I hope it goes smoothly, my hair being transformed into something more majestic, and pleasing to the eye. Resembling less a mushroom cloud, more like the head of a well-respected citizen. I must shed my clownliness, so that I may impress.

…

Here I am at the hairdressers. The building looks interesting; it’s a bit worn and deteriorated, but not so much that it is run down. Inside seems a bit more orderly than out. The business is busy, so I have to sit down upon one of these imitation leather chairs in the waiting room. I’m looking at the pile of magazines at my feet, but there is nothing of interest to me. It’s ok, I’ll only have to wait a few minutes.

This place is well decorated there are football flags, and posters pinned to the wall, and a few clocks hanging from nails. In a glass cabinet in front of me there are numerous antique razors and scissors. Some of them look rusted, and others are polished and sharp. Either the owner has been operating for a long time, or is an avid antique collector. This appears to be a good thing, if he has cut enough heads to retire many

It’s now time for my hair to be reduced in mass and fluffiness. The barber’s chair is again imitation leather, which seems to be part of the establishment’s theme.

“What do you want done with your hair?” bellows the barber.

“Nothing fancy” I reply. “Just take a few inches off.

“Ok, your hair is pretty thick, I’m going to need to wet it down first” This statement is comforting. Most of those who have cut my hair previously would say my hair needed a bit of moisture to straighten it out. By a bit of moisture, I mean totally soaking my head under the tap.

Now that my hair has been properly prepared, the barber is skimming over it, leaving large swathes as he goes. All my removed hair is fluttering to the floor, dispersing into a layer of fuzz on the floor. Looking down it appears that the floor has become carpeted in the stuff.

The stylist is snapping and stabbing at the hair with such precision and speed, more than I am used to from my family members. We exchange a bit of small talk as he goes on, until he is done. The chair is rotated so that I may see my reflection through the mirror.

I have been transformed far then from where I had started. I look much more formal, more than adequate for what I need to do. I pay him what he asks, gladly the money I brought along cover’s it exactly. I walk out with what I set out for, a head of reduced magnitude.

Procrastination Script

To those who expect me to write here, I apologize. I am in the situation where any writing that isn't for English class is scrutinized as a waste of precious time. Gladly I made a script for this class, which I will share here!


Anton the (Esteemed) Procrastinator
          INT.BEDROOM

          We see Anton sitting at his desk, staring at an assignment
          on his computer screen

                              NARRATOR
                    This is the story of a young man
                    named Anton. Anton was extremely
                    bored and frustrated because he was
                    told to create a script with less
                    than 300 words.

                              ANTON
                    It cannot be done! It was hard
                    enough making a short story with
                    only five hundred! What kind of
                    story could be compressed so short?

                              NARRATOR
                    Well Anton why don't you get
                    creative? Isn't that what this
                    class is all about?

                              ANTON
                    Good idea disembodied voice!

          5 hours later we see Anton playing video games, obviously
          procrastinating.

                              NARRATOR
                    Hey man, weren't you getting
                    creative, or something?

                              ANTON
                    Yeah totally, I'm getting
                    inspiration.

                              NARRATOR
                    By playing call of battlefield.

                              ANTON
                    Yeah.

                              NARRATOR
                    You do understand that we have used
                    about a hundred words so far.

                              ANTON
                    Uh huh

                              NARRATOR
                    That's it, I'm changing the
                    setting.

          EXT.WARZONE

                              NARRATOR
                    How is this? does war inspire you
                    now?!

          We hear the whistling of a bomb falling, Anton runs towards
          the open window, narrowly escaping the bomb.

          INT.BEDROOM

                              NARRATOR
                    Well that didn't work, and now we
                    are down two hundred words.

                              ANTON
                    It's kind of hopeless now, isn't
                    it?

                              NARRATOR
                    It wouldn't be if you had started
                    writing!

                              ANTON
                    Actually, you're wrong.

                              NARRATOR
                    What could you possibly mean? I
                    haven't seen you touch your
                    keyboard, or even pick up a pencil.

                              ANTON
                    Did you ever wonder how this story
                    of us arguing came to be?

                              NARRATOR
                    (sarcastically)Well, that sure
                    explains a ton! If anyone was
                    creating this it would be me.

                              ANTON
                    Allow me to explain this with song,
                    as I ride through the most amazing
                    landscapes!

                              NARRATOR
                    Oh I hate it when you do that!

          Scene ends with "word limit reached" flashing on the screen

I use Digital

For those who don't already know I am an aspiring film maker  and for the longest time, I thought film was the only medium to get quality images. Sure digital could potentially match it, but this has happened only in recent years.

Most consumer, and professional camcorders work in the same fashion,

1. Light goes through lens
2. Sensor gathers information based off what it sees
3. Processor crunches it up and spits it out as a nice readable file
4. The camera's storage device holds the finished video clip

In the past, step 3 was essential, since hard drive space was very finite, you could only hold so much video, until you had to replace the hard drive. The problem with this is you have to let your camera think for you, it decides how your video should be processed. The reason film was better, was because it bypassed step 3. It stored all the information it saw. 

Today, the barrier of hard drive space is practically broken. A hard drive with 3 terabytes costs about $150, pretty cheap compared to purchasing film. New video cameras like the Ikonoskop A Cam work just like film cameras, except they are digital. 

To get cinematic quality tools, it will cost you less than $10 000 for the software and camera. Before I was around that level of gear could easily cost into the hundreds of thousands. 

The reason this is so amazing, is it allows the artist to take risk. If you aren't burning film, there is no harm in taking chances on new ideas. If you have the passion, the gear doesn't limit you so heavily. I am legitimately considering writing a musical in which cannibals kidnap a defenceless man, and sing about it, while he desperately attempts escape. 

I can do this because there isn't risk, if I didn't pay much to produce it, I have little to lose, and if it is a success the profit margins are wider. Who needs Hollywood when you can make stuff without?

Sucking out the creativity

Recently I did an online assignment where I was forced to gut a poem of all it's meaning, then stitch in my own words. This goes against so many of my moral codes as an artist. Although I do enjoy watching a parody now and again, this took it to the extreme.

I don't like it, it felt like plagiarism. It's like a colouring book, no matter how creative you are your work either ends up, pretty much the same, or you get shot down with bad marks. Why isn't the art form of writing taken seriously enough? I'm pretty sure that my friends who frequent the art room would be annoyed to have to paint over a colouring book.

If you change the words a bit, you cam become Shakespeare.

Since I thought it was funny, here is the poem made:

How do you do?

No, I don't play basketball

No, not rugby either

No, I am not a full time ceiling painter

No, I didn't grow 50 centimetres this year

Yeah, my hair and height do make me resemble Andre the Giant in a way

Actually this helmet is for cycling, not in case of low doorways

What do I want to be?

A filmmaker, or maybe a screenwriter

I understand, they do make plenty of money in sports

Actually the air is really good up here, very fresh

My height? Around two meters, about 199 centimetres, last I checked

What? Why would you need to know how many feet? We live in Canada

Fine, Six feet and a half

Wow, your cousin's son is a few inches shorter than me? That's nice

No, I don't buy my shoes on the internet

No, buying a car isn't too difficult

What's the trick? Maybe it's the well water

This is a blatant rip off of Sure you can ask me a Personal Question by Diane  Burns. I hate copying.When people ask me if I want to become the next Spielberg, my response is no. Spielberg already exists, people spend money to see his films, they already have him. If all films were Spielberg films, they would get boring fast. I would rather become the first Anton Seaman. The boy who directed blockbusters out of highschool. That obviously won't happen, but my films will certainly stand out because they are mine.

It is weird how unoriginality can be encouraged in an English class. At least they aren't teaching me how to set up a blog, I obviously know that already,I learned it myself, and upload original material I solely created.